Summer had faded, and an early frost had tinted the fern-leaves with gold here and there, and made the hermit wrap himself close in a cloak lined with thick brown fur.

Simon, who was accustomed very respectfully to take the command of him, insisted that he should have a fire always burning on a rock close to his door, and that Piers, if not Hal, should always take care that it never went out, smothering it with peat, as every shepherd boy knew how to do, so as to keep it alight, or, in case of need, to conceal it with turf.

One afternoon, as Hal lay on the grass, whiling away the time by alternately playing with Watch and trying to unravel the mysteries of a flower of golden-rod, until the hermit should have finished his prayers and be ready to attend to him, Piers came through the wood, evidently sent on a message, and made him understand that he was immediately wanted at home.

Hal turned to take leave of his host, but the hermit’s eyes were raised in such rapt contemplation as to see nought, and, indeed, it might be matter of doubt whether he had ever perceived the presence of his visitor.

Hal directed Piers to arrange the fire, and hurried away, becoming conscious as he came in sight of the cottage that there were horses standing before it, and guessing at once that it must be a visit from Sir Lancelot Threlkeld.

It was Simon Bunce, however, who, with demonstrations of looking for him, came out to meet him as he emerged from the brushwood, and said in a gruff whisper, clutching his shoulder hard, ‘Not a word to give a clue! Mum! More than your life hangs on it.’

No more could pass, to explain the clue intended, whether to the presence of the young Lord Clifford himself, which was his first thought, or to the inhabitant of the hermitage. For Sir Lancelot’s cheerful voice was exclaiming, ‘Here he is, my lady! Here’s your son! How now, my young lord? Thou hast learnt to hold up thy head! Ay, and to bow in better sort,’ as, bending with due grace, Hal paused for a second ere hurrying forward to kneel before his mother, who raised him in her arms and kissed him with fervent affection. ‘My son! mine own dear boy, how art thou grown! Thou hast well nigh a knightly bearing!’ she exclaimed. ‘Master Bunce hath done well by thee.’

‘Good blood will out, my lady,’ quoth Simon, well pleased at her praise.

‘He hath had no training but thine?’ said Sir Lancelot, looking full at Simon.

‘None, Sir Knight, unless it be honest Halstead’s here.’

‘Methought I heard somewhat of the hermit in the glen,’ put in the lady.

‘He is a saint!’ declared two or three voices, as if this precluded his being anything more.

‘A saint,’ repeated the lady. ‘Anchorets are always saints. What doth he?’

‘Prayeth,’ answered Simon. ‘Never doth a man come in but he is at his prayers. ‘Tis always one hour or another!’

‘Ay?’ said Sir Lancelot, interrogatively. ‘Sayest thou so? Is he an old man?’

Simon put in his word before Hal could speak: ‘Men get so knocked about in these wars that there’s no guessing their age. I myself should deem that the poor rogue had had some clouts on the head that dazed him and made him fit for nought save saying his prayers.’

Here Sir Lancelot beckoned Simon aside, and walked him away, so as to leave the mother and son alone together.

Lady Threlkeld questioned closely as to the colour of the eyes and hair, and the general appearance of the hermit, and Hal replied, without suspicion, that the eyes were blue, the hair, he thought, of a light colour, the frame tall and slight, graceful though stooping; he had thought at first that the hermit must be old, very old, but had since come to a different conclusion. His dress was a plain brown gown like a countryman’s. There was nobody like him, no one whom Hal so loved and venerated, and he could not help, as he stood by his mother, pouring out to her all his feeling for the hermit, and the wise patient words that now and then dropped from him, such as ‘Patience is the armour and conquest of the godly;’ or, ‘Shall a man complain for the punishment of his sins?’ ‘Yet,’ said Hal, ‘what sins could the anchoret have? Never did I know that a man could be so holy here on earth. I deemed that was only for the saints in heaven.’

The lady kissed the boy and said, ‘I trow thou hast enjoyed a great honour, my child.’

But she did not say what it was, and when her husband summoned her, she joined him to repair to Penrith, where they were keeping an autumn retirement at a monastery, and had contrived to leave their escort and make this expedition on their way.

