The quiet of a narrow street invited him; he turned aside, and suddenly traffic and turmoil died away. He was in a city within a city; a place of mean tenements, wretched hovels, ruined houses, and, keeping guard over them all, a grim square tower, blind save for two windowed eyes. Men, ill-favoured, hang-dog, or care-worn, stood about the house doors silent and moody; a white-faced woman crossing the street with a bucket gave no greeting; the very children rolling in the foul gutters neither laughed nor chattered nor played. The city without seemed very far from this dismal sordid place.
Hilarius felt a touch on his shoulder, and a kindly voice said:-"How now, young sir, for what crime dost thou take sanctuary?"
He looked up and saw an old man in the black dress of an ecclesiastic, the keys of St Peter broidered on his arm.
"Sanctuary," stammered Hilarius, "nay, good sir, I - "
The other laughed.
"Wert thou star-gazing, then, that thou could'st stray into these precincts and know it not? This is the City of Refuge to which a man may flee when he has robbed or murdered his fellow, or been guilty of treason, seditious talk, or slander - a strange place in which to see such a face as thine."
"I did but seek a quiet way home and lost the turning," said Hilarius; "in sooth, 'tis a fearful place."
"Ay, boy, 'tis a place of darkness and despair, despite its safety - even the King's arm falls short when a man is in these precincts: but from himself and the knowledge of his crime, a man cannot flee; hence I say 'tis a place of darkness and despair."
The unspoken question shone in Hilarius' eyes, and the other answered it.
"Nay, there is no blood on my soul, young sir. 'Twas good advice I gave, well meant but ill received, so here I dwell to learn the wisdom of fools and the foolishness of wisdom."
"Does the Abbat know what evil men these are that seek the shelter of Holy Church?" asked Hilarius, perplexed.
"Most surely he knows; but what would'st thou have? It hath ever been the part of the Church to embrace sinners with open arms lest they repent. A man leaves wrath behind him when he flees hither; but should he set foot in the city without, he is the law's, and no man may gainsay it."
"Nay, sir, but these look far from repentance," said Hilarius.
"Ay, ay, true eno'," rejoined the other cheerfully, "but then 'tis not for nothing Mother Church holds the keys. Man's law may fail to reach, but there is ever hell-fire for the unrepented sinner."
Hilarius nodded, and his eyes wandered over the squalid place with the North Porch of the Abbey for its sole beauty.
"It must be as hell here, to live with robbers and men with bloody hands."
"Nay," said the old man hastily, "many of them are kindly folk, and many have slain in anger without thought. 'Tis a sad place, though, and thy young face is like a sunbeam on a winter's day.
Come, I will show thee thy road."
He led Hilarius through the winding alleys and set him once more on the edge of the city's stir and hum.
"I can no further," he said. "Farewell, young sir, and God keep thee! An old man's blessing ne'er harmed any one."
Hilarius gave him godden, and sped swiftly back through the streets crowded with folks returning from the tourney. The Abbey bell rang out above the shouts and din.
"'Tis an evil, evil world," quoth young Hilarius.
