was closed by a door of seasoned oak reenforced by wrought iron hinges extending almost across its width.  When this door was fastened the treasures in the gallery were safe from thieves.  A little wall-shrine of carved, painted and gilded wood, on the opposite wall, held a statuette of Saint Eloi, the patron of metal-workers.  In short, the shop, though small, had been made beautiful with the care of one who loved and reverenced his work.

When Dickon halted there at the close of a dusty summer day Gaston was engaged in some work for a knight of Saint John, which must be done that night and needed four hands in place of two.  The armorer was doing it all himself, with the skill of a master-workman, but using much picturesque French language to relieve his mind.

It did not take a minute after Dickon got a hammer in his hand, for Gaston’s frown to change to a broad and satisfied smile.  Here was a helper after his own ideas—­strong, deft, and no talker.  Like many men who love talk for its own sake the master was not fond of chatterboxes.  The job was finished in good and workmanlike fashion, and Gaston, who knew some English, went on talking while he attended to other odd matters and waited for his customer.

“If you want to see the world—­this is your place. . . .  There’s not much that goes along this road that doesn’t come to Gaston of Abbeville some day. . . .  Damaskeening?  You’ll see as much damaskeened work here as you could in Damascus. . . .  Look here, my lad, if you’re in want of work, stay with me till snowfall and see the pilgrims, and the knights, and the bowmen, and the free companions with their plunder, go by to the sea.  Then ye may go on to Damascus if you’re still set on the place, with some hope of not losing your way.”

This seemed to Dickon a rather good idea.  In his brief sojourn in Abbeville he had come to see the difficulty of travel in a land where no one understands your questions.

It was as Gaston said.  People of all races, kinds and conditions traveled the highway that ran past the armorers’ shop.  Once Guy Bouverel, whom Dickon had met once or twice at Wilfrid’s house, gave him surprised and pleased greeting.  A little later came Padraig, the Irish clerk, on his way to Rouen.  Padraig somehow learned about Audrey in the few hours he spent there.

“I thought ’twas more than hammer and tongs that took you out of Sussex,” he said.  “I wish ye luck, but there’s no knowing, Dickon, what they will do when they are seized with this pilgrimage fever.”

“’Tis not the lass, ’tis her lady,” Dickon muttered, his head in his hands.  “And the worst o’t is that I can do nothing but think of her away there among the paynim.  A fine lady’s train has no call for such as me.”

Padraig’s brows lifted in humorous but sympathetic understanding.  “I see,” he said.  “I’ll tell the maid, if I see her, that she’ll find none so well worth her while among Saracens—­or pilgrims either.”