"My mother is dead!" he cried.
"No, not that. She is in no danger. She is well. She is more than well; she is happy."
Gilbert was staring almost stupidly at his companion, not in the least understanding that there could be any evil news about his mother if all these things were true.
And yet it seemed strange that the abbot should lay stress upon the Lady Goda's happiness, when Gilbert had been at death's door for many weeks, and when, as he well knew, she was without news of him.
"Happy!" he echoed, half dazed.
"Too happy," answered the prelate. "Your mother was married when you had been scarcely a month here with us."
Gilbert stared into the older man's face for one moment after he had ceased speaking, and then sank back against the wall behind him with something between a groan and a sigh. One word had struck the ground from under his feet; the next was to pierce his soul.
"Who is her husband?" he asked under his breath.
Before the abbot answered, his grasp tightened upon Gilbert's hands with a friendly grip that was meant to inspire courage.
"Your mother has married Sir Arnold de Curboil."