Tristan bowed his head in silence.
The monk cast a penetrating glance at his visitor. He understood the gesture and the silence with that quick comprehension that came to him who was to reform Holy Catholic Church from the abuse of decades—as an intuition.
"But now, my son, speak of yourself," said the monk after a pause.
"I lived at the court of Avalon, the home of Love and Troubadours."
"Of Troubadours?" the monk interposed dreamily. "A worldly lot—given to extolling free love and what not—"
"They may sing of love and passion, father, but their lives are pure and chaste," Tristan ventured to remonstrate.
"You are a Troubadour?" came the swift query.
"In my humble way." Tristan replied with bowed head.
The monk nodded.
"Go on—go on!"