Sentence The Threehundredandfortieth
Brother Bede caught the expression on Tavish's face and glanced up at the gargoyle, incorporated in the ceiling of the room: “a bit of a Golem,” he said, “but it's a fair likeness of the first Almoner I worked with, Brother Fergal – oh, a strange man, I can't say I especially liked him, but the Life throws disparate men together and we can't expect all to be cut from the same cloth, even if we all embrace the Word of The Lord and Saint Bernard's Instruction,” and Tavish felt impelled to ask: “what kind of a man was he, Brother Bede?” the old man snorted: “a wordmonger, he could weave a web, almost a calligram in speech just like one on paper, but I wouldn't want to say anything injurious to the reputation of a man in Holy Orders, you understand, so?” and Tavish nodded, then asked: “who carved it?” and Brother Bede's face broke into a beam, “ah, it was John Morow hissel, have you heard of him? he was a fine master mason, such a man as could fashion stone like it was wood and I tell you this – I never saw him discard anything because it was broken or didn't come right: with his
chisel and mallet, he could make an exact representation of anything that walked upon the Earth, flew in the air, or swam in the seas, truly an Artist and one inspired by the Holy Spirit;” and Tavish then asked: “so this is the head of your predecessor?” but Brother Bede shook his head, “nay, that was Brother Caradoc, he was a Brython from Wales, a wild country you would best steer clear of, he died of an apoplexy five years ago; no, Brother Fergal was the one before him, and he left twenty years since, was transferred to Lindisfarne and may be there still, I can't say I've ever heard that he died,” and Tavish wondered if that meant his brother could indeed be in this Time and whether he might manage to catch up with him yet; he took another look at the face which stared back at him – there was no doubt in his mind at all, it was Pherson to a T!
Brother Bede caught the expression on Tavish's face and glanced up at the gargoyle, incorporated in the ceiling of the room: “a bit of a Golem,” he said, “but it's a fair likeness of the first Almoner I worked with, Brother Fergal – oh, a strange man, I can't say I especially liked him, but the Life throws disparate men together and we can't expect all to be cut from the same cloth, even if we all embrace the Word of The Lord and Saint Bernard's Instruction,” and Tavish felt impelled to ask: “what kind of a man was he, Brother Bede?” the old man snorted: “a wordmonger, he could weave a web, almost a calligram in speech just like one on paper, but I wouldn't want to say anything injurious to the reputation of a man in Holy Orders, you understand, so?” and Tavish nodded, then asked: “who carved it?” and Brother Bede's face broke into a beam, “ah, it was John Morow hissel, have you heard of him? he was a fine master mason, such a man as could fashion stone like it was wood and I tell you this – I never saw him discard anything because it was broken or didn't come right: with his
chisel and mallet, he could make an exact representation of anything that walked upon the Earth, flew in the air, or swam in the seas, truly an Artist and one inspired by the Holy Spirit;” and Tavish then asked: “so this is the head of your predecessor?” but Brother Bede shook his head, “nay, that was Brother Caradoc, he was a Brython from Wales, a wild country you would best steer clear of, he died of an apoplexy five years ago; no, Brother Fergal was the one before him, and he left twenty years since, was transferred to Lindisfarne and may be there still, I can't say I've ever heard that he died,” and Tavish wondered if that meant his brother could indeed be in this Time and whether he might manage to catch up with him yet; he took another look at the face which stared back at him – there was no doubt in his mind at all, it was Pherson to a T!
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