He was calm and resigned, although once, as he wrote, tears issued from fountains which had been long dry, and rolled down his aged and worn cheek,—he was but human.
In the window seat, his eyes fixed upon the road which led from the Abbey, sat Cuthbert.
Suddenly he rose hastily.
“Father,” he said, “they are coming; a number of mounted men are in sight, wilt thou not fly? We may yet hide thee, they will be ten minutes ere they arrive; fly for our sakes, for my sake—thy adopted child.”
“My son, I cannot; life has little yet to tempt me, and far better for me that I should bear witness to my faith with my blood, and receive the martyr’s palm which God hath already granted to many of my brethren, than live a few more miserable years, and see the wild boar rooting up the vineyard of the Lord, and the beasts of the field devouring it.”
After a pause he continued,—
“Dost thou see them plainly? Who is their guide?”
“Shame upon him, it is Nicholas Grabber; rather should they have cut my feet off than have forced me to do the like.”
“Nay, my child, I left word where I was, and strict directions that no concealment should be attempted.”