“Who is he?”
“I know him not, but he has been weeping bitterly, as one may see by his face.”
The sheriff hesitated, but he was in a merciful mood; he suspected the object of the visitor, and it was a good sign for the success of the suppliant that he permitted the visit.
“Well, my lad,” said he, as Cuthbert entered, “what is the matter now?”
“I have a boon to crave, your worship; you will not refuse it me?”
“Let me first hear what it is.”
“The Abbot has been my adopted father, my best friend from childhood; let me see him once more, let me receive his parting blessing, ere wicked hands slay him.”
“Wicked hands, my lad, you forget yourself, and where you are.”
“Pardon me, I meant no offence; I know it is no fault of your worship.”