Gilbert opened his eyes at the sound of the abbot's footsteps, and made
a movement as though he would have risen to greet the lordly churchman,
who had so often visited him in his room, and for whom he felt a
natural sympathy, as for a man of his own race and breeding; for
Lambert, Abbot of Sheering, came of the great Norman house of Clare,
which had taken Stephen's side in the Civil War, a fact which did not
prevent the aristocratic abbot from talking with gentle satire and
occasional bitter sarcasm about the emptiness of Stephen's claims.
He laid his hand on Gilbert's sleeve to make him keep his seat, and sat
down beside him on the bench. He waved the monks away, and they retired
to the other end of the cloister, where they all three sat down
together in silence. The abbot, a delicately made man, with high Norman
features, a colourless beard, once fair, and very bright blue eyes,
laid one of his beautiful hands kindly upon Gilbert's.
"You are saved," he said cheerfully. "We have done our part; youth and
sunshine will do the rest; you will grow strong very quickly, now, and
in a week you will be asking for your horse. They found him beside you,
and he has been well cared for."
"Next week, then," said Gilbert, "I will ride over to Stoke and see my
mother. But I think I shall come back and stay with you again--if you
will have me."
Gilbert smiled as he spoke the last words; but the abbot's face was
grave and his brows were drawn together, as though he were in some
trouble.
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