The children gasped, for it fairly leaped from the page.

As he worked, and the rain fell on the tiles, he talked—­now clearly, now muttering, now breaking off to frown or smile at his work.  He told them he was born at Little Lindens Farm, and his father used to beat him for drawing things instead of doing things, till an old priest called Father Roger, who drew illuminated letters in rich people’s books, coaxed the parents to let him take the boy as a sort of painter’s apprentice.  Then he went with Father Roger to Oxford, where he cleaned plates and carried cloaks and shoes for the scholars of a College called Merton.

‘Didn’t you hate that?’ said Dan after a great many other questions.

’I never thought on’t.  Half Oxford was building new colleges or beautifying the old, and she had called to her aid the master-craftsmen of all Christendie—­kings in their trade and honoured of Kings.  I knew them.  I worked for them:  that was enough.  No wonder——­’ He stopped and laughed.

‘You became a great man, Hal,’ said Puck.

‘They said so, Robin.  Even Bramante said so.’

‘Why?  What did you do?’ Dan asked.

The artist looked at him queerly.  ’Things in stone and such, up and down England.  You would not have heard of ’em.  To come nearer home, I rebuilded this little St Barnabas’ church of ours.  It cost me more trouble and sorrow than aught I’ve touched in my life.  But ’twas a sound lesson.’

‘Um,’ said Dan.  ‘We’ve had lessons this morning.’

‘I’ll not afflict ye, lad,’ said Hal, while Puck roared.  ’Only ’tis strange to think how that little church was rebuilt, re-roofed, and made glorious, thanks to some few godly Sussex iron-masters, a Bristow sailor lad, a proud ass called Hal o’ the Draft because, d’you see, he was always drawing and drafting; and’—­he dragged the words slowly—­’and a Scotch pirate.’

‘Pirate?’ said Dan.  He wriggled like a hooked fish.

‘Even that Andrew Barton you were singing of on the stair just now.’  He dipped again in the ink-well, and held his breath over a sweeping line, as though he had forgotten everything else.

‘Pirates don’t build churches, do they?’ said Dan.  ‘Or do they?’

‘They help mightily,’ Hal laughed.  ’But you were at your lessons this morn, Jack Scholar.’

’Oh, pirates aren’t lessons.  It was only Bruce and his silly old spider,’ said Una.  ‘Why did Sir Andrew Barton help you?’

‘I question if he ever knew it,’ said Hal, twinkling.  ‘Robin, how a’ mischief’s name am I to tell these innocents what comes of sinful pride?’

‘Oh, we know all about that,’ said Una pertly.  ’If you get too beany—­that’s cheeky—­you get sat upon, of course.’

Hal considered a moment, pen in air, and Puck said some long words.