"Keep your bolts for your weasels!" said he. "Would you take life
from a creature whose only fault is that its spirit is so high
that it has met none yet who dare control it? You would slay such
a horse as a king might be proud to mount, and all because a
country franklin, or a monk, or a monk's varlet, has not the wit
nor the hands to master him?"
The sacrist turned swiftly on the Squire. "The Abbey owes you an
offering for this day's work, however rude your words may be,"
said he. "If you think so much of the horse, you may desire to
own it. If I am to pay for it, then with the holy Abbot's
permission it is in my gift and I bestow it freely upon you."
The Abbot plucked at his subordinate's sleeve. "Bethink you,
brother sacrist," he whispered, "shall we not have this man's
blood upon our heads?"
"His pride is as stubborn as the horse's, holy father," the
sacrist answered, his gaunt fact breaking into a malicious smile.
"Man or beast, one will break the other and the world will be the
better for it. If you forbid me--"
"Nay, brother, you have bought the horse, and you may have the
bestowal of it."
"Then I give it--hide and hoofs, tail and temper--to Nigel
Loring, and may it be as sweet and as gentle to him as he hath
been to the Abbot of Waverley!"
The sacrist spoke aloud amid the tittering of the monks, for the
man concerned was out of earshot.
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