He sat down by him and told of King and Court; then when Hilarius had once more cried his longing, he said gravely:—
“One comes who will open more cage doors than thine and mine, lad—and yet earn no welcome.”
Hilarius looked at him questioningly.
“Lad, hast thou ever seen Death?”
“Nay, good Martin.”
“It comes, lad, it comes; or I am greatly at fault. I saw the Plague once in Flanders, and fled against the wind, and so came out with a clean skin; now I am like to see it again; for it has landed in the south, and creeps this way. Mark my words, lad, thou wilt know Death ere the winter is out, and such as God keep thee from.”
Hilarius understood little of these words but the sound of them, and turned to speak of other things.
Martin looked at him gloomily.
“Best get back to the cloister and Prior Stephen, lad.”
“Nay, good Martin, that may not be; but I have still a letter for the Abbat of St Alban’s, and would hasten thither if Sir John would set me free. Methinks I am a slow scholar,” went on poor Hilarius ruefully, “for I have not yet gone hungry—and as for love, methinks there are few folk to love in this wicked city.”