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 clerky 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 a while, 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.
Yea, and how? quoth Walter.
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