"Where shall I find Him?—in the church? Must I hear mass every morning?"
One of the strangest things in Romanism to a Protestant mind is the fancy that prayer must be offered in a consecrated building to be thoroughly acceptable. Of course, when a man localises the presence of Christ as confined to a particular piece of stone, it is natural that he should fancy he must go to the stone to find Him. From this unscriptural notion the Lollards had to a great extent emancipated themselves. Mr. Robesart therefore answered Lawrence as most priests would not have done, for in his eyes the presence of Christ was not restricted to the altar-stone and the consecrated wafer.
"My son, say in thine heart—thou needest not speak it loud—'Jesus, be with me,' before thou dost any matter, or goest any whither. Our Lord will hear thee. Wilt thou so do?"
Lawrence gave the promise, with a child's readiness to promise anything asked by a person whom he loved and reverenced. The priest lifted his eyes.
"Lord keep him in mind!" he said in a low voice. "Keep Thyself in the child's heart, and bear him upon Thine before the Father!—Now, my son, go, and God be with thee."
Mr. Robesart laid his hand again on the child's head, and with a slower step than before, as if some awe rested upon him, Lawrence went down to the hovel below the hill.
The journey from Usk to Ireland was a far more new and strange experience to Lawrence than it could be to Roger. The latter had taken various short journeys from one of his father's castles to another, or on occasional visits to friends and relatives of the family: but the former had spent all his little life in the hovel at Usk, and his own feet were the only mode of travelling with which he had hitherto been acquainted. The sea was something completely new to both. Lawrence was deeply interested in finding out that fishes lived in that mighty ocean which seemed alike so potent and so interminable. He wanted to go down to the bottom and see the fishes alive in their own haunts, and find out what was there beside them. But after timidly hinting at these aspirations to an archer and a squire, and perceiving that both were inclined to laugh at him, Lawrence locked up the remainder of his fancies in his own breast, and awaited further light and future opportunities.
Meditations of this kind did not trouble Roger. He found quite enough to look at in the visible world, without puzzling his brain by speculations concerning the unseen. His nature disposed him at all times to action rather than thought.
Two months were consumed on the voyage to Ireland: not by any means an unreasonable time, when that period or longer was frequently required between Dover and Calais. They were detained previously at Holyhead, waiting for a south-east wind, only for a fortnight, which was rather a matter for congratulation; as was also the fact that they were only twice in danger of their lives during the voyage. Perils in the wilderness, and perils in the sea, were much more intelligible to our forefathers than to ourselves.
Roger was growing dreadfully tired of sea and sky long before the shore of Antrim was sighted. Lawrence was tired of nothing but his own ignorance and incapacity to understand what he saw. He wanted to know—to dive to the bottom of every thing, literally and figuratively: and he did not know how to get there, and nobody could or would tell him. Surely things had an end somewhere—if one could only find it out!