People sometimes talk of that olden rite, wherein our ancestors showed forth the death of Christ day by day, as if it had been a mere mechanical service. It was a dead form only to those who brought dead hearts to it. To our Martin it was instinct with life, and it satisfied the deep craving of his soul for communion with the most High, while he pleaded the One Oblation for all his present needs, just entering upon a new world.
The short service was over, and Martin was breakfasting in the chaplain’s room with him and Hubert, who had been invited to share the meal. They were sitting after breakfast—the usual feeling of depression which precedes a departure from home was upon them—when a firm step was heard echoing along the corridor.
“It is the earl,” said the chaplain, and they all rose as the great man entered.
“Pardon my intrusion, father. I am come to say farewell to this wilful boy.”
They all rose, Martin overwhelmed by the honour.
“Nay, sit down. I have not yet broken my own fast and will crack a crust with you.”
And the earl ate and drank that he might put them all at their ease.
“So the scholar’s gown and pen suit thee better than the coat of mail and the sword, master Martin!”
“Oh, my good lord!”
“Nay, my boy, thou wast exiled from home in my cause, and I may owe thee a life for all I can tell.”