"It has persevered ever since, my son Richard," I said?

He bowed his head.

"There is no savour in anything to me until I go," he answered. "This
morning as I looked from over the wall upon the sacrament, my eyes were
blinded: I saw nothing but the species of bread. I was forced to rest
upon the assent of my faith."

Again I attempted to silence what my soul told me. It was the very power
that Master Richard had taught me to use that was turning against what I
desired. I had not known until then how much I loved this quiet holy lad
with grave eyes--not until I thought I should lose him.

"There is no sin," I said, "that has darkened your eyes?"

I saw him smile sideways at that, and he turned his head a little.

"My sins are neither blacker nor whiter than they have always been," he
said; "you know them all, my father."

"And you wish to leave us?" I cried.

He unclasped his hands and laid one on my knee. I was terrified at its
purity, but his face was turned away, and he said nothing.

I had never heard the wood at that time of the evening so silent as it
was then. It was the time when, as the lax monks say, the birds say
mattins (but the strict observants call it compline), but there was
neither mattins nor compline then in the green wood. It was all in a