“This, lad,” said the monk, touching his cowl.
Bertram did not consider this by any means satisfactory.
“Well! All said, Father Wilfred, we come back to the first matter. What wouldst thou do an’ thou wert I?”
“Soothly, that wis I not,” said the illuminator rather drily. “What thou shouldst do an’ thou wert I, might be easier gear.”
“Well—and that were?”
“To set claws unto this griffin.”
“Now, Father Wilfred! My work is not to paint griffins.”
“What thy work is, do,” replied the monk sententiously.
“But ’tis sheer idlesse! ’Tis not work at all. It is but to wait till I am called to work.”
“The waiting is harder than the work,” replied Wilfred, again laying down his pen. “If thou be well assured that waiting is thy work, wit thou that ’tis matter worthy of the wits of angels, for there is no work harder than to wait for God.”