Publisher's Synopsis
Excerpt from The Story of Francis Cludde
First, there -was my uncle Sir Anthony, tall and lean. He wore his best black velvet doublet and cloak, and had put them on with an air of huge importance. This increased each time he turned, stafi in hand, and surveyed his follow ing, and as regularly gave place to a 'pshaw! Of vexation and a petulant glance when his eye rested on me. Close beside him, looking important too, but anxious and a little frightened as well, stood good Father Carey. The priest wore his silk cassock, and his lips moved from time to time with out sound, as though he were trying over a Latin oration - which, indeed, was the fact. At a more respectful dis tance were ranged Baldwin Moor, the steward, and a dozen servants; while still farther away lounged as many raga muffins - landless men, who swarmed about every gentle man's door in those times, and took toll of such abbey lands as the king might have given him. Against one of the stone gate-pillars I leaned myself - nineteen years and six months Old, and none too wise, though well grown, and as strong as one here and there. And perched on the top of the twin post, with his Chin on his knees, and his hands clasped about them, was Martin Luther, the fool.
Martin had chosen this elevated position partly out Of curiosity, and partly, perhaps, under a strong sense Of duty. He knew that, whether he would or no, he must needs look funny up there. His nose was red, and his eyes were run ning, and his teeth chattering; and he did look funny. But as he felt the cold most his patience failed first. The steady, silent drizzle, the mist creeping about the stems of the oak trees, the leaden sky proved too much for him In the end. A watched pot never boils! He grumbled.
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