“Prothasy!” he called, the moment he was in the passage.
“I am coming!” answered a voice, and, following the sound, a young woman ran in, small, dark, bright-eyed, and scarcely more than a girl in appearance. “How late thou art, Elyas! And whom have we here?” starting back.
“A sick man for thee to nurse. Nay, thou shalt hear more later, when we have got him to bed. Wat! Where’s Wat? Wat,” as a lad hastily appeared, “go out to the door and take the horse, and see that he has good food and litter. Send the boy that is there in here.”
It was evident that Prothasy Gervase was a capable woman. She asked no questions, made no difficulties, but ran to see that all was right, and Stephen, too much exhausted to be aware of what was happening, was got into his crib-like bed in a little room overlooking the street, and Mistress Gervase had brought up some hot spiced wine and bidden Hugh take a drink of it before the doctor came. Then Elyas took the boy down to the common room, and asked him a number of questions. He was one of the burgesses who, by a recent law, was responsible for the good conduct of twelve—some say ten—citizens, and would have to furnish an account of the strangers, so that besides the call of natural curiosity, to which he was not insensible, it was necessary that he should know something of their history. He listened attentively to the story of the shipwreck.
“And what brought thy father here?” he asked at last.
“He thought,” faltered Hugh, for his spirits had sunk low, never having seen his father in such sore plight before, “that our cousin, Master Alwyn, might help him to get work in the great church of St. Peter’s.”
“James Alwyn is dead,” said Gervase, gravely. Hugh’s face quivered. He seemed more lonely than ever.
“He died a year ago, come Martinmas. What was thy mother’s name?”
“Alice Alwyn.”
“I mind me there was one of that name lived out by Clyst. And—but I warrant me thou wilt say, ay—is thy father a good craftsman?”