Chapter 7

Oh, sadly shines the morning sun
On leaguer'd castle wall,
When bastion, tower, and battlement,
Seemed nodding to their fall.
OLD BALLAD.

True to his resolution, and telling his beads as he went, that he
might lose no time, Father Aldrovand began his rounds in the
castle so soon as daylight had touched the top of the eastern
horizon. A natural instinct led him first to those stalls which,
had the fortress been properly victualled for a siege, ought to
have been tenanted by cattle; and great was his delight to see
more than a score of fat kine and bullocks in the place which had
last night been empty! One of them had already been carried to the
shambles, and a Fleming or two, who played butchers on the
occasion, were dividing the carcass for the cook's use. The good
father had well-nigh cried out, a miracle; but, not to be too
precipitate, he limited his transport to a private exclamation in
honour of Our Lady of the Garde Doloureuse.

"Who talks of lack of provender?--who speaks of surrender now?" he
said. "Here is enough to maintain us till Hugo de Lacy arrives,
were he to sail back from Cyprus to our relief. I did purpose to
have fasted this morning, as well to save victuals as on a
religious score; but the blessings of the saints must not be
slighted.--Sir Cook, let me have half a yard or so of broiled beef
presently; bid the pantler send me a manchet, and the butler a cup
of wine. I will take a running breakfast on the western
battlements." [Footnote: Old Henry Jenkins, in his Recollections
of the Abbacies before their dissolution, has preserved the fact
that roast-beef was delivered out to the guests not by weight, but
by measure.]

At this place, which was rather the weakest point of the Garde
Doloureuse, the good father found Wilkin Flammock anxiously
superintending the necessary measures of defence. He greeted him
courteously, congratulated him on the stock of provisions with
which the castle had been supplied during the night, and was
inquiring how they had been so happily introduced through the
Welsh besiegers, when Wilkin took the first occasion to interrupt
him.

"Of all this another time, good father; but I wish at present, and
before other discourse, to consult thee on a matter which presses
my conscience, and moreover deeply concerns my worldly estate."

"Speak on, my excellent son," said the father, conceiving that he
should thus gain the key to Wilkin's real intentions. "Oh, a
tender conscience is a jewel! and he that will not listen when it
saith, 'Pour out thy doubts into the ear of the priest,' shall one
day have his own dolorous outcries choked with fire and brimstone.
Thou wert ever of a