.

.

Your men, my lord, are leading away the steed." The Knight returned to his place.

"Brave beast! Methinks they would do well to mix his warm mash with ale." Symon of Worcester made no reply.
He sat erect, with folded hands, a slight flush upon his cheeks, listening for footsteps which must be drawing near.
They came.
The door, at the far end of the hall, opened.
The gaunt Chaplain stood in the archway, making obeisance.
"Well ?" said the Bishop, dispensing with the usual formalities.
"My lord, your messenger has returned, and requests an audience without delay." "Bid him enter," said the Bishop, gripping the arms of the chair, and leaning forward.
The Chaplain, half-turning, beckoned with uplifted hand; then stood aside, as rapid feet approached.
A young man, clad in a brown riding-suit, dusty and travel-stained, appeared in the doorway.

Not pausing for any monkish salutations or genuflections, he strode some half-dozen paces up the hall; then swung off his hat, stopped short with his spurs together, and bowed in soldierly fashion toward the great fireplace.
Thrusting his hand into his breast, he drew out a packet, heavily sealed.
"I bring from Rome," he said--and his voice rang through the chamber--"for my Lord Bishop of Worcester, a letter from His Holiness the Pope." The Knight sprang to his feet.