Not a brother of the cloth could be found to take the father's place, and this loss proved exceedingly awkward to all at Haddon at this juncture.

The Reformation had come in with so much vigour; the enactments against the Roman Catholics were so stringent, that not even another priest could be found to shrive him. The pendulum of fortune had indeed swung back again with a vengeance. From one extreme the religious laws had gone to the other; and so it befell that the father, to his exceeding great regret, found himself dying with never a minister of his own persuasion near at hand.

Crowleigh again came to his relief. He had a friend, a staunch Catholic who had been expelled from Oxford University soon after Elizabeth's accession on account of his strong religious views. He had turned monk, and, during the recent pitiless times, it had frequently fallen to Sir Everard's lot to befriend him. He was at this time in hiding at no great distance from Crowleigh's estate, and the latter had sufficient confidence in his friend's willingness to come to promise Sir George Vernon that he would fetch him.

The offer was gladly accepted. Without any delay the two best horses in the stable were saddled, and within a very short s.p.a.ce of time both horses and rider were well started on their way towards the south-western boundary of the shire.

Nicholas Bury had for two years lived the life of a hermit. In his seclusion he had become happy, and though the reverence was denied him which the early hermits had accustomed themselves to receive, yet he was at least unmolested, and thanks to Sir Everard, who ever a.s.sisted him in time of need, he was never left to want for the few necessaries of life that he required.

Sir Everard Crowleigh rode hard all the morning, and stopping on his errand but once--to partake of a light meal--he arrived at the abode of his friend as the twilight put forth its gentle mask of gloom.

Deepdale was an attractive spot, but it was not the natural beauty of the scene which had first attracted the eyes of Nicholas Bury so much as the facilities it offered for his purpose. Centuries before a pious Derby baker had retired to the self-same spot, and besides this hallowed memory there was the still more substantial cell to hand which the saintly old recluse had left behind him.

This, cut out of the solid rock, and situated at the summit of a deep declivity, was overgrown by a curtain of ivy, which not only screened its tenant from the wintry winds, but also hid his retreat from the gaze of the innocent pa.s.ser-by. The Abbey, hard by, had been dismantled before Nicholas knew it, but it was a source of gratification to him to be so near so sacred a building, and at eventide he would wander fondly about its walls and murmur his vespers to himself.

Sir Everard paused before entering upon the solitude of his friend, and would fain have rested his weary limbs on the mossy banks of the slope, but remembering how nearly Father Philip was to death he overruled his feelings, and, brushing through the ivy covering of the doorway, he entered quietly into the sanctum of the hermit.

Nicholas was evidently deeply engaged in his devotions, for he was kneeling before the little altar of his cell, and, catching somewhat of the spirit of reverence, Everard paused upon the threshold, loth to penetrate any further. The lamp gave but a fitful flickering light, hut the devotee heeded not; and, by-and-bye, as the knight stood spellbound, the wick sputtered in the oil, and making a final effort the flame shot up for a moment with a brilliant glare and then died slowly out, leaving nothing but a fragment of smouldering wick and a sickly odour to attest its presence.

Crowleigh roused himself as it died away, and came to the resolution that it was high time to announce his presence; and failing to distinguish any signs to intimate that his friend's prayers were nearing conclusion he advanced towards him.

He had scarcely moved a step when he started back with horror. There was little enough light entered within this solitary abode, but yet there was quite enough to enable him to see curled up together upon a bed of leaves a number of snakes of different kinds. His first impulse was to rush out and escape, but bethinking himself of the defenceless position of his friend, he picked up a huge stone and let it fall upon them.

Still Nicholas did not stir, and heedless of the badger, which fiercely showed its teeth and looked as if it meditated an attack upon him, Sir Everard strode softly up to his friend's side and tapped him lightly on the shoulder.

"Nicholas," he exclaimed.

