One of the
friars carried a brown leathern cushion, the other a piece of stiff
parchment for a fan, and when they reached the first stone seat, they
installed the sick man as comfortably as they could.
Three travelling monks, tramping homeward by the short forest path from
Harlow to Sheering, had found Gilbert lying in his blood, not ten
minutes after the knight had ridden away. Not knowing who he was, they
had brought him to the abbey, where he was at once recognized by the
monks who had formed the funeral procession on the previous evening,
and by others who had seen him. The brother whose duty it was to tend
the sick, an old soldier with the scars of a dozen deep wounds in him,
and by no means a despicable surgeon, pronounced Gilbert's condition
almost hopeless, and assured the abbot that it would be certain death
to the young Lord of Stoke to send him back to his home. He was
therefore laid upon a new bed in an upper chamber that had fair arched
windows to the west, and there the brothers expected that Gilbert Warde
would before long breathe his last and end his race and name. The abbot
sent a messenger to Stoke Regis to inform the Lady Goda of her son's
condition, and on the following day she came to see him, but he did not
know her, for he was in a fever; and three days passed, and she came
again, but he was asleep, and the nursing brother would not disturb
him. After that she sent messengers to inquire about his state, but she
herself did not come again, whereat the abbot and many of the monks
marvelled for a while, but afterwards they understood.
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