Next day, as soon as the Countess had departed for High March, the
Abbot Richard called Dom Galors, his almoner, into the parlour and
treated him in a very friendly manner, making him sit down in his
presence, and putting fruit and wine before him. This Galors, who I
think merits some scrutiny, was a bullet-headed, low-browed fellow,
too burly for his monkish frock (which gave him the look of a big boy
in a pinafore), with the jowl of a master-butcher, and a sullen slack
mouth. His look at you, when he raised his eyes from the ground, had
the hint of brutality--as if he were naming a price--which women
mistake for mastery, and adore. But he very rarely crossed eyes with
any one; and with the Abbot he had gained a reputation for astuteness
by seldom opening his lips and never shutting his ears. He was
therefore a most valuable book of reference, which told nothing except
to his owner. With all this he was a great rider and loved hunting.
His Sursum Corda was like a view-holloa, and when he said,
Ite missa est, you would have sworn he was crying a stag's
death instead of his Saviour's. In matters of gallantry his reputation
was risky: it was certain that he had more than a monk, and suspected
that he had less than a gentleman should have. The women of Malbank
asseverated that venison was not his only game. That may or may not
have been. The man loved power, and may have warred against women for
lack of something more difficult of assault. He was hardly the man to
squander himself at the bidding of mere appetite; he was certainly no
glutton for anything but office. Still, he was not one to deny himself
the flutter of the caught bird in the hand. He had, like most men who
make themselves monks by calculation, a keen eye for a girl's shape,
carriage, turn of the head, and other allies of the game she loves and
always loses: such things tickled his fancy when they came over his
path; he stooped to take them, and let them dangle for remembrances,
as you string a coin on your chain to remind you at need of a
fortunate voyage. At this particular moment he was tempted, for
instance, to catch and let dangle. The chance light of some shy eye
had touched and then eluded him. I believe he loved the chase more
than the quarry. He knew he must go a-hunting from that moment in
which the light began to play will-o'-the-wisp; for action was his
meat and dominion what he breathed. If you wanted to make Galors
dangerous you had to set him on a vanishing trail. The girl had been a
fool to run, but how was she to know that?