He entered that old monastic town by moonlight, ere the curfew rang; he felt strangely moved by all that had happened, yet he could but be sensible of great relief that such a danger was averted, much as he now pitied his late foe. He passed the butts where he had once contended with Nicholas for the silver arrow, and entered the town; every street and almost every house awakened a flood of boyish recollections; but he turned not aside, until he reached the outskirts on the opposite side of the place, where his old foster father and mother yet, as he knew, _lived_, in a new cottage on the site of the former one, destroyed by fire. Yes, there stood the new house; built after the pattern of the old one, and Cuthbert tied up his horse and knocked at the door with beating heart. “Come in,” says a dear familiar voice; he enters, is recognized. Yes, they are both there; the old man stands amazed, but the poor old lady throws her arms around him crying out “My boy, my boy.” During all these long years they had but once or twice heard of him, until the messenger, of whom we have spoken, reached them from Sir Robert Tremayne; they could not read, and if they could, it would have been dangerous for Cuthbert to have written to them; they knew nought of his recent dangers, of the trial at Exeter; let my readers then imagine how much Cuthbert had to tell. And when hunger was appeased, he began his long story, and they listened with deep interest to the narrative of his recent captivity and marvellous escape; but when he told them of the fate of Nicholas, and how he lay dead in the woods, they seemed awe-struck. They had not seen Sir John Redfyrne, and knew not if he was in the neighbourhood. “The ways of God are beyond our thoughts,” said the old man, “but He is manifestly on thy side, my boy, so fear not, all will be well.” Then some words he had often sung in choir, came into Cuthbert’s mind; I shall give them as he once sang them-- “Nisi quia Dominus erat in nobis, dicat nunc Israel: nisi quia Dominus erat in nobis; Cum exsurgerent homines in nos: forte vivos deglutissent nos.”[51] But it was drawing near midnight, and Cuthbert told them he had to meet Father Ambrose at that hour in the ruins of the Abbey. “God preserve us,” said the old people together, “O mihi beate Martine;[52] men do say they are haunted.” “Though as many ghosts were there as stones in the ruined pile, thither must I go.” “Thou wilt see us once more, dear boy?” “If possible; I will knock at the door when our work is done--that is if permitted to tarry; but of one thing be assured, that while I live my heart will ever beat true to its first love--the love of my foster parents.” They embraced in silence amidst tears. “The saints preserve him,” said the aged couple. They did not retire to bed that night, it would have been a mere mockery of rest; they sat up and watched. FOOTNOTES