“I do, Father.”
“And the ring which is now on the finger of him who shall claim thy promise?”
“Well, my Father.”
“Await him, my son, in Glastonbury, not in the Abbey, that will be destroyed by wicked hands, but in the house of thy foster father, Giles Hodge, whose name thou must take, and be content to pass as his foster son till the time comes, and thy services are claimed. He who bears the ring will provide for thy future.”
“Oh, think not of that.”
“I have thought of it, and now, my child, thou mayest again join us in prayer.”
“The half-hour has passed,” said a rough voice at the door.
“Thy blessing, Father.”
“It is thine, my child: Benedicat et custodiat te Deus omnipotens, Pater, Filius, et Spiritus Sanctus, nunc et in sæcula sæculorum.”