"That is old nonsense!" cried David. "Has not the Lord made all the earth, and is not His Word indwelling? And, son, remember this—come storm, come drought, come frost, nothing can take our God from us."
"Is it true, O my father," asked the boy, wide-eyed, "that once on a time your own cook did try to poison you?"
"The poor mad fellow!" said the bishop shortly. "Luckily one of my guests suspected, and so were we one and all saved alive. Go thou draw water, little one, where the brook is deepest: I have need of more."
David stirred the broth in the pot, adding his leeks and some sage and pepper which he carried about him. The monks had gone their several ways, in search of wild fruits and pot-herbs. From within the biggest cave came the sound of restless fidgeting. David began to sing:
"Hast thou heard the saying of Calwaladr,
King of all Britain?
The best crooked thing is the crooked handle of a plough."
There was a hasty footfall behind and Gildas stood beside him.
"Thy pardon, David," he said, very humbly, hanging his head. "Indeed, indeed, I know not why—but I have always a dark humour before breakfast!"
"Oh, Gildas, Gildas," cried David, as he wrung both the other's hands. "I am too hot-mettled, I fear, in the early hours!"