Petrus Peregrinus had arrived at the two syllables “dear God” in the rush of these words, when, moving very slowly, the door began creaking a little and swinging inwards. By lolling his black head an inch to the left of the Friar’s grey shoulder he was able to envisage the appearance of a large metal tray, the rim of which, directed by the hands that held it, was itself propelling the massive weight of that huge oblong of impenetrable wood.
It was as impossible for the troubled apprehension of Roger Bacon to miss this gesture of his formidable visitor as it was for him, the second he observed it, to restrain his cry: “But, Miles, Miles! what we need now—”
Nobody will ever know for a certainty just what was in the Friar’s mind at that moment; although it would be easy to imagine several things. But what happened was that the Friar at that particular moment lost consciousness. Whether he fell, chair and all, to the floor and was lifted up by both men after the tray had been deposited on the table, or whether he had himself, after losing all consciousness of what he was doing, stumbled across the room to his bed and laid himself down on it, must be left as a blank lacuna in any narration of these events, until either Petrus or Miles chooses to reveal what each of them must have retained very clearly in his memory.
What we do know from the consciousness of the Friar himself is that when he awoke from his trance, or whatever may be the correct name for the overwhelming mental oblivion that descended upon him, he found himself lying on his bed with the devoted Miles kneeling beside him and watching his awakening with the most intense and concentrated attention.
“Is he gone?” was the Friar’s first question.
“Yes, dear Master,” replied Miles. “He’s gone.”
“Do you know where he’s gone?”
“I think, great Master, he’s gone to the Fortress.”
“Do they expect him there?”
“It is my impression, O most Admirable of all Teachers,” responded Miles, “that they have been expecting him for some time.”
“How did they know he was here?”
“From what I could make out from him as we went along,” replied Miles, rising from his knees and standing, grave and upright, like a majestic Roman statue at the foot of the Friar’s bed, “but you know, great master, what he is, and what dung-hill talk he uses and how little he cares whether the person he’s talking to understands one jot of what he’s saying! I don’t take to him, master, and that’s the bone truth! He’s a scholar right enough. I don’t quarrel with his learning. Thee be a man of learning, thee wone self, and I admire ‘ee and look up to ‘ee for’t, like as thee were a kind of God in ‘eaven and no nonsense!
“But this bob-by-night, and I don’t care who hears me say so, be the sort of Mumbo-Jumbo — Prick-and-Thumbo what they do tell I be found in them girt Fairs in London and Paris and Consinotabel, such as travelling pipshaws do visit in their carry-otteries by day and by night.
“But the man be a man of Latin and Greek, us must allow ‘im that much, for all it be worth to ‘in, but when I do think of thee, master of mine, and how thy girt wisdom do go along with a girt heart, and how ye do give scoops and bowls o’t, yea! basinsfull o’t, to all and sundry as comes to beg for a crumb of real learning, it do make my gorge to ‘eave up. Thee do use thee’s girt learning to give us more pottage in all our porringers; but this man thinks only of inventing magnets to draw the gold from other men’s treasure-chests into his own. There! If I’ve not gone and done the one thing I didn’t ought to ‘a done — made ‘ee, O master my dear, dead-tired by listening to I!”
At this pathetic self-accusation the Friar quickly opened his eyes.
“No, no!” he cried, “you’ve put new life into me, Miles old friend, by giving me your real and actual feeling about Petrus Peregrinus. But you were beginning to tell me why you thought they were expecting him at the Fortress.”
At this the majestic Roman physiognomy of Miles dissolved into the love-ravaged confusion of a guilty hero-worshipper, and with a convulsive sob he sank on his knees.
“He ate and he drank,” were the words that that crumpled visage now moaned into the edge of the prisoner’s coverlet, “everything I’d brought for both of ye! And then, when he was satisfied, he just went off. He glanced at you before he went and kept muttering to himself without taking any notice of me, “O he’ll come to life in a minute or two! come to life in a minute or two! He’ll come to life in a minute or two!” And off the man went. But I do think I picked up from his randy chat, while I was pegging along by his side and carrying his bundles, that he had been told of your Brazen Head having been taken into the Fortress and put into the armoury; and I think myself, master, that it was with the idea of visiting your Brazen Head that he wanted to get in touch with the lord of the Fortress. At any rate we met young John, and John must have told them to expect him.”
The tone in which Miles uttered this last sentence contained, in its military resonance, a finality which conveyed such an utter removal of all responsibility for what was happening from the recipients of the news it brought, that Roger Bacon, only just hoisted up from the heavenly tide of oblivious sleep, turned over on his bed and closed his eyes.
XVI THE LODESTONE
Petrus Peregrinus had found no difficulty, when once he had descended the stairs, in persuading, by the offer of a sufficient bribe, one of the pleasant-speaking boys from the Prior’s kitchen to lead him to the Fortress. Once inside the Fortress he had no difficulty on that particular evening in obtaining a leisurely and agreeable interview with the Lord of the Manor of Roque.
The Baron’s curiosity in relation to this singular intruder was lively from the first moment he heard the rumours about him, but as soon as he met him face to face on this night of the man’s departure from the Priory, he felt it was imperative that he should have him to himself in private for at least a quarter of an hour.
No! He couldn’t deal with the fellow in the presence of the family. For here was his forever indignant, forever outraged, forever grievanced Lady Val, whom he always thought of in his own mind as “Valentia the Irreconcilable”, and here was his excitable daughter Lil-Umbra, and here was his anxious, concentrated, architectural-minded elder son Tilton, and finally here was the adventurous young John, who of late had become such a fierce champion of Friar Bacon that he had rendered himself as fully liable to ecclesiastical censure as was the Friar’s older friend Raymond, whom Lady Val had already accepted as Lil-Umbra’s betrothed.
Here they were, all the lot of them, gathered together in high spirits after a lively evening meal, and simply waiting for some event of an exciting nature to occur. What could he do to get the fellow entirely to himself for a while? He looked first at one of them and then at another, as they all stood round him while the young man from the Priory, having ushered Master Peter into their presence, made a little speech, as dignified as it was natural, emphasizing the fact that the fame of the Brazen Head, possessed of the power of speaking and perhaps even of the power of thinking was what no doubt had brought this notable visitor.
At last the Lord of the Manor of Roque got an inspiration. And it was Lil-Umbra who gave it to him. The others had already begun to talk among themselves when she spoke up boldly and clearly, addressing her father.