He was allowed to pass, not without scrutiny.
“Art thou with us or against us?” said the warder.
“I am a soldier of the Cross,” was the reply, and a few more words were whispered in the ear.
The warder started back.
“Verily thy father’s heart will be glad,” he exclaimed.
Brother Roger, now so called, sat in his cell. He was little changed; but in place of the dread, the ghastly dread, which had once given his face a haggard and weird look, resignation had stamped his features with a softer expression.
The dread shadow, whether born of remorse or otherwise, had been removed. No more did the dead lord of Fievrault trouble him; but the old monk, erst the venturous soldier, felt as if he had purchased this remission with the banishment of his dear son, as if he had given “the first born of his body for the sin of his soul.”
And the impending events had roused up the old martial spirit—the half-forgotten life of the camp came back to him, and with it the thought of the boy who would have yearned to distinguish himself on the morrow, had he been there: the light hearted, pugnacious, thoughtless, but loving Hubert.
And while he mused, the door opened, and the prior entered. It was Prior Foville—he who built the two great western towers of the church.
“Stay without,” whispered the prior to someone by his side; “joy sometimes kills.”