'In God's name, I am!' Matthew replied with simplicity, believing he was asked if he was a Catholic.
'What?' the scandalised Prior ejaculated, crossing himself in doubt, 'are you not a true son of the Church?'
'Never!' quoth our deaf friend--thinking all went well.
'A heretic!' cried the monk.
'Amen to that!' replied Matthew innocently; never doubting but that he was asked the third question, which was, commonly, whether he needed aid.
Naturally after this there was a very pretty commotion, and Matthew, vainly protesting that he was deaf, was hurried off to the Provost-Marshal's custody. Asked how he communicated with him, the Provost answered that he could not, but that his little godchild, a girl only eight years old, had taken a strange fancy to the rogue, and was never so happy as when talking to him by means of signs, of which she had invented a great number. I thought this strange at the time, but I had proof before the morning was out that it was true enough, and that the two were seldom apart, the little child governing this grim cut-throat with unquestioned authority.
After the Provost was gone I heard the man's fetters clanking again. This time he entered to remove my cup and plate, and surprised me by speaking to me. Maintaining his former sullenness, and scarcely looking at me, he said abruptly: 'You are going out again?'
I nodded assent.
'Do you remember a bald-faced bay horse that fell with you?' he muttered, keeping his dogged glance on the floor.
I nodded again.