“Shalt open to him?”
“If I do he may find likeness. If I do not—”
They stood in the dusky place, a long room with the red fire eye of the small furnace dully winking, with the snow falling, falling. The friar knocked again. “If we do not answer, then surely will he say, ‘Witch’s house!’”
Englefield moved toward the door, but Friar Martin, impatient and bold, did not wait, but lifting the latch, pushed inward. It was dusk, beyond seeing clearly.
“Are you the smith?”
“Aye, Brother. Can I serve you?”
“I would see your work. But I cannot do so without light.”
“Work hour and shop hour are over. Best come to-morrow.”
“To-morrow we may all be dead. Canst not light candle?”
“Aye, I can.” He took a brand from the fire and suited action to word. “There is not much here.” He held the candle to the silver shell, but Friar Martin, who helped himself through life, shot out his hand and took the taper and held it to the smith. Diccon Dawn stood in the light and formed face of London smith who knew that in these later days friars upon their travels were what they were and must be taken so. They had their whims!