“Art thou that son of Christ waiting to guide my steps, as the Lord promised me?”
Hilarius started back, afraid at the strange address; but the friar laid one lean hand on his arm, and, letting the staff slip back against his shoulder, felt Hilarius’ face, not with the light and practised touch of the blind, but slowly and carefully, frowning the while.
“Son, thou wilt come with me?”
“Nay, good Father, I may not; I am for St Alban’s.”
“Whence, my son?”
“From Westminster, good Father.”
“Nay, then, thou mayest spare shoe-leather. I left the Monastery but now, and, I warrant thee, they promise small welcome to those from the pestilent cities. What would’st thou with the Abbat?”
Hilarius told him.
The friar flung up his hands.
“Laus Deo! Laus Deo!” he cried, “now I know thou art in very truth the lad of my dream. Listen, my son, and I will tell thee all. Thrice has the vision come to me; I see the mother who bore me carried away, struggling and cursing, by men in black apparel, and Hell is near at hand, belching out smoke and flame, and many hideous devils; yet the place is little Bungay, where my mother hath a cot by the river. When first the dream came I lay at Mechlin in the Monastery there; my flesh quaked and my hair stood up by reason of the awfulness of the vision; then as I mused and prayed I saw in it the call of the Lord, that I might wrestle with Satan for my mother’s soul, for she was ever inclined to evil arts and spells, and thought little of aught save gain.