"Ay, marry I have more times than I count years. But see, here comes one who knows little enough of hunger or love." Round the bend of the road came a man in hermit's dress carrying a staff and a well-filled wallet. His carriage seemed suddenly to become less upright, and he leaned heavily on his stick as he besought an alms from the two travellers.
Hilarius felt for his purse, but Martin stayed him.
"Nay, lad, better have left thy money with the pick-purses than help to fill the skin of this lazy rogue; 'tis not the first time we have met. See here," and with a dexterous jerk he caught the hermit's wallet.
This one was too quick for him; with uplifted staff and a mouthful of oaths, sorely at variance with his habit, he snatched it back, flung the bag across his shoulder, and made off at a round pace down the road, while Martin roared after him to wait an alms laid on with a cudgel.
Hilarius gazed horrified from the retreating figure to his laughing companion, who answered the unspoken question.
"A rascal, lad, yon carrion, and no holy father. They are the pest of every country-side, these lazy rogues, who never do a hand's turn and yet live better than many a squire. I warrant he has good stuff in that larder of his to make merry with."
Hilarius walked on for some time in silence with bent head.
"I fear the world is an ill place and far from godliness," he said at last.
"It will look thus to one cloister-bred, and 'tis true enough that godliness is far from most men; but if a hermit's robe may cover a rascal, often enough a good heart lies under an ill-favoured face and tongue. See, lad," as another turn in the road brought them in sight of Westminster, "there lies thy new world, God keep thee in it!"
He pointed to a grey-walled city rising from the water's edge, with roof and pinnacle, gable and turret, aflame in the light of the western sky; in front flowed the river like a stream of molten gold.
Hilarius gave a little cry.
"'Tis like the New Jerusalem!" he said, and Martin smiled grimly.
An hour later they stood within the walls of Westminster city, and Hilarius, amazed and weary, clung close to Martin's side. Around him he saw russet-clad archers, grooms, men on horseback, pedlars, pages, falconers, scullions with meats, gallant knights, gaily dressed ladies; it was like a tangled dream. The gabled fronts of the houses were richly blazoned or hung with scarlet cloth; it was a shifting scene of colour, life, and movement, and to Hilarius' untutored eyes, wild confusion. Outside the taverns clustered all sorts and conditions of men, drinking, gossiping, singing, for the day's work was done. In the courtyard of the "Black Boar" a chained bear padded restlessly to and fro, and Hilarius crossed himself anxiously - was the devil about to beset him under all guises at once? He raised a fervent Ora pro me to St Benedict as he hurried past. A string of pack-horses in the narrow street sent folk flying for refuge to the low dark doorways, and a buxom wench, seeing the pretty lad, bussed him soundly. This was too much, only the man in him stayed the indignant tears. "Martin, Martin!" he cried; but the minstrel was on his own ground now, and was hailed everywhere with acclamations, and news given and demanded in a breath. Hilarius, shrinking, aghast, his ears scourged with rough oaths and rude jests, his eyes offended by the easy manners round him, his cheek hot from the late salute, took refuge under a low archway, and waited with anxious heart until the minstrel should have done with the crowd.
