"Better stay with us altogether," he said, shaking his head and looking
away.
Gilbert sat motionless for a few seconds, as if the remark had made no
impression upon him; then, realizing that the words contained some
special meaning, he started slightly and turned his hollow eyes to the
speaker's face.
"And not go to see my mother?" His voice expressed the utmost surprise.
"Not--not at present," answered the abbot, taken off his guard by the
directness of the question.
Weak as he was, Gilbert half rose from his seat, and his thin fingers
nervously grasped his companion's arm. He would have spoken, but a sort
of confusion came over him, as if he could not decide which of many
questions to ask first, and before words could form themselves, the
abbot was speaking to him with gentle authority.
"Listen to me," he said; "sit quietly beside me and hear what I have to
say, for you are a man, now, and it is better that you should know it
all at once, and from me, than get it distorted, in miserable morsels,
from the gossip of the brothers within the next day or two."
He paused a moment, holding the young man's hand soothingly while
keeping him in his seat and making him feel that he must stay there.
"What is it?" asked Gilbert, nervously, with half closed eyes. "Tell me
quickly."
"An evil thing," answered the churchman, "--a sad thing, and one of
those that change men's lives."
Again Gilbert started in his seat, more violently this time than
before, and there was the broken ring of genuine fear in his voice.
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