Nicholas returned no answer, and his friend stood dumbfounded. Surely that pale face and that emaciated form could not belong to the once st.u.r.dy companion, or--and he noticed that the eyes were closed; or else--and he trembled at the bare idea--Nicholas Bury must be dead!

He put out his hand and shook it gently, and he was speedily rewarded by seeing his friend open his eyes.

"Lie still, Leo," he commanded, addressing the badger.

The faithful animal, which had regarded the intruder with marked disfavour, rolled itself up again in obedience to the command, and remained in the corner watching the knight with glistening eyes.

"Nicholas," repeated Crowleigh, for he had not yet been noticed.

Nicholas turned slowly round, as if his ears had not deceived him, but on seeing his friend and benefactor standing by his side, his face lighted up with pleasure, and he quickly arose.

"My good friend, Everard," he exclaimed, as he warmly shook the proffered hand, "thou art indeed a stranger here."

"Aye, I have a mission to thee," he replied.

"A mission," the hermit echoed. Art thou, then, the bearer of ill-tidings to me? Is my safety jeopardised, or what? Tell me, Everard, let me know it all. I have done no man evil that I wot of--unless in these evil days it be wrong to visit the sick and the afflicted; but I am ready for aught, even though it were instant death."

"Nay, Nicholas," returned his friend, "thou art in a gloomy strain.

I am a messenger of peace; I bear good tidings to thee, not ill-news.

Thou must away with me at once."

"I cannot go; but see! my lamp is out. I must light it again. You see how indifferent I am," he apologetically exclaimed, "I even fall asleep over my prayers."

"Ha! I perceive thou art over-weary; take my advice for the once, and do not rise so soon, nor pray so long."

"Ah, Everard, 'tis not that," replied the holy man; "I have not been to my poor couch since yester morning. I have been praying through the night for the speedy restoration of our holy Church."

"And see, whilst thou hast been sleeping I have saved thy life,"

interjected Everard; "but I must tell thee on my journey. I would have thee accompany me back to Haddon."

"My poor pets!" exclaimed the hermit sorrowfully, as he lifted up the stone; "they are all killed."

"'Tis a case of death, I fear," pursued Crowleigh, referring to the father's illness.

"I fear it is," replied the other, looking ruefully at his dead pets.

"Thou hast killed my companions, Everard."

"Ugh! pretty companions, I trow," said the knight, scornfully; "but we must hasten. I will acquaint thee with the whys and wherefores as we go. Nay, never mind the lamp, thou can'st say adieu to that. Our horses are tethered to a tree below, and thou must shrive a friend who is at death's door--a priest. I have ridden throughout the livelong day to fetch thee. Art thou ready now?"

"What, so soon? This is sudden indeed."

"Aye, man, so soon. Death tarries for no man, and, beshrew me, it will not tarry for us either."

"I must take Leo, then."

"Very well, pick him up, but let us be off I pray."

"This is _too_ sudden, Everard, indeed it is. I have many sick to visit, and I would fain go to the monastery just once again, to bid----"

"There must be no buts about it, Nicholas," returned his friend quickly, "the father is dying, and the baron expects you."

"Give me but an hour, then I will go with thee. 'Tis sad to break away from a spot hallowed by so many sacred memories, and at so short warning, too. I am loth to go, Everard, even now. There is no other spot on earth like this to me."

"'Tis a cold and cheerless home, truly," exclaimed the knight, sympathetically, "and I will find thee a far better one, Nicholas.

See, I will give thee half-an-hour, and then you must bid adieu to this place or I must return alone and leave thee."

Nicholas submitted to the decision of his friend, and in less than the stipulated time they had both turned their backs upon the hospitable shelter which had been a home to the monk when every door seemed shut against him, and were on their way to Haddon.

CHAPTER XVIII.

THE CHAMBER OF DEATH.

Child, if it were thine error or thy crime, I care no longer, being all unblest; Wed whom thou wilt; but I am sick of time.

And I desire to rest.

TENNYSON.