No matter how briskly the conversation had been prospering hitherto,
if, at Holy Mass or jovial supper board, Laurence so much as breathed
a question concerning the subject next his heart, an instant blight
passed over the gaiety of his companions. Fear momently wiped every
other expression from their faces, and they answered with lame
evasion, or more often not at all.
The shadow of the Lord of Machecoul lay heavy upon them.
Clerk Henriet stood awhile watching the lads and listening to their
talk behind the carved lattice of Caen stone, with its lace-like
tracery of buds and flowers, through which the natural roses pushed
their way, and over which the clematis tangled its twining stems.
"Stand up and prove on my body that I am a rank Irelander," Laurence
was saying defiantly to the world at large, with his fists up and his
head thrown back. "Saint Christopher, but I will take the lot of you
with one hand tied behind me. Stand up and I will teach you how to
sing 'Miserable sinners are we all!' to a new and unkenned tune."
"'Tis easy for you to boast, Irelander," retorted Blaise Renouf, the
son of the lay choir-master, who had been brought specially from Rome
to teach the choir-boys of the marshal's chapel the latest fashions in
holy song.
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