Stolen Away.
Meanwhile the friar and Stephen Bassett conversed together, seated on a rude bench at the other side of the dimly-lit room. The friar was a man of kindly curiosity, who let his interests run freely after his neighbours’ affairs, and, attracted by the boy, whose education had far overpast that of the knight’s son, Edgar, he made searching inquiries, which Stephen answered frankly, relating more fully than Hugh how in Flanders, where he had travelled in order to perfect himself in an art not yet brought to a high pitch of excellence in England, his wife had died, and he having been left with the boy on his hands, the child had excited the interest of the monks, who, finding him teachable, had instructed him in the then rare accomplishments of reading and writing.
“He is like to forget them, though,” he added with a sigh, “unless in our wanderings we fall upon other brothers as good as those, which is scarce likely.”
“Have you thought of his taking the habit?”
“Nay, his bent lies not that way,” said Bassett, smiling. The other smiled also.
“Truly, it seemed not so by the lusty manner in which he laid about him but now. And I mind me he spoke of his wish to be a soldier.”
“That I will not consent to,” Bassett replied hastily; “he shall follow my trade. It would break my heart if I thought that all my labours died with me.” He was interrupted by a fit of coughing.
“And where,” inquired the Franciscan, “where dost thou purpose going when the fair is ended?”
“In good sooth, holy friar, that is what troubles me. I had thought of London, but I wot not—”
The other leaned forward, resting his elbow on his knee, and his chin in the palm of his hand.