"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!"