Before the table stood an aged and venerable man, in the gray clothing of the Franciscans, sweet in face, pleasant in manner, dignified in hearing, in reputation without a stain, in learning unsurpa.s.sed.

Martin bowed reverently before him, and gave him the chaplain's letter.

"I had heard of thy arrival, my son. I trust thou hast found comfortable lodgings at the hostel I recommended?"

"I have slept well, my father."

"And hast not forgotten thy duty to G.o.d?"

"I should do discredit to my teacher at Kenilworth if I did. I have been to the abbey church."

"He is a man of G.o.d, and I doubt not thou art worthy of his love, for he writes of thee as a father might of a much-loved son. But now, my son, we must break our fast. Come to the refectorium with me."

Pa.s.sing into the cloister they came to the dining hall or "refectorium." Three long tables, a fourth where the elders and professors sat, on a raised platform at right angles to the others.

A hundred men and boys had already a.s.sembled, and after a Latin grace, breakfast began. It was not a fast day, so the fare was substantial, although quite plain--porridge, pease soup, bread, meat, cheese, and ale. The most sober youth of the university were there, men who meant eventually to a.s.sume the gray habit, and carry the Gospel over wilderness and forest, in the slums of towns, or amongst the heathen, counting peril as nought. There was no buzz of conversation, only from a stone pulpit the reader read a chapter from the Gospels.

After this was done, grace after meat was said, and the elders first departed, the great master taking Martin back with him into his cell.

"And now, my son, what dost thou come to Oxford for?"

"To learn that I may afterwards teach."

"And what dost thou desire to become?"

"One of your holy brotherhood, a brother of Saint Francis."

"Dost thou know what that means, my son? Scanty clothing, hard fare, the absence of all that men most value, the welcoming of perils and hardships as thy daily companions, that thou mayst take thy life in thy hand, and find the sheep of Christ amongst the wolves."

"All this I have been told."

"Well, my son, thou art yet new to the world. At Oxford thou will see it, and will make thy choice better when thou knowest both what thou rejectest and what thou seekest. Meanwhile, guard thy youthful steps; avoid quarrelling, fighting, drinking, dicing; mortify thine own flesh--"

"Do these temptations await me in Oxford?"

"The air has been full of them, since Henry brought the thousand students from the gay university of Paris. .h.i.ther. Thou wilt soon see, and gauge thy power of resisting temptation. I would not say, stay indoors. The virtue which has never been tested is nought."

"Where do the brethren chiefly work for G.o.d?"

"In the noisome lazar houses, amongst the lepers, in the shambles of Newgate, here on the swamps between the walls and the Thames, where men live and suffer. We do not enter the brotherhood to build grand buildings. We sleep on bare pallets without pillows."

"Why without pillows?" asked Martin, wondering.

"We need no little mountains to lift our heads to heaven. None but the sick go shod."

"Is it not dangerous to health to go without shoes in the winter?"

"G.o.d protects us," said the master, smiling sweetly. "One of our friars found a pair of shoes last winter on a frosty morning, and wore them to matins. At night he had a dream. He dreamt that he was travelling on the work of G.o.d, and that at a dangerous pa.s.s in the forest of the Cotswolds, robbers leapt out upon him, crying, 'Kill, kill.'

"'I am a friar,' he shrieked.

"'You lie,' they replied, 'for you go shod.'

"He awoke and threw the shoes out of the window."

"And did he catch cold afterwards?"

Another smile.

"No, my son, all these things go by habit."

"Shall I begin to leave off my shoes?"

"Not yet, your vocation is not settled. You may yet choose the world."

"I never shall."

"Poor boy, you are young and cannot tell. Perhaps before nightfall a different light may be thrown upon your good resolutions."

A pause ensued. At length Martin went on, "At least you have books.

I love books."

"At first we had not even them, but later on the Holy Father thought that those who contend with the unbelieving learned should be learned themselves. They who pour forth must suck in."

"When did the Order come to Oxford?"

"Thirty years agone. When we first landed at Dover we made our way to London, the home of commerce, and Oxford, the home of learning.

The two first gray brethren lost their way in the woods of Nuneham, on their road to the city, and afraid of the floods, which were out, and of the dark night, which made it difficult to avoid the water, took refuge in a grange, which belonged to the Abbey of Abingdon, where dwelt a small branch of the great Benedictine Brotherhood. Their clothes were ragged and torn with thorns, and they only spoke broken English, so the monks took them for the travelling jugglers of the day, and welcomed them with great hospitality. But after supper they all a.s.sembled in the common room, and bade the supposed jugglers show their craft.

"'We be not jugglers, we be poor brethren of our Lord and Saint Francis.'

"Now the monks were very jealous of the new Order, so unlike themselves, in its renunciation of ease and luxury, and in very spite they called them knaves and impostors, and kicked them out of doors."

"What did they do?"

"They slept under a tree, and the angels comforted them. The next day they got to Oxford and began their work. The plague had been raging in the poorer quarters of the city, and they brought the joy of the Gospel to those miserable people. At length their numbers increased, and they built this house wherein we dwell."

In such conversation as this Martin pa.s.sed a happy hour, then went to the first lecture he attended, in the schools attached to the friary, where the great works of Augustine and Aquinas formed the text books; no Creek as yet. He pa.s.sed from Latin to Logic, as the handmaid of theology. The great thinker Aristotle supplied the method, not the language or matter, and became the ally of Christianity, under the rendering of a learned brother.

Then followed the noontide meal, a stroll with some younger companions of his own age, to whom he had been specially introduced, which led them so far afield that they only returned in time for the vesper service, at the friary.

After the service Martin should have returned to his lodgings at once, but, tempted by the novelty of all he saw about him, he lingered in the streets, and saw cause to alter his opinion of the extreme propriety of the students. Some of them were playing at pitch and toss in the thievish corners. At least half a dozen pairs of antagonists were settling their quarrels with their fists or with quarterstaves, in various secluded nooks. Songs, gay rather than grave, not to say a trifle licentious, resounded; while once or twice he was asked: "Are you North or South?"--a query to which he hardly knew how to reply, Kenilworth being north and Suss.e.x south of Oxford.

But the penalty of not answering was a rude jostling, which tried his temper sadly, and awoke the old Adam within him, which our readers remember only slumbered. He looked through the open door of a tavern. It was full of the young reprobates, and the noise and turmoil was deafening.

As he stood by the door, three or four grave-looking men came along.

"We must get them all home, or there will be bloodshed tonight,"

Martin heard one say.