Hal had wandered farther than his wont, rather hoping to be out of call if Simon arrived to give him a lesson in chivalrous sports. He found himself on the slope of one of the gorges down which smaller streams rushed in wet weather to join the Derwent. There was a sound of tinkling water, and leaning forward, Hal saw that a tiny thread of water dropped between the ferns and the stones. Therewith a low, soft chant in a manly voice, mingling with the drip of the water.

The words were strange to him&&

but they were very sweet, and in leaning forward to look between the rowan branches and hear and see more, his foot slipped, and with Watch barking round him, he rolled helplessly down the rock, and found himself before a tall light-haired man, in a dark dress, who gave a hand to raise him, asking kindly, ‘Art hurt, my child?’

‘Oh, no, sir! Off, off, Watch!’ as the dog was about to resent anyone’s touching his master. ‘Holy sir, thanks, great thanks,’ as a long fair hand helped him to his feet, and brushed his soiled garment.

‘Unhurt, I see,’ said that sweet voice. ‘Hast thou lost thy way? Good dog, thou lovest thy master! Art thou astray?’

‘No, sir, thank you, I know my way home.’

‘Thou art the boy who lives with the shepherd at Derwentside, on Bunce’s ground?’

‘Ay, Hob Hogward’s herd boy,’ said Hal. ‘Oh, sir, are you the holy hermit of the Derwent vale?’

‘A hermit for the nonce I am,’ was the answer, with something of a smile responsive to the eager face.

‘Oh, sir, if you be not too holy to look at me or speak to me! If you would help me to some better knowledge—not only of sword and single-stick!’

‘Better knowledge, my child! Of thy God?’ said the hermit, a sweet look of joy spreading over his face.

‘Goodwife Dolly has told me of Him, and taught me my Pater and Credo, but we have lived far off, and she has not been able to go to church for weeks and years. But what I long after is to tell me what means all this—yonder sea, and all the stars up above. And they will call me a simpleton for marking such as these, and only want me to heed how to shoot an arrow, or give a stroke hard enough to hurt another. Do such rude doings alone, fit for a bull or a ram as meseems, go to the making of a knight, fair sir?’

‘They go to the knight’s keeping of his own, for others whom he ought to defend,’ said the hermit sadly; ‘I would have thee learn and practise them. But for the rest, thou knowest, sure, who made the stars?’

‘Oh yes! Nurse Dolly told me. She saw it all in a mystery play long long ago—when a Hand came out, and put in the stars and sun and moon.’

‘Knowest thou whose Hand was figured there, my child?’

‘The Hand of God,’ said Hal, removing his cap. ‘They be sparks to show His glory! But why do some move about among the others—one big one moves from the Bull’s face one winter to half-way beyond it. And is the morning star the evening one?’

‘Ah! thou shouldst know Ptolemy and the Almagest,’ said the hermit smiling, ‘to understand the circuits of those wandering stars—Coeli enarrant gloriam Dei.’

‘That is Latin,’ said the boy, startled. ‘Are you a priest, sir?’

‘No, not I—I am not worthy,’ was the answer, ‘but in some things I may aid thee, and I shall be blessed in so doing. Canst say thy prayers?’

‘Oh, yes! nurse makes me say them when I lie down and when I get up—Credo and Pater. She says the old parson used to teach them our own tongue for them, but she has well-nigh forgot. Can you tell me, holy man?’

‘That will I, with all my heart,’ responded the hermit, laying his long delicate hand on Hal’s head. ‘Blessed be He who has sent thee to me!’

The boy sat at the hermit’s feet, listening with the eagerness of one whose soul and mind had alike been under starvation, and how time went neither knew till there was a rustling and a step. Watch sprang up, but in another moment Simon Bunce, cap in hand, stood before the hut, beginning with ‘How now, sir?’

The hermit raised his hand, as if to make a sign, saying, ‘Thou seest I have a guest, good friend.’

Bunce started back with ‘Oh! the young Lord! Sworn to silence, I trust! I bade him not meddle with you, sir.’

