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Updated: June 7, 2025
"Now we'll leave that for a bit and begin a Latin lesson." Alfred sighed and looked longingly at the faint initial letter. But his interest was taken up directly, for Swythe took up one of his quill pens, examined it, and then, after giving the ink a stir, dipped in his pen and tried it.
"Father Swythe must have told her what I said," thought Alfred, and in another minute he was asleep. The next morning after breakfast the boy did not feel half so brave, and he was thinking of how he could get away to the monk's quiet cell-like room without his brothers seeing him; but he was spared from all trouble in that way, for the monk came up to him smiling.
"Because because because oh, don't ask me!" cried the boy passionately. Swythe fixed his eyes gently and kindly upon the boy, and left off grinding. "Tell me why, Fred, my son," he said softly. "Because of what Bald said and what you said; and then I went in and saw my mother, and she is so unhappy; and and "
I want father to live till I am quite an old man." "I hope he will!" said Swythe, smiling, and nodding his head pleasantly, as the boy hurriedly turned the conversation by asking: "What are you doing there?" "Making some fresh ink, my boy," was the reply. "Ink? How?" "Hah!" cried the monk, chuckling pleasantly; "now the vessel is opened and eager for the knowledge to be poured in.
"I'm going to speak to your brothers, Fred," he said. "I told the Queen that you had promised to try very hard, and she said she was very glad, but she would be so much happier if your brothers came too; so I am going to ask them to come. Do you know where they are?" "Out in the broad courtyard," said Alfred quickly; but Father Swythe shook his head.
"I hate it; but you know what the Danes have done to so many of your holy house killing, burning, and carrying off everything that is good." The monk screwed up his face, shook his head, and sighed, while the rosy little man looked so droll that the King smiled. "Look here, Swythe," he said, "suppose a horde of the savage wretches came up here to plunder my pleasant home, what would you do?"
"Oh, Father Swythe," cried Alfred, clapping his hands, "you are clever! It's beautiful!" "You like it, then, my boy?" said the old man gravely. "You shall soon be able to do that with your light fingers." The boy looked down at his hands and then took up the pen the monk had laid down, dipped it in the ink, and tried to make a letter.
He glanced sidewise at Father Swythe and saw that his eyes glimmered in a peculiar way as if water was rising in them. Directly afterwards his heart felt a little sore, and a sense of shame began to trouble him, for there was no mistake: Father Swythe's eyes were wet and his voice sounded hoarse and strange as he said sadly: "You would not send me away, Ethelbald?
"But do you know, Father Swythe," he continued, as he held his head on one side and looked critically at the staring white letter with its beautiful ornamentation, "I think if I could paint and painted that letter I shouldn't have left it all white like that." "What would you have done, then?" "I should have painted it deep yellow like a buttercup a good sunny yellow, to look like gold."
"But you have put no grapes," cried Alfred. "Give me time," said Swythe good-humouredly, and directly after he faintly sketched in a bunch of grapes, broad at the top and growing narrower till it ended in one grape alone. "Oh, I wish I could do that!" cried Alfred eagerly. "But I could never do it so well!" "I'm going to persevere till I make you do it better," said Swythe.
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