“He is gone. He fled before thee. The omen is good. Thou shalt deliver thy sire—let us pray together.”
Sire and son knelt until the first note of the matin song just before daybreak (it was the month of May) broke the utterance of the father and, we fear we must own it, the sleep of the son.
Domine labia mea aperies
Et os meum annuntiabit laudem Tuam.
The sombre-robed monks were in the choir, the organ rolling out its deep notes in accompaniment to the plain song of the Venite exultemus, which then, as now, preceded the psalms for the day. Then came the hymn:
Lo night and clouds and darkness wrap
The world in dark array;
The morning dawns, the sun breaks in,
Hence, hence, ye shades—away {[16]}!
“Come, Hubert, dear son, worthy of thy sainted mother. We will praise Him, too, for He has lifted the darkness from my heart.”
Chapter [9]: The Other Side Of The Picture.
The young scion of the house of Herstmonceux led Martin a few steps down the lane opposite Saint Mary’s Church, until they came to the vaulted doorway of a house of some pretensions. Its walls were thick, its windows deep set and narrow. Dull in external appearance, it did not seem to be so within, for sounds of riotous mirth proceeded from many a window left open for admittance of air. The great door was shut, but a little wicket was on the latch, and Ralph de Monceux opened it, saying:
“Come and do me the honour of a short visit, and give me the latest news from dear old Sussex.”
“What place is this?” replied Martin.