to that man there who sat munching black bread with that abused and mistaught herd of human sheep, but took him aside and talked matter of another sort to him.

After I had finished, I got him to lend me a little ink from his veins; and with this and a sliver I wrote on a piece of bark —

Put him in the Man-factory —

and gave it to him, and said:

“Take it to the palace at Camelot and give it into the hands of Amyas le Poulet, whom I call Clarence, and he will understand.”

“He is a priest, then,” said the man, and some of the enthusiasm went out of his face.

“How — a priest? Didn’t I tell you that no chattel of the Church, no bond-slave of pope or bishop can enter my Man-Factory? Didn’t