On this latter point he could not be enlightened, save that a mounted messenger had passed the Abbey that morning without drawing rein. Though giving no news by word of mouth, the man had shown by a gesture that the English had been successful, though at that time the fate of the Genoese galley had not yet been decided.
One by one the wounded archers began to awaken, till all, save Raymond and Bevis, were up and about. For some time Redward sat by his son's bedside, looking anxiously at his pale and pain-racked features.
The master-bowman was torn by conflicting emotions. On the one hand he wanted to be again on the scene of action to revenge himself on his enemies—for the destruction of his home, and also to take steps to safeguard his chattels that lay in the underground chamber. On the other hand, he felt it impossible to tear himself away from his son, in whose welfare he was so much absorbed, till he was satisfied that there was no cause for anxiety on his account.
While deep in this mental debate Redward was summoned by a novice to proceed to the private apartment of the Abbot.
Following closely at the heels of his guide, Buckland was ushered into a room which, in the frigid plainness of its appearance, differed little from the cells of the ordinary brethren, only it was larger.
The stone floor was strewn with rushes, and the walls were bare and unbroken, save for two narrow lancet windows and the low, Gothic-arched door by which the archer entered. In the centre of the room stood a plain oaken table, on which was a small ivory crucifix, which, together with a number of richly-bound books of illuminated vellum—the most highly-prized objects within the monastery walls—gave a fitting setting to the gaunt figure of the stern yet revered Abbot. Two heavy wooden stools completed the furniture of the apartment, one of which was for the head of the Abbey himself, the other for the use of any visitor of equal or higher rank; otherwise, all who were called into the presence of the Abbot were obliged to stand, with bent head, patiently waiting to be addressed, and not daring to speak save when spoken to.
"Well, my son," quoth the Abbot, after the customary benediction had been given. "I have a small matter of which I would speak. Raymond, thy son, was until recently with us as a novice."
"Yes, Father."
"But thou didst send for him?"
"I could not do without him."