Simon examined Hal closely on what he had said to his mother, sighed heavily, and chided him for prating when he had been warned against it, but that was what came of dealing with children and womenfolk.

‘What can be the hurt?’ asked Hal. ‘Sir Lancelot knows well who I am! No lack of prudence in him would put men on my track.’

‘Hear him!’ cried Simon; ‘he thinks there is no nobler quarry in the woods than his lordship!’

‘The hermit! Oh, Simon, who is he?’

But Simon began to shout for Hob Hogward, and would not hear any further questions before he rode away, as far as Hal could see, in the opposite direction to the hermitage. But when he repaired thither the next day he was startled by hearing voices and the stamp of horses, and as he reconnoitred through the trees he saw half a dozen rough-looking men, with bows and arrows, buff coats, and steel-guarded caps—outlaws and robbers as he believed.

His first thought was that they meant harm to the gentle hermit, and his impulse was to start forward to his protection or assistance, but as he sprang into sight one of the strangers cried out: ‘How now! Here’s a shepherd thrusting himself in. Back, lad, or ‘twill be the worse for you.’

‘The hermit! the hermit! Do not meddle with him! He’s a saint,’ shouted Hal.

But even as he spoke he became aware of Simon, who called out: ‘Hold, sir; back, Giles; this is one well nigh in as much need of hiding as him yonder. Well come, since you be come, my lord, for we cannot get him there away without a message to you, and ‘tis well he should be off ere the sleuth-hounds can get on the scent.’

‘What! Where! Who?’ demanded the bewildered boy, breaking off, as at that moment his friend appeared at the door of the hovel, no longer in the brown anchoret’s gown but in riding gear, partially defended by slight armour, and with a cap on his head, which made him look much younger than he had before done.

‘Child, art thou there? It is well; I could scarce have gone without bidding thee farewell,’ he said in his sweet voice; ‘thou, the dear companion of my loneliness.’

‘O sir, sir, and are you going away?’

‘Yea, so they will have it! These good fellows are come to guard me.’

‘Oh! may I not go with thee?’

‘Nay, my fair son. Thou art beneath thy mother’s wing, while I am like one who was hunted as a partridge on the mountains.’

‘Whither, oh whither?’ gasped Hal.

‘That I know not! It is in the breasts of these good men, who are charged by my brave wife to have me in their care.’

‘Oh! sir, sir, what shall I do without you? You that have helped me, and taught me, and opened mine eyes to all I need to know.’

‘Hush, hush; it is a better master than I could ever be that thou needest. But,’ as tokens of impatience manifested themselves among the rude escort, ‘take thou this,’ giving him the little service-book, as he knelt to receive it, scarce knowing why. ‘One day thou wilt be able to read it. Poor child! whose lot it is to be fatherless and landless for me and mine, I would I could do more for thee.’

‘Oh! you have done all,’ sobbed Hal.

‘Nay, now, but this be our covenant, my boy! If thou, and if mine own son both come to your own, thou wilt be a true and loyal man to him, even as thy father was to me, and may God Almighty make it go better with you both.’

‘I will, I will! I swear by all that is holy!’ gasped Hal Clifford, with a flash of perception, as he knelt.

‘Come, my liege, we have far to go ere night. No time for more parting words and sighs.’

Hal scarcely knew more except that the hands were laid on his head, and the voice he had learnt to love so well said: ‘The blessing of God the Father be upon thee, thou fatherless boy, and may He reward thee sevenfold for what thy father was, who died for his faithfulness to me, a sinner! Fare thee well, my boy.’

As the hand that Hal was fervently kissing was withdrawn from him he sank upon his face, weeping as one heartbroken. He scarce heard the sounds of mounting and the trampling of feet, and when he raised his head he was alone, the woods and rocks were forsaken.

He sprang up and ran along at his utmost speed on the trampled path, but when he emerged from it he could only see a dark party, containing a horseman or two, so far on the way that it was hopeless to overtake them.

He turned back slowly to the deserted hut, and again threw himself on the ground, weeping bitterly. He knew now that his friend and master had been none other than the fugitive King, Henry of Windsor.