“Sir Richard never spoke to me but twice, further than to say ‘Good morrow.’ Once he admired a pattern I was working, and once he asked me, when I came in from the leads, if it were raining.”
“Didst thou care for him, my daughter?”
“Not in the least,” said Belasez, “nor he for me. I rather think Damsel Margaret was his attraction.” Her father seemed satisfied on that point. “And these priests? How many were there?” Belasez told him. “Master Aristoteles the physician, and Father Nicholas, and Father Warner, chaplains of my Lord the Earl; and the chaplain of the Lady.”
She hardly knew what instinct made her unwilling to utter Father Bruno’s name; and, most unintentionally, she blushed.
“Oh!” said Abraham to himself, “the Lady’s chaplain is the dangerous person.—Are they old men, my child?”
“None of them is either very old or very young, Father.”
“Describe them to me, I pray thee.”
“Master Aristoteles I cannot describe, for I have only heard his voice. Father Nicholas is about fifty, I should think: a kindly sort of man, but immersed in his books, and caring for little beside. Father Warner is not pleasant; all the girls were very much afraid of him.”
“And the chaplain of the Lady?”
“He is forty or more, I should suppose: tall and slender, eyes and hair dark; a very pleasant man to speak with.”