The Fall of the Grand Sarrasin | Page 7

forget his look as he took it from me, or wrung it rather from my fingers?
"Whence hast thou this? Whence came it?" he shrieked, with a rabble of ill words; and for a moment it seemed he would have crushed me in his great sinewy clenched hands as I stood there before him. His face was scarlet that before was only red. Great black veins started up upon his forehead, and his round blue eyes were straining out of the flesh in which they were enclosed.
I stood firm before him, and humbly showed him that the second scroll fell out of the first. Then he turned suddenly upon his heel and went towards the window, and looking forth upon the bay below in a few moments calmed himself, read what was writ on the first scroll, and with an air of unconcern tossed them to a corner of the table.
"Thou knowest naught of these papers, lad?" he said at length.
"Naught, my lord, in good faith, save that I bore them hither."
"And thou didst well to do that," he said, "for here is a matter dangerous to me, as thou sawest by mine anger. Your good abbot hath done well to send me this letter by thee."
I answered not, since it was not for me to speak, and yet I craved to know what could be in the second scroll to move him so.
"May I return with your grace's greeting or other message to my lord?" I said.
"Ay, and by word of mouth," he said. "We exiled men well-nigh forget to write, nor have much practice in the tools of the clerk. Tell the abbot the Archbishop of Rouen thanks him for his courtesy, and that this paper--this paper was written by some foe of other days that chooses thus to strike the fallen. Canst thou carry that."
I said I could, but I thought that there was an ill lie behind his words.
"Hist, good lad, what is thy name?" said he.
"Nigel de Bessin, nephew of the Vicomte of St. Sauveur," I answered.
He pondered and gazed at me curiously. "Ay, well I knew thy grandsire, the old vicomte," said he. "And thine uncle has had of me other gifts than shriving."
Now it came into my heart to ask him of my father, since he knew my grandsire and my uncle; so I said boldly--
"And didst thou know my father?"
"Ay, I knew him--I knew him," said he; "but what do they tell thee of him?"
"Nothing, in sooth, my lord," I answered; "and bid me wait till my pupilage is over."
"Then I may tell thee naught more than thou knowest, save that we were good friends. Thou wilt not long be bearing missives for your abbot, if thou art like thy sires. Thou art soon for Normandy?"
I wished not to unfold my purpose to this man, so I simply bowed, and prepared to go with due courtesy. Now, as I knelt upon one knee, he laid his hand upon my shoulder wondrous kindly, and raised me up by the arm, and led me to a seat so gently that for the moment I forgot that I distrusted him. Then he spoke of studies, and brought down some great tomes, excellently well writ and pictured in French scriptoria, and turning from them to his table he showed me a wondrous box, which looking through, as I held it up, I saw as it were the far off bay draw near to mine eyes, so that I could see men walk clear where I saw but shapes before. And with surprise I well-nigh dropped it from my hands. He took it from me, and told me I had seen what none had seen in the earth before but he alone.
And the thought entering into my mind that here was something more than human, he seemed to guess it, and said with a smile that was hard and keen--
"Nor is there wizardry therein, save the wizardry of a lonely man, that devises new solace for his loneliness."
A pasty was ere long set before us and a flask of wine, whereof we both partook.
"Say not," said he, "that my lord of Rouen sends his guests hungry away."
So we ate together. And after eating, as the sun was already stealing down the western sky, he bade me farewell, and pressed a little ring upon my finger as I left him, bidding me not forget to see him again ere I left for the wars, and at any time he said he would stand my friend, with a greater air of power, it struck me, than one could show who knew no other future than more long years of exile, such as he now lived in our small isle.
Now, as I turned from the drawbridge at the moat-house of Blanchelande