“You’ll feel the want of him,” said Cadfael.“So shall we all.”

“He’ll not be far,” said Cynric, and snippedthe dead wick with thumb and finger.

The verger was a man past fifty, but there was no knowing by howmany years, for he himself did not know the exact year of hisbirth, though he knew the day and month. He was dark of hair andeyes, and sallow-skinned, and went in a rusty black gown somewhatfrayed at the hems from long years of wear, and he lived in thetiny upper room over the north porch where Father Adam robed andkept his church furnishings. A taciturn, grave, durable man, builtupon long, strong bones, but very meagre in flesh, as much byreason of the hermit’s forgetfulness as any want of means. Hecame of a country family of free folk, and had a brother somewherenorth of the town with a grown family, and very occasionally atfeast or holiday he visited there, but that happened very rarelynow, his whole life being centred here in the great church and thesmall upper room. So spare, silent and dark a form and face mighthave aroused awe and avoidance, but did not, since what thedarkness and the silence covered was known to all, even themischievous boys of the Foregate, and inspired no fear or revulsionat all. A good man, with his own preferences and peculiarities, andcertainly no talker, but if you needed him, he was there, and likehis master, would not send you away empty.

Those who could not be easy with his mute company at leastrespected him, and those who could included the most innocent and