CHAPTER THE TENTH.
Here we stand—
Woundless and well, may Heaven’s high name be bless’d for’t!
As erst, ere treason couch’d a lance against us.
Decker.
No sooner was the Sub-Prior hurried into the refectory by his rejoicing companions, than the first person on whom he fixed his eye proved to be Christie of the Clinthill. He was seated in the chimney-corner, fettered and guarded, his features drawn into that air of sulky and turbid resolution with which those hardened in guilt are accustomed to view the approach of punishment. But as the Sub-Prior drew near to him, his face assumed a more wild and startled expression, while he exclaimed—“The devil! the devil himself, brings the dead back upon the living.”
“Nay,” said a monk to him, “say rather that Our Lady foils the attempts of the w
