“What! art thou here?” asked Hereward, suspiciously, and half cross at seeing any visitor from the old world which he had just cast off. “How gottest thou out of St. Peter’s last night?” Martin’s tongue was hanging out of his mouth like a running hound’s, but he seemed, like a hound, to perspire through his mouth, for he answered without the least sign of distress, without even pulling in his tongue,-- “Over the wall, the moment the Prior’s back was turned. I was not going to wait till I was chained up in some rat’s-hole with a half-hundred of iron on my leg, and flogged till I confessed that I was what I am not,--a runaway monk.” “And why art here?” “Because I am going with you.” “Going with me?” said Hereward; “what can I do for thee?” “I can do for you,” said Martin. “What?” “Groom your horse, wash your shirt, clean your weapons, find your inn, fight your enemies, cheat your friends,--anything and everything. You are going to see the world. I am going with you.” “Thou canst be my servant? A right slippery one, I expect,” said Hereward, looking down on him with some suspicion. “Some are not the rogues they seem. I can keep my secrets and yours too.” “Before I can trust thee with my secrets, I shall expect to know some of thine,” said Hereward. Martin Lightfoot looked up with a cunning smile. “A servant can always know his master’s secrets if he likes. But that is no reason a master should know his servant’s.” “Thou shalt tell me thine, man, or I shall ride off and leave thee.” “Not so easy, my lord. Where that heavy horse can go, Martin Lightfoot can follow. But I will tell you one secret, which I never told to living man. I can read and write like any clerk.” “Thou read and write?”