‘It was against his will, I trow,’ said the hermit. ‘He fell over the rock by the waterfall, but since he is here, I will answer for him that he does no hurt by word or deed!’

‘Never, holy sir!’ eagerly exclaimed Hal. ‘Hob Hogward knows that I can keep my mouth shut. And may I come again?’

Simon was shaking his head, but the hermit took on him to say, ‘Gladly will I welcome thee, my fair child, whensoever thou canst find thy way to the weary old anchoret! Go thy way now! Or hast thou lost it?’

‘No, sir; I ken the woodland and can soon be at home,’ replied Hal; then, putting a knee to the ground, ‘May I have your blessing, holy man?’

‘Alack, I told thee I am no priest,’ said the hermit; ‘but for such as I am, I bless thee with all my soul, thou fatherless lad,’ and he laid his hand on the young lad’s wondering brow, then bade him begone, since Simon and himself had much to say to one another.

Hal summoned Watch, and turned to a path through the wood, leading towards the coast, wondering as he walked how the hermit seemed to know him—him whose presence had been so sedulously concealed. Could it be that so very holy a man had something of the spirit of prophecy?

He kept his promise of silence, and indeed his guardians were so much accustomed to his long wanderings that he encountered no questions, only one of Hob’s growls that he should always steal away whenever there was a chance of Master Bunce’s coming to try to make a man of him.

However, Bunce himself arrived shortly after, and informed Hob that since young folks always pried where they were least wanted, and my lord had stumbled incontinently on the anchoret’s den, it was the holy man’s will that he might come there whenever he chose. A pity and shame it was, but it would make him more than ever a mere priestling, ever hankering after books and trash!

‘Were it not better to ask my lady and Sir Lancelot if they would have it so? I could walk over to Threlkeld!’

‘No, no, no, on your life not,’ exclaimed Simon, striking his staff on the ground in his vehemence. ‘Never a word to the Threlkeld or any of his kin! Let well alone! I only wish the lad had never gone a-roaming there! But holy men must not be gainsaid, even if it does make a poor craven scholar out of his father’s son.’

And thus began a time of great contentment to the Lord Clifford. There were few days on which he did not visit the hermitage. It was a small log hut, but raised with some care, and made weatherproof with moss and clay in the crevices, and there was an inner apartment, with a little oil lamp burning before a rough wooden cross, where Hal, if the hermit were not outside, was certain to find him saying his prayers. Food was supplied by Simon himself, and, since Hal’s admission, was often carried by him, and the hermit seemed to spend his time either in prayer or in a gentle dreamy state of meditation, though he always lighted up into animation at the arrival of the boy whom he had made his friend. Hal had thought him old at first, on the presumption that all hermits must be aged, nor was it likely that age should be estimated by one living such a life, but the light hair, untouched with grey, the smooth cheeks and the graceful figure did not belong to more than a year or two above forty. And he had no air of ill health, yet this calm solitary residence in the wooded valley seemed to be infinite rest to him.

Hal had no knowledge nor experience to make him wonder, and accepted the great quiet and calm of the hermit as the token of his extreme holiness and power of meditation. He himself was always made welcome with Watch by his side, and encouraged to talk and ask questions, which the hermit answered with what seemed to the boy the utmost wisdom, but older heads would have seen not to be that of a clever man, but of one who had been fairly educated for the time, had had experience of courts and camps, and referred all the inquiries and wonderments which were far beyond him direct to Almighty Power.

The mind of the boy advanced much in this intercourse with the first cultivated person he had encountered, and who made a point of actually teaching and explaining to him all those mysteries of religion which poor old Dolly only blindly accepted and imparted as blindly to her nursling. Of actual instruction, nothing was attempted. A little portuary, or abbreviated manual of the service, was all that the hermit possessed, treasured with his small crucifix in his bosom, and of course it was in Latin. The Hours of the Church he knew by heart, and never failed to observe them, training his young pupil in the repetition and English meaning of such as occurred during his visits. He also told much of the history of the world, as he knew it, and of the Church and the saints, to the eager mind that absorbed everything and reflected on it, coming with fresh questions that would have been too deep and perplexing for his friend if he had not always determined everything with ‘Such is the will of God.’

