“Where be these dog-priests now,” growled the Baron, “who set such price on their ghostly mummery?⁠—where be all those unshod Carmelites, for whom old Front-de-Boeuf founded the convent of St. Anne, robbing his heir of many a fair rood of meadow, and many a fat field and close⁠—where be the greedy hounds now?⁠—Swilling, I warrant me, at the ale, or playing their juggling tricks at the bedside of some miserly churl.⁠—Me, the heir of their founder⁠—me, whom their foundation binds them to pray for⁠—me⁠—ungrateful villains as they are!⁠—they suffer to die like the houseless dog on yonder common, unshriven and unhouseled!⁠—Tell the Templar to come hither⁠—he is a priest, and may do something⁠—But no!⁠—as well confess myself to the devil as to Brian de Bois-Guilbert, who recks neither of heaven nor of hell.⁠—I have heard old men talk of prayer⁠—prayer by their own voice⁠—Such need not to court or to bribe the false priest⁠—But I⁠—I dare not!”

“Lives Reginald Front-de-Boeuf,” said a broken and shrill voice close by his bedside, “to say there is that which he dares not!”