"Surely never before did such an ill-conditioned brood find shelter
in a monastery!" he cried. "They grow fat, idle, insolent,
quarrelsome-never at peace among themselves; never a Pater or an
Ave too many, or a task fulfilled, save for fear of stripes. I
would that the time of blood-letting were here that their high
stomachs might be brought low. I am no longer young, my Father,
and this burden tries me sorely. Prithee, let it be shifted to
another and a stronger back."
The Prior listened with many an inward mea culpa. "'Tis a sad
hearing, Brother Adam, but young blood is hard of mastering; maybe
this ill mood will pass. The lad Robert is surely ever gentle and
decorous? He hath a most beauteous voice."
The Novice-master threw up his hands.
"Nay, Father, nay, he hath indeed the voice of an angel, but
methinks his body is surely the habitation of Satan. He will sing
an it please him--or when thou art by, my Father,--but, an it
please him not, he is silent; ay, even under grievous stripes.
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