Wilfred smiled and sighed as he answered: “As thou speakest so do most think. In truth, I misdoubt if there are not priests even of thy way of thinking. Few are they south of the Humber who can translate their daily prayers into English. Yet once in all Gaul could not be found the learning of our land. Alack! that Bede, Alucin, and Aldhelm were not now alive. Yet, perchance, it is better so. Mayhap they would not have flourished had they lived at this time. Dark, dark is the outlook.” He relapsed into a moody silence. Egwina timidly approached him. “I meant not to offend thee, good Wilfred,” she spake, gently. “Nay, little one; thou hast not offended me. I thought not of thy words, but only of the decay of that learning for which we were once so famed.” “Dost thou think so much of learning?” inquired she. “Prithee show me the book, that I may see what it is that so charms thee.” She took the book, and looked at it intently before handing it back to him. “I see naught in it,” she remarked, with a sigh; “that would hold me for hours as it doth thee. What is its spell? It sings not, neither does it speak, nor is it illuminated.” “But it does speak, Egwina. Listen, and thou shalt hear something that it says: ‘Go now, ye brave! where the lofty way of a great example leads you. Why should you, inert, uncover your backs? The earth, when conquered, gives us the stars.’” “Does it truly say that?” cried Egwina, in delight. “Show me, Wilfred.” Wilfred placed his finger on the page, and said: “Art sure that thou understandest, little one?” The girl nodded her head sagely. “I cannot just tell it,” she said; “but it is like this: should the king do some noble thing his example would incite others to follow where he would lead.” “True, maiden. Thou hast given the thought in mine own mind. Bright art thou, and methinks would prove an apt pupil. Wouldst like for me to teach thee to read, Egwina?” “Dost think that I could learn, Wilfred?” “Of a surety. Long years had passed over my head ere I knew. Methinks that it was in my twelfth year that my mother called her children to her, and, showing a pretty book brightly illuminated, said: ‘Sons, that one of you who first learns to read in this book, he shall possess it.’ ‘Shall he really have it for his own, mother?’ I said. ‘For his very own,’ she answered, well pleased at the question. My brothers cared not for it, so full were they of the chase and sports, but I learned the verses contained therein, and she gave it me.” “Is this it?” asked Egwina, with interest. “Nay; it is at—” Wilfred checked himself, and then resumed. “So thou seest that thou canst learn if a dullard such as I could. Thou hast an apter mind than I. But thou must not care if it prove tedious?” “I will not care, and I will learn,” said Egwina, with determination. “It may be that I shall then know many things of which now I do not dream.”