“You!” he said, “I had forgotten: you must wait here till I call you in.”
There was a sounding of an opening door above; the Prior went up and forward, leaving him standing there; the door closed, but not before Chris had caught a glimpse of a vaulted roof; and then the warder stood by him again, waiting with his keys in his hand.
CHAPTER XIII
PRISONER AND PRINCE
The sun sank lower and had begun to throw long shadows before the door opened again and the Prior beckoned. As Chris had stood there staring out of the window at the green water of the moat and the shadowed wall beyond, with the warder standing a few steps below, now sighing at the delay, now humming a line or two, he had heard voices now and again from the room above, but it had been no more than a murmur that died once more into silence.
Chris was aware of a dusty room as he stepped over the threshold, bare walls, one or two solid pieces of furniture, and of the Prior’s figure very upright in the light from the tiny window at one side; and then he forgot everything as he looked at the man that was standing smiling by the table.
It was a very tall slender figure, dressed in a ragged black gown turning green with age; a little bent now, but still dignified; the face was incredibly lean, with great brown eyes surrounded by wrinkles, and a little white hair, ragged, too, and long, hung down under the old flapped cap. The hand that Chris kissed seemed a bundle of reeds bound with parchment, and above the wrist bones the arm grew thinner still under the loose, torn sleeve.
Then the monk stood up and saw those kindly proud eyes looking into his own.
The Prior made a deferential movement and said a word or two, and the bishop answered him.
“Yes, yes, my Lord Prior; I understand—God bless you, my son.”