The priest heard him, and turned towards him.
"Who art thou, my son?"
Lawrence's delight overcame his shyness.
"Father Robesart, wit you not me? I am Lawrence, son of Nicholas, tanner, in the huts at Usk, that went away these two years gone. I bade you farewell in the church aisle, and you blessed me, and told me I should pass word to you never to go any whither that I had not first asked our Lord to be with me."
"Good, my son. I remember thee now, and will have more talk with thee anon. Now let me look on the sick child. Is it my little Lord of March?"
"That is he, good Father."
"How gat he this hurt?"
Mistress Grenestede and Master Salveyn knew so little about it that Lawrence was called forward to say what he knew. His instinct told him that it would be best to confess the whole truth to Father Robesart, which he did, thereby calling up a look on the face of his old friend which was a mixture of amusement and pity.
"Poor child!" he said softly, when Lawrence's story was told,—rather astonishing Mistress Grenestede, that one of the first nobles in England should be thought or called a poor child.
"Please it you, Father, did my Lord a wrong thing herein?" asked Lawrence, timidly.