"Why does he wish to see me particularly?"
"Because he has some secret to communicate."
"And why not to thee?"
"I know not, save that he knows that thou art our father."
"Dost think he will ever fight again?"
"He will lay lance in rest no more in this world."
"Nor in the next either, I presume, brother. I will arise and see him."
Passing through the cloister—which was full of the hum of boys, like busy bees, learning their tasks—and ascending a flight of steps to the "dorture," the Abbot followed the infirmarer to a pleasant and airy cell, full of the morning sunlight, which streamed through the panes of thin membrane—such as frequently took the place of glass.
There on a couch lay extended the form of the victim of the prowess of Brian Fitz-Count, his giant limbs composed beneath the coverlet, his face seamed with many a wrinkle and furrow, and marked with deep lines of care, his eyes restless and wandering.
"Thou hast craved to speak with me, my son," said Abbot Alured.