“I am come, by ordainment of the Lord Prior, to receive certain commands of my Lord Duke touching a book that he desireth to have written and ourned (ornamented) with painting in the Priory,” said Wilfred in his quiet manner. “But what aileth yonder young master?—for he seemeth me in trouble.”
What ailed poor Hugh was soon told; and Wilfred, after a critical look at him, went up and spoke to him.
“So thou hast a quarrel with God, my son?”
“Nay! Who may quarrel with God?” answered Hugh drearily.
“Only men and devils,” said Wilfred. “Such as be God’s enemies be alway quarrelling with Him; but such as be His own dear children—should they so?”
“Dealeth He thus with His children?” was the bitter answer.
“Ay, oftentimes; so oft, that He aredeth (tells) us, that they which be alway out of chastising be no sons of His.”
Hugh could take no comfort. “You know not what it is!” he said, with the impatience of pain.
“Know I not?” said Wilfred, very tenderly, laying his hand upon Hugh’s shoulder. “Youngling, my father fell in fight with the Saracens, and my mother—my blessed mother—was brent for Christ’s sake at Cologne.”
Hugh looked up at last. The words, the tone, the fellowship of suffering, touched the wrung heart through its own sorrow.