“Only a scriptorius,” said the monk quietly—not at all offended. “And it may be that he never heard of some of thy heroes.”
“My heroes are Alexander and Charlemagne,” said Bertram proudly. “He must have heard of them.”
Wilfred dipped his pen in the ink with a rather amused smile.
“Now, Father Wilfred!”
“I was only thinking, lad, that when I set up my hero, he shall not be a man that met his death in a wine-butt.”
“What?—Oh! Alexander. Well, we have all our failings,” admitted Bertram, reluctant to give up his favourite.
“Thou sayest sooth, lad.”
“Father Wilfred, who is thine hero?”
“Wist thou who is God’s hero?” asked the illuminator, laying down his pen, and fixing his eyes on the boy. “God Himself once told men who was their greatest. And who was it, countest?”
“Was it Charlemagne?” eagerly responded the unchronological Bertram.