In the refectory allusion was made, at the table where Gerard sat, to the sudden death of the monk who had undertaken to write out fresh copies of the charter of the monastery, and the rule, etc.
Gerard caught this, and timidly offered his services.There was a hesitation which he mistook."Nay, not for hire, my lords, but for love, and as a trifling return for many a good night's lodging the brethren of your order have bestowed on me a poor wayfarer."A monk smiled approvingly; but hinted that the late brother was an excellent penman, and his work could not be continued but by a master.Gerard on this drew from his wallet with some trepidation a vellum deed, the back of which he had cleaned and written upon by way of specimen.The monk gave quite a start at sight of it, and very hastily went up the hall to the high table, and bending his knee so as just to touch in passing the fifth step and the tenth, or last, presented it to the prior with comments.Instantly a dozen knowing eyes were fixed on it, and a buzz of voices was heard; and soon Gerard saw the prior point more than once, and the monk came back, looking as proud as Punch, with a savoury crustade ryal, or game pie gravied and spiced, for Gerard, and a silver grace cup full of rich pimentum.This latter Gerard took, and bowing low, first to the distant prior, then to his own company, quaffed, and circulated the cup.
Instantly, to his surprise, the whole table hailed him as a brother: "Art convent bred, deny it not?" He acknowledged it, and gave Heaven thanks for it, for otherwise he had been as rude and ignorant as his brothers, Sybrandt and Cornelis.
"But 'tis passing strange how you could know," said he.
"You drank with the cup in both hands," said two monks, speaking together.
The voices had for some time been loudish round a table at the bottom of the hall; but presently came a burst of mirth so obstreperous and prolonged, that the prior sent the very sub-prior all down the hall to check it, and inflict penance on every monk at the table.And Gerard's cheek burned with shame; for in the heart of the unruly merriment his ear had caught the word "courage!" and the trumpet tones of Denys of Burgundy.
Soon Gerard was installed in feu Werter's cell, with wax lights, and a little frame that could be set at any angle, and all the materials of caligraphy.The work, however, was too much for one evening.Then came the question, how could he ask Denys, the monk-hater, to stay longer? However, he told him, and offered to abide by his decision.He was agreeably surprised when Denys said graciously, "A day's rest will do neither of us harm.Write thou, and I'll pass the time as I may."Gerard's work was vastly admired; they agreed that the records of the monastery had gained by poor Werter's death.The sub-prior forced a rix-dollar on Gerard, and several brushes and colours out of the convent stock, which was very large.He resumed his march warm at heart, for this was of good omen; since it was on the pen he relied to make his fortune and recover his well-beloved."Come, Denys," said he good-humouredly, "see what the good monks have given me; now, do try to be fairer to them; for to be round with you, it chilled my friendship for a moment to hear even you call my benefactors 'hypocrites.'""I recant," said Denys.
"Thank you! thank you! Good Denys."
"I was a scurrilous vagabond."
"Nay, nay, say not so, neither!"
"But we soldiers are rude and hasty.I give myself the lie, and Ioffer those I misunderstood all my esteem.'Tis unjust that thousands should be defamed for the hypocrisy of a few.""Now are you reasonable.You have pondered what I said?""Nay, it is their own doing."
Gerard crowed a little, we all like to be proved in the right; and was all attention when Denys offered to relate how his conversion was effected.
"Well then, at dinner the first day a young monk beside me did open his jaws and laughed right out and most musically.'Good,'
said I, 'at last I have fallen on a man and not a shorn ape.' So, to sound him further, I slapped his broad back and administered my consigne.'Heaven forbid!' says he.I stared.For the dog looked as sad as Solomon; a better mime saw you never, even at a Mystery.
'I see war is no sharpener of the wits,' said he.'What are the clergy for but to fight the foul fiend? and what else are the monks for?
"The fiend being dead, The friars are sped."You may plough up the convents, and we poor monks shall have nought to do - but turn soldiers, and so bring him to life again.'
Then there was a great laugh at my expense.Well, you are the monk for me,' said I.'And you are the crossbowman for me,' quo' he.
'And I'll be bound you could tell us tales of the war should make our hair stand on end.' 'Excusez! the barber has put that out of the question,' quoth I, and then I had the laugh.""What wretched ribaldry!" observed Gerard pensively.