On the afternoon succeeding this fearful tragedy, a venerable old man of more than three-score years entered the room where Hubert still lay with a low fever brought on by exposure and fatigue. He was Roger Markham, of Romney in Kent, to whose care the boys had been consigned. He had long since been deprived of his curacy, but, beloved by all his former parishioners for his saintly life, he had continued to dwell among them, supported by the labor of his hands, and ministering to them in secret that spiritual food which they sought for in vain from the parish priest.
He gladly accepted his charge, and declaring that Hubert would be better when breathing the fresh air, appointed the next day for them to set out on their journey to his own home.
Accordingly, the next morning they left the friendly trader's house, where they had found so safe an asylum, and proceeding to the outskirts of the city, met Markham with his old white pony, on which they mounted Hubert, and so went slowly on their way. They rested at an inn that night, and it was not till the next afternoon that they approached their new home. The setting sun was lighting up the snowy meadows and the clustered cottages with their low roofs laden with snow. At the entrance of the village they were met by several of the peasants eager to welcome back their friend; and, seeing that he had with him two pale stranger lads, they each contributed from their humble store refreshment to cheer them after their journey. They pressed the travellers to enter their cottages and rest awhile; but the old man wanted to be back at his own fireside; so, passing on through the single straggling street to a house that stood a little apart from the rest, the last in the row, the pony stopped of his own accord, and Markham, opening the latch, which, in those simple times, alone fastened the door, bade the wearied lads enter, for this was their home.
It was a low-roofed cottage of only one room, and furnished with the most perfect simplicity. Above, the oaken rafters, blackened by time and smoke, were plainly to be seen, and were festooned with strings of dried vegetables and herbs. The floor was of well-trodden clay; and a rough table, a few stools, a chest, some straw beds, and an oaken armchair, curiously carved by the old curate himself, completed the furniture. A sort of rack, or shelf, on one side, served as a dresser to hold the wooden platters and horn drinking-cups; while on pegs inserted in the wall, hung a sword, a cross-bow, and various garden-tools. The old man seemed to forget his own fatigue in ministering to the comfort of his guests. Geoffrey aided him, by bringing in fagots, and soon a bountiful repast, consisting of bacon, cheese, cakes, milk, and eggs, was ready to satisfy their hunger.
They were soon settled in their new home. The boys passed their time partly in study, and partly in aiding the old man to prepare his little garden for the summer crops. The cow, too, needed their care; when the snow had melted from the meadows, she must be driven to pasture in the morning, and brought home in the evening. This fell to Geoffrey's share, and gave him two long and pleasant walks a day, while Hubert attended to the humble dairy, and felt almost as proud when he had furnished the larder with a fine cheese or a trencher of golden butter, as when he had recited to his master, without failing, his longest Latin lesson. The reason why the old curate accepted no help from without, but shared the most menial labors with his noble young pupils, was because in those troublous times the only chance of safety for the poor persecuted Lollards was in being as retired as possible, and especially in keeping their Bibles, if they possessed them, from the sight of those who might at some future time betray them.
Their life was quiet, and fully employed, but not without its pleasures. Markham was not only an excellent scholar, but he also loved to impart his knowledge to others. The cottage was not their only study; in the quiet lanes and sunny meadows, on the sea-shore, and in the grand old forest, he taught them all that was then known of botany and natural history. In the clear, still winter evenings, he called their attention to the stars overhead, their names, and positions, and motions, and told them how the sailor found his way upon the deep by their assistance. He showed them the signs of the Zodiac, among which the sun and planets pursued their yearly course; he pointed out to them the "bands of Orion," the Pleiades, and "Arcturus with his sons," mentioned so beautifully in the book of Job; also the dog-star, that exerted such a baneful influence when in the ascendant, and Charles's Wain, whose two pointers always directed to that strange polar star, which, of all that bright company, seemed never to move from its place.
But one thing he taught them which would seem very strange to the youngest school-boy or girl in these present more enlightened days. He told them that this earth, being a flat plain, was the centre of all the universe, and around it, in their stated time, sun, moon, and stars revolved.
Nor did he fail to remind them of the Magi, who, by the leading of a star, found the infant Christ.
But this peaceful life did not last long. When the field of the old curate was ready for the reaping, he died. Calmly and joyfully, with a hand clasped by each of the boys, he passed away from earth; and as they closed his eyes, his last words still rang in their ears: "Stand fast for the Lord, my sons, even unto death!"
CHAPTER IX.