full of light.

"Faith, Hope, Charity," he answered, and then, as his head drooped with
a sudden look of hopelessness, he turned away with slow steps toward
the great gate.

Gilbert did not change his position as he looked after him rather
sadly. The man's perfect simplicity, his eagerness for the most lofty
ideals, the spotless purity of his life, commanded Gilbert's most true
admiration. And yet to the Norman, Arnold of Brescia was but a dreamer,
a visionary, and a madman. Gilbert could listen to him for a while, but
then the terrible tension of the friar's thought and speech wearied
him. Just now he was almost glad that his companion should depart so
suddenly; but as he watched him he saw him stop, as if he had forgotten
something, and then turn back, searching for some object in the bosom
of his frock.

"I had forgotten what brought me here," said the friar, producing a
small roll of parchment tied and bound together with thin leathern
laces, and tied again with a string of scarlet silk to which was
fastened a heavy leaden seal. "I have here a letter for you."

"A letter!" Gilbert showed a not unnatural surprise. He had never
received a letter in his life, and in those days persons of ordinary
importance rarely sent or received messages except by word of mouth.

"I went to your lodging," replied the monk, handing Gilbert the
parchment. "I guessed that I might find you here, where we have met
before."