“May God keep thee in all thy ways, my son,” replied the pilgrim-monk, laying his thin, trembling hand gently on the knight’s bowed head; “and thanks be to Him that the blessing which awaited thee in southern lands hath found thee at last.”
“It hath indeed, father, and good cause have I to be thankful for it. But thou art weary; mount my steed, and I will lead him.”
“I thank ye, my children,” said the old man faintly, as Alured and Hugo lifted him into the saddle, “and if ye go to the camp, I shall be right glad of your aid, for in truth I am weary, and it hath been revealed to me that there is a dying man there who needeth my ministry.”
The brothers exchanged looks, and each saw in the other’s face the sudden terror that darkened his own.
“Who is this dying man of whom thou speak’st, father?” ask Alured, with a hesitation that told how he dreaded the possible answer.
“I know not, my son; this only do I know, that he hath need of me. Mount before me, and let us on quickly.”
But hardly had they gone half a mile, when there was a clatter of hoofs behind them, and a sturdy Breton man-at-arms, evidently returning from a scouting expedition, came dashing up to them.
“What ho! fair sirs,” he called out, “have ye seen, I pray, any English soldiers marching this way?”
Hugo had just time to reply that they had not, when the soldier, catching sight of Brother Michael’s face, bowed low, and cried joyfully—
“Thank God you are here, father; you will save our Bertrand for us.”