But the prior rang a silver bell: “tinkle, tinkle.”
“Send me the elder of the two brethren of Saint Francis, him with the twinkling black eyes and roundish face.”
And Martin was brought to him.
“Sit down, my young brother,” said Prior Roger, “and tell me where I have seen thy face before. I have gazed upon thee all through the frugal meal of which we have just partaken, for thy face is like a face I have seen in a dream. Not that I doubt that thou art here in flesh and blood, unlike the fiends of Croyland, of whom we have just heard.”
Martin smiled, and replied:
“My father, seven years agone, a noble earl found shelter here from the outlaws, from whom he was delivered by the self sacrifice of a woman, and the guidance of her son, an imp of some thirteen years.”
“I remember Earl Simon’s visit. Art thou that boy?”
“I am, my father.”
“Ah well! ah me! how time passes! But there is another remembrance which thy face awakens, of a death bed confession. Sub sigillo, perhaps I am wrong in putting the two things together. Sancte Benedicte ora pro me. So thou hast taken the habit of Saint Francis. Why didst not come to us, if thou wishedst to renounce the world and mortify the flesh?”
Martin was silent.