“Is this the way to the ruins of St. Frediswed’s shrine?” said a clergyman to a boy of about twelve years of age, who stood leaning against the gate of a field.
“They are just here, sir,” replied the peasant, proceeding to open the gate.
“Just wait a moment,” cried a bright-haired boy who accompanied the clergyman; “that is your way, this is mine,” and he vaulted lightly over the gate.
“So these are the famous ruins!” he exclaimed as he alighted on the opposite side; “I don’t think much of them, Mr. Ewart. A few yards of stone wall, half covered with moss, and an abundance of nettles is all I can see.”
AT THE GATE.
“And yet this once was a famous resort for pilgrims.”
“Pilgrims,—what were they?” inquired the boy.
“In olden times, when the Romanist religion prevailed in England, it was thought an act of piety to visit certain places that were considered particularly holy; and those who undertook journeys for this purpose received the name of pilgrims. Many travelled thousands of miles to kneel at the tomb of our Lord in Jerusalem, and those who could not go so far believed that by visiting certain famous shrines here, they could win the pardon of their sins. Hundreds of misguided people, in this strange, superstitious hope, visited the abbey by whose ruins we now stand; and I have heard that a knight, who had committed some great crime, walked hither barefoot, with a cross in his hand, a distance of several leagues.”
“A knight barefoot! how strange!” cried young Lord Fontonore; “but then he believed that it would save him from his sins.”