That is all. You are indeed a cock
whose comb wants cutting, and if all be well, we will incise it for
your soul's good. But in the meanwhile you are of our company and
fellowship. So for God's sake and your own do as you are bid. Fare you
well."
As he followed Clerk Henriet, Laurence looked at the round pellet in
his hand. It was white, soft like ripe fruit, of an elastic
consistency, and of the largeness of a pea.
As Laurence ascended the stairs, he heard the practice of the choir
beginning in the chapel. Precentor Renouf, the father of Blaise, had
summoned the youths from the cloisters with a long mellow whistle upon
his Italian pitch-pipe, running up and down the scale and ending with
a flourished "A-a-men."
The open windows and the pierced stone railing of the great staircase
of Machecoul brought up the sound of that sweet singing from the
chapel to the ear of the adventurous Scot as through a funnel. They
were beginning the practice for the Christmas services, though the
time was not yet near.
"_Unto God be the glory
In the Highest;
Peace be on the earth,
On the earth,
Unto men who have good-will.
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