“There is a little money put by for him—in yonder bag—I meant it for this purpose—the horse may be sold—if I thought he could be with thee I should—die happy.”
Gervase was not the man to resist such an appeal. He stooped down and clasped the sick man’s wasted hand in his.
“The boy shall remain with me,” he said. “Rest content. I am warden of my guild. He shall learn his craft honestly and truly, shall be brought up in the holy Faith, and shall be to me as a son. There is my hand.”
With one look of unutterable thankfulness the carver closed his eyes, and murmured something, which Elyas, bending over him, recognised as the thanksgiving of the Nunc Dimittis. He said no more, but lay peacefully content until he roused himself to ask that a priest might be sent for; and when Hugh came in Elyas left him in charge, while he went to seek the parish priest, “and no monk,” as he muttered.
Hugh was full of the glories of the Cathedral, to which he had made his way. It had remained unfinished longer than most of the others in the kingdom, but the last bishop, Quivil, and the present, Bitton, had pushed on the work with most earnest zeal, and Hugh described the rising roof and the beautiful clustered pillars of soft grey Purbeck marble with an enthusiasm which brought a smile of content upon the face of the dying man.
“Would I could work there!” said the boy, with a sigh.
“One day,” whispered his father, “Master Gervase will take thee as apprentice; thou wilt serve faithfully, my Hugh?”
The boy pressed against him, and laid his cheek on the pillow.
“Ay, to make thy name famous.”
“No, no,” gasped Stephen, eagerly. “That dream is past—not mine nor thine—not for thyself but for the glory of God. Say that.”