Somewhat to the surprise of Simon Bunce and Hob Hogward, Hal improved greatly, not only in speech but in bearing; he showed no such dislike or backwardness in chivalrous exercises as previously; and when once Sir Lancelot Threlkeld came over to see him, he was absolutely congratulated on looking so much more like a young knight.

‘Ay,’ said Bunce, taking all the merit to himself, ‘there’s nought like having an old squire trained in the wars in France to show a stripling how to hold a lance.’

Hal had been too well tutored to utter a word of him to whom his improvement was really due, not by actual training, but partly by unconscious example in dignified grace and courtesy of demeanour, and partly by the rather sad assurances that it was well that a man born to his station, if he ever regained it, should be able to defend himself and others, and not be a helpless burthen on their hands. Tales of the Seven Champions of Christendom and of King Arthur and his Knights likewise had their share in the moulding of the youthful Lord Clifford.

His great desire was to learn to read, but it was not encouraged by the hermit, nor was there any book available save the portuary, crookedly and contractedly written on vellum, so as to be illegible to anyone unfamiliar with writing, with Latin, or the service. However, the anchoret yielded to his importunity so far as to let him learn the alphabet, traced on the door in charcoal, and identify the more sacred words in the book—which, indeed, were all in gold, red and blue.

He did not advance more than this, for his teacher was apt to go off in a musing dream of meditation, repeating over and over in low sweet tones the holy phrases, and not always rousing himself when his pupil made a remark or asked a question. Yet he was always concerned at his own inattention when awakened, and would apologise in a tone of humility that always made Hal feel grieved and ashamed of having been importunate. For there was a dignity and gentleness about the hermit that always made the boy feel the contrast with his own roughness and uncouthness, and reverence him as something from a holier world.

‘Nurse, I do think he is a saint,’ one day said Hal.

‘Nay, nay, my laddie, saints don’t come down from heaven in these days of evil.’

‘I would thou could see him when one comes upon him at his prayers. His face is like the angel at the cross I saw so long ago in the castle chapel.’

‘Dost thou remember that chapel? Thou wert a babe when we quitted it.’

‘I had well nigh forgotten it, but the good hermit’s face brought all back again, and the voice of the father when he said the Service.’

‘That thou shouldst mind so long! This hermit is no priest, thou sayst?’

‘No, he said he was not worthy; but sure all saints were not priests, nurse.’

‘Nay, it is easy to be more worthy than the Jack Priests I have known. Though I would they would let me go to church. But look thee here, Hal, if he be such a saint as thou sayst, maybe thou couldst get him to bestow a blessing on poor Piers, and give him his hearing and voice.’

Hal was sure that his own special saint was holy enough for anything, and accordingly asked permission of him to bring his silent companion for blessing and healing.

The mild blue eye lighted for a moment. ‘Is the poor child then afflicted with the King’s Evil?’ the hermit asked.

‘Nay, he is sound enough in skin and limb. It is that he can neither hear nor speak, and if you, holy sir, would lay thine hand on him, and sign him with the rood, and pray, mayhap your holiness—’

‘Peace, peace,’ cried the hermit impetuously, lifting up his hand. ‘Dost not know that I am a sinner like unto the rest—nay, a greater sinner, in that a burthen was laid on me that I had not the soul to rise to, so that the sin and wickedness of thousands have been caused by my craven faint heart for well nigh two score years? O miserere Domine.’

He threw himself on the ground with clasped hands, and Hal, standing by in awestruck amazement, heard no more save sobs, mingled with the supplications of the fifty-first Psalm.

He was obliged at last to go away without having been able to recall the attention of his friend from his agony of prayer. With the reticence that had grown upon him, he did not mention at home the full effect of his request, but when he thought it over he was all the more convinced that his friend was a great saint. Had he not always heard that saints believed themselves great sinners, and went through many penances? And why did he speak as if he could have cured the King’s Evil? He asked Dolly what it was, and she replied that it was the sickness that only the King’s touch could heal.