Harlow to Sheering, had found Gilbert lying in his blood, not ten
minutes after the knight had ridden away. Not knowing who he was, they
had brought him to the abbey, where he was at once recognized by the
monks who had formed the funeral procession on the previous evening,
and by others who had seen him. The brother whose duty it was to tend
the sick, an old soldier with the scars of a dozen deep wounds in him,
and by no means a despicable surgeon, pronounced Gilbert's condition
almost hopeless, and assured the abbot that it would be certain death
to the young Lord of Stoke to send him back to his home. He was
therefore laid upon a new bed in an upper chamber that had fair arched
windows to the west, and there the brothers expected that Gilbert Warde
would before long breathe his last and end his race and name. The abbot
sent a messenger to Stoke Regis to inform the Lady Goda of her son's
condition, and on the following day she came to see him, but he did not
know her, for he was in a fever; and three days passed, and she came
again, but he was asleep, and the nursing brother would not disturb
him. After that she sent messengers to inquire about his state, but she
herself did not come again, whereat the abbot and many of the monks
marvelled for a while, but afterwards they understood.

Gilbert lived, and the desperate wound slowly healed, for he was strong
and young, and his blood was untainted; but when at last he was allowed
to stand upon his feet, he seemed to be little more than a fine-drawn
shadow. They dressed him first in a novice's frock, because it was
easier for him to wear, and at last he was well enough to be carried
down from his room, and to sit for an hour upon the stone bench in the
cloister. One of the brothers sat down beside him and slowly fanned his
face with a stiff sheet of yellow parchment, such as the monks used for
binding their books; the other went away to his work. Gilbert leaned
back and closed his eyes, drinking in the sun-sweetened air and the