In the refectory allusion¹ was made, at the table where Gerard sat, to the sudden death of the monk² who had undertaken to write out fresh copies of the charter of the monastery⁴, and the rule, etc.  
Gerard caught this, and timidly offered his services. There was a hesitation⁵ which he mistook. “Nay⁶, not for hire, my lords, but for love, and as a trifling⁷ return for many a good night's lodging⁸ the brethren of your order have bestowed⁹ on me a poor wayfarer¹⁰.”
 
A monk smiled approvingly; but hinted that the late brother was an excellent penman, and his work could not be continued but by a master. Gerard on this drew from his wallet with some trepidation¹¹ a vellum deed, the back of which he had cleaned and written upon by way of specimen¹². The monk gave quite a start at sight of it, and very hastily went up the hall to the high table, and bending his knee so as just to touch in passing the fifth step and the tenth, or last, presented it to the prior with comments. Instantly a dozen knowing eyes were fixed¹³ on it, and a buzz of voices was heard; and soon Gerard saw the prior point more than once, and the monk came back, looking as proud as Punch, with a savoury crustade ryal, or game pie gravied and spiced, for Gerard, and a silver grace cup full of rich pimentum. This latter Gerard took, and bowing low, first to the distant prior, then to his own company, quaffed¹⁴, and circulated the cup.
 
Instantly, to his surprise, the whole table hailed him as a brother: “Art convent bred, deny it not?” He acknowledged it, and gave Heaven thanks for it, for otherwise he had been as rude and ignorant as his brothers, Sybrandt and Cornelis.
 
“But 'tis passing strange how you could know,” said he.
 
“You drank with the cup in both hands,” said two monks¹⁵, speaking together.
 
The voices had for some time been loudish round a table at the bottom of the hall; but presently came a burst of mirth so obstreperous¹⁶ and prolonged, that the prior sent the very sub-prior all down the hall to check it, and inflict¹⁷ penance¹⁸ on every monk at the table. And Gerard's cheek burned with shame; for in the heart of the unruly merriment his ear had caught the word “courage!” and the trumpet¹⁹ tones of Denys of Burgundy.
 
Soon Gerard was installed in feu Werter's cell, with wax lights, and a little frame that could be set at any angle, and all the materials of caligraphy. The work, however, was too much for one evening. Then came the question, how could he ask Denys, the monk-hater, to stay longer? However, he told him, and offered to abide²⁰ by his decision. He was agreeably surprised when Denys said graciously, “A day's rest will do neither of us harm. Write thou, and I'll pass the time as I may.”
 
Gerard's work was vastly admired; they agreed that the records of the monastery had gained by poor Werter's death. The sub-prior forced a rix-dollar on Gerard, and several brushes and colours out of the convent stock, which was very large. He resumed his march warm at heart, for this was of good omen²¹; since it was on the pen he relied to make his fortune and recover his well-beloved. “Come, Denys,” said he good-humouredly, “see what the good monks have given me; now, do try to be fairer to them; for to be round with you, it chilled my friendship for a moment to hear even you call my benefactors²³ 'hypocrites.'”
 
“I recant,” said Denys.
 
“Thank you! thank you! Good Denys.”
 
“I was a scurrilous²⁴ vagabond.”
 
“Nay, nay, say not so, neither!”
 
“But we soldiers are rude and hasty. I give myself the lie, and I offer those I misunderstood all my esteem²⁵. 'Tis unjust that thousands should be defamed for the hypocrisy²⁶ of a few.”
 
“Now are you reasonable. You have pondered what I said?”
 
“Nay, it is their own doing.”
 
Gerard crowed a little, we all like to be proved in the right; and was all attention when Denys offered to relate how his conversion²⁷ was effected.
 
“Well then, at dinner the first day a young monk beside me did open his jaws²⁸ and laughed right out and most musically. 'Good,' said I, 'at last I have fallen on a man and not a shorn ape.' So, to sound him further, I slapped his broad back and administered my consigne. 'Heaven forbid!' says he. I stared. For the dog looked as sad as Solomon; a better mime²⁹ saw you never, even at a Mystery. 'I see war is no sharpener of the wits,' said he. 'What are the clergy³⁰ for but to fight the foul³¹ fiend? and what else are the monks for?
 
     “The fiend being dead,
     The friars are sped.”
 
You may plough up the convents, and we poor monks shall have nought³² to do—but turn soldiers, and so bring him to life again.' Then there was a great laugh at my expense. 'Well, you are the monk for me,' said I. 'And you are the crossbowman for me,' quo' he. 'And I'll be bound you could tell us tales of the war should make our hair stand on end.' 'Excusez! the barber has put that out of the question,' quoth I, and then I had the laugh.”
 
“What wretched ribaldry!” observed Gerard pensively³³.
 
The candid³⁴ Denys at once admitted he had seen merrier jests hatched with less cackle. “'Twas a great matter to have got rid of hypocrisy. 'So,' said I, 'I can give you the chaire de poule, if that may content ye.' 'That we will see,' was the cry, and a signal went round.”
 
Denys then related, bursting with glee, how at bedtime he had been taken to a cell instead of the great dortour, and strictly³⁵ forbidden to sleep; and to aid his vigil, a book had been lent him of pictures representing a hundred merry adventures of monks in pursuit of the female laity³⁶; and how in due course he had been taken out barefooted and down to the parlour, where was a supper fit for the duke, and at it twelve jolly friars, the roaringest boys he had ever met in peace or war. How the story, the toast, the jest, the wine-cup had gone round, and some had played cards with a gorgeous pack, where Saint Theresa, and Saint Catherine, etc., bedizened with gold, stood for the four queens; and black, white, grey, and crutched³⁷ friars for the four knaves³⁹; and had staked their very rosaries, swearing like troopers when they lost. And how about midnight a sly monk had stolen out, but had by him and others been as cannily⁴⁰ followed into the garden, and seen to thrust his hand into the ivy^{41<............}