Alfred watched eagerly, and his eyes wandered about the cell-like room devoted to Swythe—a very plain and homely place, with a stool or two and a large table beneath the window, while one side was taken up by the simple pallet upon which the monk slept.
All at once the chanting ceased, the grinding came to an end, and, as if conscious of someone being in the room, the monk turned his head, saw Alfred watching him, and smiled sadly.
“Ah, my son,” he said; “back from the chase so soon?”
“No,” said Alfred huskily. “I did not go.”
“Not go?” said the monk, in surprise. “How was that? Ah! I see,” he continued, for the boy was silent, “you and Ethelbald have quarrelled.”
“No, indeed,” cried Alfred, and then he stopped. The monk went on without looking, passing the pebble slowly round and round upon the slab, grinding up what looked like thin glistening black paste.
“Then why did you stay behind?” said the monk gravely.
“Because—because—because—oh, don’t ask me!” cried the boy passionately.
Swythe fixed his eyes gently and kindly upon the boy, and left off grinding.
“Tell me why, Fred, my son,” he said softly.