"If thou so think, thou art not yet master of that art." "Of what art?" "Waiting." Wilfred's pen pursued its journey for a moment before he added, "Lad, this that I am on is but play and revelry. But the lack thereof--the time passed in awaiting till the lad that enscribeth the text have fresh parchment ready--that is work." Bertram frowned and pursed his lips as if he could not see it. "For forty years, Bertram, all the wisdom of the wisest nation in the world was sometime taught unto a man named Moyses. His work was to lead the chosen folk of God into the land that God should give them. But at the end of that forty years, he was but half learned. So for other forty years, he was sent into a wilderness for to keep sheep." "Why, he were past work then!" "Nay, he was but then ready for it." "And did he lead the folk after all?" "He did so." "And what gave him our Lord for guerdon, when his toil was done?" "Was the work no guerdon?" responded Wilfred thoughtfully. "Well, lad, He gave him--a grave in Moab, far away from home and friends and country, and from His land." "Father, what mean you? That was no guerdon!" "Then thou wist not that jewels be alway covered with stone-crust, ere the cutter polish them?" "Soothly, Father, I can see the stone-crust yonder, but verily mine eyes be too weak to pierce to the gem." "Ah! our eyes be rarely strong enough for that. It taketh God's eyes many times. They say,"--Wilfred went on dreamily, scanning the white clouds which floated across the blue--"they say, the old writers of the Jews, that this man Moyses died by the kiss of God. Methinks that were brave payment for the grave in Moab. And after all, every man of us must have his grave dug some whither. Is it of heavy moment, mewondereth, whether men delve it in the swamps of Somerset or in the Priory at Langley? God shall see the dust as clear in either; and shall know, moreover, to count it His treasure." "Father Wilfred, where wouldst thou fain be buried?" "What matter, lad?" "I know where I would:--in the holy minster at Canterbury, nigh unto the tomb of Edward the Prince, that was so great an hero, and not far from the blessed shrine of Saint Thomas the martyr." "Ah!" said the monk with a sigh, "there is a little church among the hills of Cumberland, that I had chosen rather. But the days of my choosing are over. I would have God choose for me." "But that might be the sea, Father Wilfred, or the traitors' elms [Tyburn.] by London, or the plague dead-pit." "Child! when the Lord cometh with all His saints, there will be no labels on the raised bodies, to note where the dust was found lying." And Wilfred turned back to his desk, and took up his pen. Both were silent for a time; but it was the old monk who resumed the conversation.