“There are a great many things I should like to ask thee,” said Mrs. Crowder, speaking quickly, as if to change the subject of her thoughts; “but I believe I have forgotten most of them.  But here is something I should like to know—­that is,” she said, turning to me, “if thee hasn’t anything in thy mind which thee wishes to ask about?”

I noticed that she pronounced “thy” very distinctly, a little bit of grammatical conscience probably obtruding itself.  Of course, I had nothing to ask, and she put her question:  “What did thee do in the dark ages?”

Crowder laughed.  “That is a big question,” said he, “and the only answer I can give you in a general way is that there were so many things that I was not able to do, or did not dare to do, that I look upon those centuries as the most disagreeable part of my whole life.  But you must not suppose that everybody felt as I did.  A great many of the people by whom I was surrounded at that doleful period appeared to be happier and better satisfied with their circumstances than any I have known before or after.  There was little ambition, less responsibility; and if the poor and weak suffered from the rapacity and violence of the rich and strong, they accepted their misfortunes as if they were something they were bound to expect, such as bad weather.  I am not going to talk history, and there is one thing that your question reminds me of.  During that portion of the middle ages which is designated as dark, I employed myself in a great many different ways:  I was laborer, sailor, teacher, and I cannot tell you what besides; but more frequently than anything else I was a teacher.”

“Thee must have been an angel of light,” Mrs. Crowder remarked.

“No,” said he; “an angel of light would have been very conspicuous in those days.  I didn’t pose for such a part.  In fact, if I had not succeeded in appearing like a partial ignoramus I should have been obliged to go into a monastery, for in those days the monks were the only people who knew anything.  They expected to do all the teaching that was done; but, for all that, a few scholars cropped up now and then, and here and there, who did not care to have monks for masters; and by instructing these in a very modest, quiet way I frequently managed to make a living.”

“I should think,” I said, “that at any time and in any period you would have been a person of importance, with your experience and knowledge of men.”

Mr. Crowder shook his head.  “No,” said he; “not so.  To make myself of importance in that time I must have been a soldier, and the profession of arms, you know, is one I have always avoided.  A man who cannot be killed should take care that he be not wounded.”

“I am so glad that thee did take care,” ejaculated Mrs. Crowder; “but even I cannot see how thee kept out of fighting in those disorderly times.”

“I did not keep out of it altogether, but in every possible way I tried to do so, and for the most part succeeded.  Whenever I was likely to be involved in military operations, I let my hair and beard grow, and the white-haired old man was usually exempted.  I have had far more experience in keeping out of battles than any other human being has had in the art of winning them.  But what you two want is a story, and I will give you one.