“It is indeed.”
“Yet should I be called to lay down my life in some bloody field, if it be my duty, the path to heaven may not be more difficult than from the convent cell.”
These last words he said as if to himself, but years afterwards, on an occasion yet to be related, they came back to the mind of our Martin.
Upon a horse, which he had learned at length to manage well; with two attendants in the earl’s livery by his side, Martin set forth; his last farewells said. Yet he looked back with more or less sadness to the kind friends he was leaving, to tread all alone the paths of an unknown city, and associate with strangers.
As they passed through Warwick, the gates of the castle opened, and the earl of that town came forth with a gallant hunting suite; he recognised our young friend.
“Ah, Martin, Martin,” he said, “whither goest thou so equipped and attended?”
“To Oxenford, to be a scholar, good my lord.”
“And after that?”
“To go forth with the cord of Saint Francis around me.”
“Ah, it was he who taught thee to kill my deerhound. Well, fare thee well, lad, and when thou art a priest say a mass for me, for I sorely need it.”