He had turned to hail Brother Warboise, who came along the river path with eyes fastened on the ground, and staff viciously prodding in time with his steps.
"Hallo, Warboise! Halt, and give the countersign!" Brother Warboise halted, taken at unawares, and eyed the two doubtfully from under his bushy grey eyebrows.

They were Beauchamp both, he Blanchminster.

He wore the black cloak of Blanchminster, with the silver cross _patte_ at the breast, and looked--so Copas murmured to himself--"like Caiaphas in a Miracle Play." His mouth was square and firm, his grey beard straightly cut.

He had been a stationer in a small way, and had come to grief by vending only those newspapers of which he could approve the religious tendency.
"The countersign ?" he echoed slowly and doubtfully.
He seldom understood Brother Copas, but by habit suspected him of levity.
"To be sure, among three good Protestants! '_Bloody end to the Pope!_' is it not ?" "You are mocking me," snarled Brother Warboise, and with that struck the point of his staff passionately upon the pathway.

"You are a Gallio, and always will be: you care nothing for what is heaven and earth to us others.