“By our lady, not to mention Saint Pancras, a well-favoured stripling. And thou?”
“I am Sir Nicholas of Walderne,” said he of that query, with some importance, which was quite lost upon the janitor.
“Walderne! Some place in the woods may be. Well, get you, worshipful sirs, to the hospitium, where we feed all hungry folk at the hour of noon, and I will strive to find the good brother.”
The splendid group of buildings, of which only a few half-demolished walls remain, rose before them, on each side of the great quadrangle which they now entered; the chapter house, where the brethren met for counsel; the refectory, where they fed; the dormitory, where they slept; the scriptory, where they copied those beautiful manuscripts which antiquarians love to obtain; the infirmary, where the sick were tended; and lastly, the hospitium or guest house, where all travellers and pilgrims were welcome.
They entered the hospitium, where the noontide meal was about to be served. It was plain but ample; solid joints, huge loaves, ale, and even wine in moderation. Some twenty sat down to the hospitable board.
During the “noon meat” a homily was read. When the meal was over a lay brother came and beckoned Sir Nicholas and Hubert to follow him. He led them to the cloisters and knocked at the door of a cell.
“Come in,” said a deep voice.
Could this be the father Hubert had so longed to know, clad in a long dark dress, with haggard and worn features, which, however, still preserved their native nobility?
At the sight of his visitors he showed an emotion he vainly endeavoured to repress, under an affectation of self control. He greeted Sir Nicholas kindly, but embraced his fair son, while tears he could not repress streamed down his worn cheeks.
“This is then my Hubert. Ah, how like thy short-lived mother! She lives again in thee, my boy.”