Taking the boy by the arm he made swift way across the grass, out of the moonlight, into cover of an adjoining wood. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER XXIII ABBOT HILARY ABBOT HILARY came riding through Thorn Wood when the morning was yet young. Matters ecclesiastic having taken him from Dieuporte three days previously, he was now returning to it. Going leisurely enough, conning his breviary as he rode, he found time to sniff the good morning air, mark the chequered lights and shadows on the moss and on the tree trunks. A portly man this Abbot, shrewd-eyed and kindly. Big-voiced, you heard his tones quaking an’ they thundered forth reproof: solemn in absolution, you heard them like a deep-toned bell guiding you to harbourage from storm. With a heart as big as his voice, he loved mankind hugely; found excuse for the sinner even while he denounced the sin. His brain, alert within his massive head, was quick to detect lying and fraud. This he hated very deeply, as generous men hate such dealings. He loved the open air and God’s sunshine, his mind as healthy as his robust body. Riding now leisurely enough, muttering Latin psalm the while he rode, his eye roving now and again from the open page of his breviary to the dappled sunlight around him, he checked his horse on a sudden, bringing the Latin phrase on his tongue to a like halt. At the foot of a tree he saw a white-faced boy stretched upon the ground. His attitude showed exhaustion; the whiteness of his face faintness possibly akin to death. Abbot Hilary was off his horse in a trice, despite the somewhat unwieldiness of his size. Hitching the bridle to a crooked branch of a tree he made over to the boy, came down on his knees beside him. Slipping his fingers beneath the doublet he satisfied himself that life was not extinct, and thereupon fell to chafing the child’s hands. A crackling in the bushes behind him stayed this business for a moment, brought his head round to see who was approaching. From out the trees came a tall man garbed in motley, bearing a broad leaf carefully in his hands. On seeing the figure by the boy, Peregrine came quickly forward. Heeding the bearing of the leaf less well the water it contained trickled from it to the ground. “Let the child be!” cried Peregrine very sternly. The Abbot got to his feet, faced him, a big man astounded. “Truly,” he said on a tone conciliatory, “I meant the boy no ill. Seeing him lying there fainting and alone, I but sought to restore him to consciousness.” “I crave your pardon,” said Peregrine quickly, very apologetic, “I thought ’twas another knelt beside him: one with whose company we may very well dispense.” He looked now ruefully at his leaf. “And like a fool I’ve spilled the water,” he remarked.