“I! No, not I. God gave me strength,” and he sank on the bench exhausted and pale.
“It is too much for thee.”
“No, not too much. I love the good work. God give the increase.”
“What Martin, my Martin, thou here? I have followed thee. I heard thee, but couldn’t get near thee for the press,” cried an exultant voice.
“My Hubert, so thou art a knight at last?”
“Yes, and tomorrow I go to Walderne to say goodbye to the people there, and the next day take ship from Pevensey for Harfleur, on my road to the Holy Land.
“But how pale thou art! Come, tell me all. Art thou a brother yet? Hast thou earned it by some pious deed, as I earned my knighthood by a warlike one? Come, tell me all, dear Martin.”
“You tell your story first. I have only heard that you have won your spurs.”
Hubert, nothing loth, told the story with which our readers are acquainted.
Then Martin told his story very simply and modestly, but Hubert could not help feeling that he would sooner have defended a ford twenty times over, than have spent one hour in that plague-infected house.