them in beholding all that there was of rare and goodly, and making
merry with the merchants and the towns-folk, and the country-folk
beyond the gates, and Walter was grown as busy and gay as a strong
young man is like to be, and was as one who would fain be of some
account amongst his own folk.

But at the end of this while, it befell on a day, as he was leaving
his hostel for his booth in the market, and had the door in his
hand, there stood before him three mariners in the guise of his own
country, and with them was one of clerkly aspect, whom he knew at
once for his father's scrivener, Arnold Penstrong by name; and when
Walter saw him his heart failed him and he cried out: "Arnold, what
tidings? Is all well with the folk at Langton?"

Said Arnold: "Evil tidings are come with me; matters are ill with
thy folk; for I may not hide that thy father, Bartholomew Golden, is
dead, God rest his soul."

At that word it was to Walter as if all that trouble which but now
had sat so light upon him, was once again fresh and heavy, and that
his past life of the last few months had never been; and it was to
him as if he saw his father lying dead on his bed, and heard the
folk lamenting about the house. He held his peace awhile, and then
he said in a voice as of an angry man:

"What, Arnold! and did he die in his bed, or how? for he was neither
old nor ailing when we parted."

Said Arnold: "Yea, in his bed he died: but first he was somewhat
sword-bitten."