It was now, some hours since they had lain down in the draughty shelter. The supper provided by the monks had been adequate, but hardly what you would call tasty. Still, over the past weeks, the boy had become accustomed to going to bed on an empty stomach, so to have it filled – even with watery, bland soup without the savour of salt, and a big hunk of rough bread – was better than usual. No, he reflected, turning on his side and edging further away from the old man. No, I have no complaints on that score. But how he wished the snoring, rasping breaths would stop and let him get some sleep! Flinging himself on to his back, he wondered idly – not for the first time – if it would be a kindness to hold a folded cloth over the old fellow’s face and put him out of his misery. Raising himself up on one elbow, he stared down at his master. In the light of the one dull lamp illuminating the sleeping area, the face showed up deathly pale and glistening with sweat. As the boy watched, another brief coughing fit rattled the old man’s thin frame.
