The soldiers of the Cross, who should shun the glance of a woman as the eye of a basilisk, live in open sin, not with the females of their own race only, but with the daughters of the accursed heathen, and more accursed Jew. Beaumanoir, thou sleepest; up, and avenge our cause!⁠—Slay the sinners, male and female!⁠—Take to thee the brand of Phineas!⁠—The vision fled, Conrade, but as I awaked I could still hear the clank of their mail, and see the waving of their white mantles.⁠—And I will do according to their word, I will purify the fabric of the Temple! and the unclean stones in which the plague is, I will remove and cast out of the building.”

“Yet bethink thee, reverend father,” said Mont-Fitchet, “the stain hath become engrained by time and consuetude; let thy reformation be cautious, as it is just and wise.”

“No, Mont-Fitchet,” answered the stern old man⁠—“it must be sharp and sudden⁠—the Order is on the crisis of its fate. The sobriety, self-devotion, and piety of our predecessors, made us powerful friends⁠—our presumption, our wealth, our luxury, have raised up against us mighty enemies.⁠—We must cast away these riches, which are a temptation to princes⁠—we must lay down that presumption, which is an offence to them⁠—we must reform that license of manners, which is a scandal to the whole Christian world! Or⁠—mark my words⁠—the Order of the Temple will be utterly demolished⁠—and the place thereof shall no more be known among the nations.”

“Now may God avert such a calamity!” said the Preceptor.