The Compline service was over, and the lads, many of whom slept in the abbey, while others lodged in the town, were retiring to their beds, when a lay brother arrested Cuthbert’s progress, and said in a low voice, “The Abbot requires thy presence.” Somewhat startled,--for the summons was an unusual one at that hour, although he often acted in turn with other lads as a page-in-waiting on the Abbot, an office none would then despise,--Cuthbert followed the laic. Threading various passages, they reached the Abbot’s lodgings, and there the messenger knocked and retired, leaving Cuthbert to obey the summons, “_Enter_.” Richard Whiting, the last of that long line of mitred Abbots, sat near the window of his study, which was a plainly furnished room, simple as the personal tastes of the Abbot. He was now but a weak and infirm old man, yet of many good brethren the best;--“small in stature, in figure venerable, in countenance dignified, in manner most modest, in eloquence most sweet, in chastity without stain; not without that austerity of expression which we often notice in the portraits of these great mediæval ecclesiastics.” “My son,” he said, “I have somewhat to say to thee ere perchance I be taken from thee.” “Taken from me, Father?” “Yes, the clouds are gathering thick around our devoted house, and the shelter thou hast long received may fail thee and all others here, ere long.” Cuthbert looked amazed. “Tidings have reached me, my child, that I must be taken to London, there to answer to certain treasons of which they falsely accuse me; the bolt may fall at any moment, and I have to discharge two duties, the first towards thee.” The Abbot took up a little chest from the sideboard. “Thou hast long been _my_ son, and hast not needed thy natural parents, but dost thou not oftentimes wonder who they were?” “They come to me in dreams.” “And as yet _only_ in dreams, my child; perchance thou art an orphan, but in that chest are the few relics of thy poor mother, which we possess; these are the little clothes which swathed thee when thou wast found in Avalon forest--there a ring which encircled thy mother’s finger, and a full description of the circumstances of thy arrival here.” “But what use would they be to me didst thou leave me alone in the world, Father?” “Thou wilt never be alone, God will be ever with thee, He is the Father of the fatherless; should aught happen to drive thee hence, thee and others, take refuge with thy foster-parents until one seek thee, bearing this ring which thou seest on my finger, to him thou mayest safely commit thyself, and the secrets I am about to entrust thee for him.” Here the tapestry moved in the wind, and a knock was heard at the door, which stood ajar; a fact the Abbot had not noticed. To Cuthbert’s surprise there stood Nicholas Grabber. “Quid vis fili?” was the Abbot’s interrogation. “The lay brother Francis said that thou wantedst me.”