The old man threw back his hood and stared at him.
“Hugh de Cressi, by Christ’s holy Name!” he exclaimed. “Yes, and Richard the archer, also. The light is bad; I did not see your faces. Welcome, Hugh, thrice welcome,” and he threw his arms about him and embraced him. “Come, enter my lodgings, I have much to say to you.”
“One thing I desire to learn most of all, Father; the rest can wait. Who is the sick lady of whom you spoke to yonder physician—she that, he thought, was your grand-daughter?”
“Who could it be, Hugh, except Eve Clavering.”
“Eve!” gasped Hugh. “Eve dying of the pest?”
“Nay, son: who said so? She is ill, not dying, who, I believe, will live for many years.”
“You believe, Father, you believe! Why this foul plague scarce spares one in ten. Oh! why do you believe?”
“God teaches me to do so,” answered the old knight solemnly. “I only sent for that physician because he has medicines which I lack. But it is not in him and his drugs that I put my trust. Come, let us go in and see her.”
So they went up the stairs and turned down a long passage, into which the light flowed dimly through large open casements.
“Who is that?” asked Hugh suddenly. “I thought that one brushed past me, though I could see nothing.”