"Holy father," said the knight, "upon whose countenance it hath pleased
Heaven to work such a miracle, permit a sinful layman to crave thy
name?"
"Thou mayst call me," answered the hermit, "the Clerk of Copmanhurst,
for so I am termed in these parts--They add, it is true, the
epithet holy, but I stand not upon that, as being unworthy of such
addition.--And now, valiant knight, may I pray ye for the name of my
honourable guest?"
"Truly," said the knight, "Holy Clerk of Copmanhurst, men call me in
these parts the Black Knight,--many, sir, add to it the epithet of
Sluggard, whereby I am no way ambitious to be distinguished."
The hermit could scarcely forbear from smiling at his guest's reply.
"I see," said he, "Sir Sluggish Knight, that thou art a man of prudence
and of counsel; and moreover, I see that my poor monastic fare likes
thee not, accustomed, perhaps, as thou hast been, to the license of
courts and of camps, and the luxuries of cities; and now I bethink me,
Sir Sluggard, that when the charitable keeper of this forest-walk left
those dogs for my protection, and also those bundles of forage, he left
me also some food, which, being unfit for my use, the very recollection
of it had escaped me amid my more weighty meditations."
"I dare be sworn he did so," said the knight; "I was convinced that
there was better food in the cell, Holy Clerk, since you first doffed
your cowl.--Your keeper is ever a jovial fellow; and none who beheld thy
grinders contending with these pease, and thy throat flooded with this
ungenial element, could see thee doomed to such horse-provender and
horse-beverage," (pointing to the provisions upon the table,) "and
refrain from mending thy cheer. Let us see the keeper's bounty,
therefore, without delay."
The hermit cast a wistful look upon the knight, in which there was
a sort of comic expression of hesitation, as if uncertain how far he
should act prudently in trusting his guest. There was, however, as much
of bold frankness in the knight's countenance as was possible to be
expressed by features. His smile, too, had something in it irresistibly
comic, and gave an assurance of faith and loyalty, with which his host
could not refrain from sympathizing.
After exchanging a mute glance or two, the hermit went to the further
side of the hut, and opened a hutch, which was concealed with great care
and some ingenuity. Out of the recesses of a dark closet, into which
this aperture gave admittance, he brought a large pasty, baked in a
pewter platter of unusual dimensions. This mighty dish he placed before
his guest, who, using his poniard to cut it open, lost no time in making
himself acquainted with its contents.