In the shelves were ranged many printed books and curious manuscripts, in part the plunder of Glastonbury Abbey; and in truth never was typography clearer, or more beautiful than in the first century of its existence; nor on the other hand was caligraphy, as exemplified in ancient missals and breviaries, ever more a work of art than when about to be superseded by the printing press. But Sir John was not thinking of these things, his evil heart was full of bitterness. There is an old Spanish proverb,--“The man who has injured thee, will never forgive thee.” Sir John had injured his brother’s child, deeply, cruelly, and he could not forgive him. He rose from the table and paced the room; his brow was knit; oft times he gnashed his teeth. So we are told that his namesake, king John, would roll on the floor and bite the straw which served in his royal palace as carpet, in his maniacal fits of passion. With his name, a double portion of his spirit had fallen upon the hapless Redfyrne of our tale. The whole of that scene at Exeter was before his mind as he strode to and fro, painted by the vivid pencil of a too faithful memory. At length he rang a bell which stood on the table, and soon Nicholas appeared in the door way. He was now a tall youth; his hair was brighter than ever,--that hair had betrayed him more than once: when he was young, playing truant, he had hidden in a field of long grass, the schoolmaster was abroad, and after him, and by chance, gazing over the field, saw a head, bright as a poppy, peep up and disappear; it was enough, he was caught; thanks to the lively hues with which nature had ornamented him. And the sly expression of his features was not altered; that sharp nose which had once won him the nick-name “Pointer,” gave him as fox-like an expression as ever. The tie between him and Sir John was one of evil, yet Sir John loved him as much as it was in his cold and selfish nature to love any one; he liked him for his very vices, in forming which he had taken no slight share; like those of whom the Apostle writes:-- “Who knowing the judgment of God, that they who do such things are worthy of death, not only do them, but take pleasure in them that do them.” Nicholas was now rather the companion than the page, and on very familiar terms with Sir John. “Didst thou lie awake long last night, Nick?” “I was somewhat restless, sir.” “Didst thou hear aught unusual?” “No,” said Nicholas, after pausing to reflect. “Think again; any loud noise?” “I cannot remember any.” Sir John again paced up and down as if communing with himself. “_Was_ there aught unusual, sir?” “Yes, I distinctly heard a door shut with a loud clang.” “May have been the wind.” “Nay, that would not have startled me; the fact is, the sound was not that of any door about this place; it shut with a clang as of a dungeon door falling into a framework of stone.”