Martin was shown along a cloister looking through the most sombre of Norman arches, upon a greensward. The doors of many cells opened upon it. He was told to knock at one of them, and a deep voice replied, “Enter in the name of the Lord.”
It was a large, plain room, with a vaulted ceiling lighted by lancet windows and scantily furnished; rough oaken benches, a plain heavy table, covered with parchments and manuscripts: in one recess a Prie-Dieu beneath a crucifix, and under the fald stool a skull, with the words “memento mori,” three or four chairs with painfully straight backs, a cupboard for books (manuscripts) and parchments, another for vestments ecclesiastical or collegiate. This was all which cumbered the bare floor. At the corner of the room a spiral stone staircase led to the bed chamber.
Before the table stood an aged and venerable man, in the gray clothing of the Franciscans, sweet in face, pleasant in manner, dignified in hearing, in reputation without a stain, in learning unsurpassed.
Martin bowed reverently before him, and gave him the chaplain’s letter.
“I had heard of thy arrival, my son. I trust thou hast found comfortable lodgings at the hostel I recommended?”
“I have slept well, my father.”
“And hast not forgotten thy duty to God?”
“I should do discredit to my teacher at Kenilworth if I did. I have been to the abbey church.”
“He is a man of God, and I doubt not thou art worthy of his love, for he writes of thee as a father might of a much-loved son. But now, my son, we must break our fast. Come to the refectorium with me.”
Passing into the cloister they came to the dining hall or “refectorium.” Three long tables, a fourth where the elders and professors sat, on a raised platform at right angles to the others. A hundred men and boys had already assembled, and after a Latin grace, breakfast began. It was not a fast day, so the fare was substantial, although quite plain—porridge, pease soup, bread, meat, cheese, and ale. The most sober youth of the university were there, men who meant eventually to assume the gray habit, and carry the Gospel over wilderness and forest, in the slums of towns, or amongst the heathen, counting peril as nought. There was no buzz of conversation, only from a stone pulpit the reader read a chapter from the Gospels.