"Better stay with us altogether," he said, shaking his head and looking away.
Gilbert sat motionless for a few seconds, as if the remark had made no impression upon him; then, realizing that the words contained some special meaning, he started slightly and turned his hollow eyes to the speaker's face.
"And not go to see my mother?" His voice expressed the utmost surprise.
"Not—not at present," answered the abbot, taken off his guard by the directness of the question.
Weak as he was, Gilbert half rose from his seat, and his thin fingers nervously grasped his companion's arm. He would have spoken, but a sort of confusion came over him, as if he could not decide which of many questions to ask first, and before words could form themselves, the abbot was speaking to him with gentle authority.
"Listen to me," he said; "sit quietly beside me and hear what I have to say, for you are a man, now, and it is better that you should know it all at once, and from me, than get it distorted, in miserable morsels, from the gossip of the brothers within the next day or two."
He paused a moment, holding the young man's hand soothingly while keeping him in his seat and making him feel that he must stay there.
"What is it?" asked Gilbert, nervously, with half closed eyes. "Tell me quickly."
"An evil thing," answered the churchman, "—a sad thing, and one of those that change men's lives."
Again Gilbert started in his seat, more violently this time than before, and there was the broken ring of genuine fear in his voice.