Dickon gnawed ravenously upon the smoky and half-cooked piece of tough meat he had cut from the ham of the boar, and watched the sweet spectacle of his friend restored to life, in an abstraction of dumb joy. Andreas lifted his hand in air, and uttered an exclamation of surprise. "It is Christmas eve!" he said. "I had forgotten!" "So said the friar," Dickon mumbled between mouthfuls, tearing at the food meanwhile with his teeth. "He was in two minds about having me flogged, but for that. The monks have a fear of the king, they say, and on the days he marks for them durst not break bread for themselves. Thus this friar must needs fast to-day--so he said. How could the king know, if he slipped in some food while-times? He hath not been in these parts this many years." "It is not the king, Dickon," answered Andreas. "A greater than any king ordereth these matters." "Aye, the lord of Warwick," said Dickon. "My father rode with him, in far countries, when he was lusty. But the king slew him years agone, in a battle by London town. Wist you not that?" "Tut, tut," the lad in ragged velvet made reply, smiling at first, and then more gravely. "Your Warwick is dust and bones, as every man shall be, the king not less than the meanest knave. But God does not die, and He ruleth all things." "Sir Watty swore ever by Him," said Dickon. "But He hath not once set foot in Shropshire, in my time." Andreas lifted himself at this, with eyes marvelling at such ignorance. "Oh, Dickon lad, thou hast the very mother's milk of learning to find thy way to," he cried, and crossed his knees by the ruddy blaze, tailor-fashion, to begin. The story that he told to Dickon was such a one as never Christian child in these times needs to hear, but rather draws in from every source, unconsciously, like speech and the shapings of thought. But to Dickon it was brand new, since at Egswith no godly man had ever shown his face. He listened to it all with open mouth and brain. As for Andreas, he grew presently conscious of fatigue, and lay back upon his couch of leaves as his narrative unfolded. Then, the instant spur of food and warmth becoming spent, his voice grew fainter, and in the returning weakness his thoughts wandered from the thread of the sublime story to tender memories of how it had been illumined and decked out in his old German home. "Ach, lieber Tannenbaum!" he murmured, with the firelight in his dreamy eyes. "It was a sight to live for, Dickon--the beautiful fir tree before you, with burning candles fastened in among the branches, and Christmas gifts hanging underneath,--every little minute something new you found,--and father, mother, brothers, sisters, all in the happy ring around the tree, with joyful songs and good wishes--woe! woe! I shall never see it again!" "That thou shalt, and hundreds of them," said Dickon, cheerily. But Andreas shook his head in sadness, and gazed into the crackling blaze as though it were a tomb.