So well had the distance and the horse's speed been calculated, that, at about two miles from Mierdorp, that undefinable grey tint, which can hardly be called light, but is the first approach towards it, began to spread upwards over the eastern sky; and by the time that Albert Maurice emerged from the forest of Hannut, which then extended to within a mile of the village, the air was all rosy with the dawn of day. Just as he was issuing forth from the woodland, he perceived before him a stout, short, round figure, clothed in a long grey gown, the cowl or hood of which was thrown back upon his shoulders, leaving a polished bald head to shine uncovered in the rays of the morning; and the young fugitive paused to examine the person whom he had by this time nearly overtaken.
The monk, for so he appeared to be, was mounted on a stout, fat mule, whose grey skin, and sleek, rotund limbs, gave him a ridiculous likeness to his rider, which was increased by a sort of vacant sentimentality that appeared in the round face of the monk, and the occasional slow raising and dropping of one of the mule's ears, in a manner which bears no other epithet but the very colloquial one of lack-a-daiscal.
According to the instructions he had received, the young burgher immediately rode up to the monk, and addressed him with the "Good morrow, Father Barnabas," which he had been directed to employ.
"Good morrow, my son," replied the monk; "though unhappily for me, sinner that I am, my patron saint is a less distinguished one than him whose name you give me; I am called Father Charles, not Father Barnabas."
As he thus spoke he looked up in the young traveller's face with an air of flat unmeaningness, which would at once have convinced Albert Maurice that he was mistaken in the person, had he not discovered a small ray of more intellectual expression beam the next moment through the dull, grey eye of the monk, while something curled, and just curled, the corners of his mouth with what did not deserve the name of a smile, and yet was far too faint for a grin.
"Well," said he, eyeing him keenly, "if your name be not Barnabas, good father, I will give you good morrow once more, and ride on."
"Good morrow, my son," replied the monk, with the same demure smile; and Albert Maurice, to be as good as his word, put his horse into a trot, in order to make the best of his way towards Mierdorp, which was lying in the fresh, sweet light of morning, at the distance of about three quarters of a mile before him. To his surprise, however, the monk's mule, without any apparent effort of its rider, the moment he quickened his horse's pace, put itself into one of those long, easy ambles for which mules are famous, and without difficulty carried its master on by his side.
"You are in haste, my son," said the monk: "whither away so fast?"
"I go to seek Father Barnabas," replied the young burgher, somewhat provoked, but yet half laughing at the quiet merriment of the monk's countenance as he rode along beside him on his mule, with every limb as round as if he had been formed out of a series of pumpkins.
"Well, well," rejoined the monk, "perhaps I may aid you in your search; but what wouldst thou with Father Barnabas, when thou hast found him? Suppose I were Father Barnabas now, what wouldst thou say to me?"