Not long after sunrise on the morrow, Deodatus was allowed to enter.
This man, whose age was something more than thirty, was the son of a
serf on Basil's land, and being of very peaceful disposition, had
with some reluctance answered the summons to arm himself and follow
his lord to the wars. Life in the monastery thoroughly suited his
temper; when Basil encouraged him to talk, he gave a delighted
account of the way in which his days were spent; spoke with simple
joy of the many religious services he attended, and had no words in
which to express his devotion to the abbot.
'Why, Deodatus,' exclaimed his master, smiling, 'you lack but the
cowl to be a very monk.'
'My duty is to my lord,' answered the man, bending his head.
'Tell me now whether any news has reached you, in all this time, of
those from whom my sickness parted us.'
But Deodatus had heard nothing of his fellows, and nothing of
Venantius.
'It may be,' said Basil, 'that I shall send you to tell them how I
fare, and to bring back tidings. Your horse is at hand?'
As he spoke he detected a sadness on the man's countenance.
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