Bacon's eyes misted. Precious years of his waning life had he spent in prison because there was no man to say such a thing before.
"You—you do not believe what they say of me, that I consort with Satan?" he queried. "That my science and my secrets are Lucifer's?"
"Well—as to that," said Carlyle, his confidence returning, "I am again the ignorant one. Where you get your knowledge I neither know nor care. I only know that your learning is great ... and that that learning can help me!"
The Gray Friar wagged his head wonderingly. His eyes went over Thaddeus. He saw a strapping young man over six feet in height, with a muscular development such as came only from constant participation in the strenuous contests popular among the nobility. His skin was brown as leather, burned, Bacon reckoned, by hot Oriental suns during the last Crusade. He saw a man whose rich clothing spoke of a fat purse. And he was asked to help him—he, who could not help himself!
"Who are you, young man?" he asked, at last.
"Thaddeus Carlyle, the second Lord Monfort," was the reply.
"A noble—!" Bacon murmured. "But you—you jest with me!"
"Not so!" Carlyle threw a leg across the corner of the table and peered earnestly into the monk's face. "You are old and wise, Friar Bacon. Perhaps you do not know the fear of death. I do! Always it is with me, haunting my pleasures, disturbing my sleep—Fear of growing old and toothless, of losing my strength—of dying as helpless as the day I was born!"
"But how can I help you?" frowned Bacon. "All men must face that fear."