"As you must, it must needs be," replied Prosper. He kissed each on
the cheek, and watched them go hand-in-hand down the glade. The herd
closed in upon them, so neither he nor the Argument knows them any
more.
Prosper knelt down to pray; but what he found set him to better work.
He found Isoult's wedding-ring.
"By God," he cried, "who made men to labour, I will pray with my hands
this turn!"
He ran for his horse and sword. Courage came with his gallop, courage
and self-esteem, without which no man ever did anything yet. With
self-esteem returned sober thought.
"I can do Malbank in three or four hours. There is light enough for
what I have to settle there. I will spare my horse and save time in
the end. Meantime I will think this affair out." So said Prosper
galloping to Prosper on his feet, the late moralist. His plan was very
simply to confront the Abbot with his ring. If that failed he would
scour his own country, raise a troop, and lay leaguer on Saint Thorn.
He had forgotten Galors. He was soon to have a reminder of that grim
fighter.
The doors of the great church stood open, so Prosper rode in. It was
cold and dark, and smelt of death and candle-fumes. The pilasters of
the nave were already swathed in black velvet; in the choir were great
lights set on the floor, in the midst of them a bier. A priest was at
a little altar by the bier's head, other cowled figures crouched about
it. There was a low murmur of praying, even, whining, and mechanical.
On the bier Prosper saw the comely Abbot Richard Dieudonné, in cope
and mitre, holding in his hand the staff of his high office. This
pastor of the Church was at peace; the man of the world was sober with
access of wisdom; the man of modes smiled pleasantly at his secret
thoughts. Very handsome, very remote, very pure he looked; for so
death purges off the dross which we work into the good clay.
Prosper, meditative always at the sight of death, stood and pondered
upon it. Everything was well, no doubt; such things should be! but the
indifference of the defunct seemed almost shocking. Do they not care
for decent interment? Then he turned to a bystander.
"You mourn for your father?" he asked.
"Master, we do indeed. What! a great lord, a throned and pompous
priest, to be felled like a calf; his body spitted like a lark's! No
leave asked! You may well judge whether we mourn. I suppose there
never was such a mournful affair since a king died in this country."
"Murdered?" cried Prosper, highly scandalized.
"Murdered by Prosper le Gai for the sake of the Chained Virgin."