"And I pray you, good Christian brother," replied the anchorite, "to
disturb me no more. You have already interrupted one 'pater', two
'aves', and a 'credo', which I, miserable sinner that I am, should,
according to my vow, have said before moonrise."
"The road--the road!" vociferated the knight, "give me directions for
the road, if I am to expect no more from thee."
"The road," replied the hermit, "is easy to hit. The path from the wood
leads to a morass, and from thence to a ford, which, as the rains have
abated, may now be passable. When thou hast crossed the ford, thou
wilt take care of thy footing up the left bank, as it is somewhat
precipitous; and the path, which hangs over the river, has lately, as I
learn, (for I seldom leave the duties of my chapel,) given way in sundry
places. Thou wilt then keep straight forward---"
"A broken path--a precipice--a ford, and a morass!" said the knight
interrupting him,--"Sir Hermit, if you were the holiest that ever wore
beard or told bead, you shall scarce prevail on me to hold this road
to-night. I tell thee, that thou, who livest by the charity of the
country--ill deserved, as I doubt it is--hast no right to refuse shelter
to the wayfarer when in distress. Either open the door quickly, or, by
the rood, I will beat it down and make entry for myself."
"Friend wayfarer," replied the hermit, "be not importunate; if thou
puttest me to use the carnal weapon in mine own defence, it will be e'en
the worse for you."
At this moment a distant noise of barking and growling, which the
traveller had for some time heard, became extremely loud and furious,
and made the knight suppose that the hermit, alarmed by his threat of
making forcible entry, had called the dogs who made this clamour to
aid him in his defence, out of some inner recess in which they had been
kennelled. Incensed at this preparation on the hermit's part for making
good his inhospitable purpose, the knight struck the door so furiously
with his foot, that posts as well as staples shook with violence.
The anchorite, not caring again to expose his door to a similar shock,
now called out aloud, "Patience, patience--spare thy strength, good
traveller, and I will presently undo the door, though, it may be, my
doing so will be little to thy pleasure."
The door accordingly was opened; and the hermit, a large, strong-built
man, in his sackcloth gown and hood, girt with a rope of rushes, stood
before the knight. He had in one hand a lighted torch, or link, and in
the other a baton of crab-tree, so thick and heavy, that it might well
be termed a club. Two large shaggy dogs, half greyhound half mastiff,
stood ready to rush upon the traveller as soon as the door should be
opened. But when the torch glanced upon the lofty crest and golden spurs
of the knight, who stood without, the hermit, altering probably his
original intentions, repressed the rage of his auxiliaries, and,
changing his tone to a sort of churlish courtesy, invited the knight
to enter his hut, making excuse for his unwillingness to open his lodge
after sunset, by alleging the multitude of robbers and outlaws who were
abroad, and who gave no honour to Our Lady or St Dunstan, nor to those
holy men who spent life in their service.