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The great man hummed a passage from a favourite song.

“Barnabo would not be persuaded,” he said, half-closing his eyes slyly. “You must know, my Gaillard, that Barnabo is a man with a hot conscience. He has learnt six words of English—what does that matter? So many benefices to be served—in Latin; so many women to be shrived! Even when the wolves are out—Barnabo will not neglect his duties!”

The Italian was imperturbable and debonair.

“I have a charm against all wolves,” he said, looking at Gaillard out of the corner of his eyes.

“Your sanctity, Father, to be sure. Most excellent St. Francis, the hawks even perch on your shoulders. Barnabo will mount his mule and ride out to comfort the sick, whatever I, his lord, may say.”

Gaillard took the gaze-hound up into his lap.

“He will have nothing to fear there, now. I will answer for that.”

Barnabo’s eyes were studying Gaillard’s face. He smiled, and began to gather up the chess-men.

“After the sword come the Cross and the mass book,” he said. “You will not quarrel with my conscience, sire, if I ride out to-morrow.”