“I told you I’m going to make it yellow,” said Swythe, laying his work well out in the sunshine to get thoroughly dry.
Then, taking it from the window-sill and shutting out the breeze again, Swythe placed his work ready and took out, from a snug corner, a tiny book made by sewing together about half-a-dozen leaves of parchment, and upon opening this very carefully Alfred saw within a piece of brilliant shining gold.
“Oh, how beautiful!” cried Alfred, making a dart at it with his hand. But, as if he expected this, Swythe put out his own hand and caught his pupil’s just in time, creating such a breeze, though, that the very thin gold leaf rose up at the corner and fell over, doubling nearly in half.
“There, you see how fine it is!” cried Swythe.
“I’m very sorry—I did not know,” said the boy sadly; and then he looked on in wonder, for the monk bent down, gave a gentle puff with his breath, and the gold was blown up, to fall back into its place.
“Why, I thought it would be quite hard and heavy,” said Alfred.
“And it’s twenty times as thin as the parchment!” said Swythe. “Now then, suppose we make the letter of gold.”
Alfred did not speak, but watched with breathless interest while the monk took his knife and carefully cut a long strip off one edge of the gold leaf, and then, dividing it in four, took it up bit by bit on the blade, and laid the pieces along the letter, cutting off edges and scraps that were not wanted, and covering up bare places so carefully and with such great pains that at last there was not a trace left of the gummed letter, a rough, rugged gold one being left in its place.
“There!” cried Swythe, when he had covered the last speck, and all was gold leaf; but Alfred shook his head.
“It looks very beautiful,” he said; “but I don’t like it. The edges are all rugged and rough.”