The hierarch beat the bun of his crosier on the church step with such vehemence that the catechumens, doorkeepers, deacons, subdeacons, acolytes and excorcists came a-running.
“It is false!” he cried, in a stentorian voice. “Cursed be who declares the contrarity! Where is he, the heretic dog?”
Peregrine gestured. “Coming through the Eastern Gate even now,” he said. “And one of them bears the pennon of a mailed fist, alleged to be the very sign and symbol of presbytocentrism!”
The apostolic vicar placed two fingers in his mouth, gave a piercing whistle, hoisted his crosier with the other, beckoned those in minor orders - and in none - “All hands fall to to repel heretics!” he bellowed. He had long formerly been chaplain with the Imperial Fleet. The throng, swelling on all sides, poured after him towards the Eastern Gate.
Peregrine mounted the wiry Brythonic pony which had been assigned him, smote its flanks, whooped in its ears, and out through the Western Gate with deliberate speed. The dragon egg nestled safe beneath his arm.