It was indeed the Bishop of Ely who had ordered the door of the cell broken down, and had rescued Annys from what would doubtless have been his last fainting spell. He had succeeded so well in subduing his flesh that at last it was on the point of separating itself entirely from the spirit. The Bishop brought him to with difficulty, and sent him to the infirmary to be nursed back to strength. He did not return to Ely until he saw the tinge of health returning slowly to the young priest's sunken cheeks.

Thomas of Ely had conquered his own weakness of flesh after all, and had taken the journey to the Abbey of St. Dunstan before the wily Abbot had time to receive his answer from the Archbishop. He had dealt summarily with Abbot John and deposed him, refusing to listen to his plea for mercy; for nothing outraged the Bishop so keenly as that a servant of Holy Church should betray his sacred trust. He would have liked to appoint Robert Annys as the Abbot's successor; but as that was utterly impossible for the present, he appointed a most worthy monk who was the unanimous choice of his brethren.

Little by little Robert's strength returned, and his kind adviser led him gently back to the thought that he could again be of use to others. Therein, the Bishop knew, lay the only balm to the tortured heart. He gave a hint to the new Abbot, who gave Annys work to do in the scriptorium, where he could dwell in the calm past, and await the time when he could again venture forth into the world—a world that sorely needed his guiding hand. When he was allowed to leave the infirmary, it was not to go to his solitary cell, but to share the dormitory with the others.

The days and the weeks slipped gently on, the routine of life in the scriptorium endearing itself more and more to the newcomer's heart. The scriptorium at St. Dunstan's was a large chamber which usually held about a dozen persons, but which at times permitted of as many as twenty working together. The Abbot selected the scribes, no one being allowed to enter the room without his permission. It was also the duty of the Abbot to give orders to the Armarius how to portion out the work, a certain task once assigned, no monk being permitted to exchange his portion for another. Boys and novices wrote letters, while older monks were selected to make copies of old books and transcripts of such chronicles as required rigid accuracy. One was specially selected to insert rubrics and design ornamental capitals and other embellishments, while there was a chief artist to whom were left the important designs. The Armarius bound the books in wooden covers to preserve the parchment from mildew and damp. He was really the librarian, keeping a record of all books loaned either to the monks for private study (although he never permitted the rare works to leave the scriptorium), or to sick monks in the infirmary. Every volume had to be returned before the lights were lit, and work ceased in the scriptorium the instant the daylight failed. The manuscripts were too precious to be endangered by artificial light, nor indeed by any kind of heat, so in winter the monks had to work by the hour with their fingers benumbed by the cold. The scribes had no light task. Penned on the margin of an exquisitely written manuscript, there has come down to us from those days at least one pathetic plaint:—

Robert Annys often watched with interest the busy Armarius, who had manifold duties. He kept a careful record of the use of every book; and at times some distant monastery begged for the loan of a certain book, and some proper guarantee must first be secured; or perhaps, if the borrower were not well-known, a book of equal value must first be deposited as ample security. Besides this, it was his duty to provide on the shelves the material for the work: plenty of parchment, ink made of soot or sometimes of ivory black, pens fashioned of the quills of geese or peacocks, chalk, pumice stones, penknives to cut the parchment, awls to make the lines, rulers and plummet to note omissions of text in the margin, and weights to keep down the vellum.

Not only Annys grew to love his work and to take a great pride in it, but the absolute silence of the scriptorium soothed his shattered nerves. He felt that he could not be in surroundings more congenial. The monks stepped in and out noiselessly. If a book was required, it was necessary only to extend the hand and make a movement as if turning over the leaves of a book. If it were a missal that was required, one should make the sign of a cross; if the gospels, the sign of the cross on the forehead; if a tract, one hand was laid on the abdomen, the other on the mouth; if a pagan work, first the general sign for a book, and then one scratched the ear with the hand after the manner of a dog—for what was a pagan save an infidel dog? The only time the silence was permitted to be broken was when a large number of copies of some popular treatise was required, in which case a skilful transcriber read aloud while the others copied at dictation. The works of Tertullian were given Annys to copy. Although at a distance, the Bishop yet watched over him, giving strict orders that no lives of the saints, or confessions, or any work of religious exaltation be given to him. His purpose was to bring Annys back to the world and the present by other channels,—to keep his mind on the calm scholarly days at Balliol, rather than to permit it to dwell upon the immediate past.

"The sweet yoke of the Lord"—how often had Annys come across that phrase in the confessions and meditations of holy men. And now for the first time he really understood the full sweetness of it. Its spell was slowly working upon him, subtly undermining his resolution to return to the people. At last the day came when he thought his work lay within the walls of the Abbey. There was no one there to tell him his old self was not dead, but slumbering. As soon as he had signified his intention to take the vows of their order, he had been intrusted to the special care of an old monk who spoke to him from time to time of the discomforts and humiliations which a monk must be prepared to bear. At the end of two months he was ready to listen to the reading of the Rule of St. Benedict, a voluminous document of seventy-three chapters. At its conclusion, the reader admonished him solemnly:—

When June came, this ordeal had been gone through but once; it would be put to him three more times during the twelvemonth to follow, and at the expiration of this period he would be warned that shortly he would have no power of leaving. Then, if he still kept to his resolution of becoming a Benedictine, he would be introduced into the oratory and there, in the presence of all the community, before God and all the saints, would have to promise stability and perpetual residence, and also reformation of his morals and obedience under pain of eternal damnation. He would then make a declaration of this pledge in writing with his own hand, and place it upon the altar; then he must throw himself at the feet of each of the brethren singly, begging them to pray for him. From that day forth he would be regarded as a member of the community.