"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!"
Ugyanúgy az ördögnek is gyón­hatnék, mint Brian de Bois-Guilbert-nek, aki nem tiszteli se a poklot, se a mennyor­szá­got. Hallottam már, hogy öreg emberek imádságról beszélnek... saját szavaikkal imádkoznak... ahhoz nem kell híze­leg­ni egy álnok papnak, vagy lekenyerezni, megvesztegetni!