The old man glided away, stooping, stealthy, cat-like, and brought
the low bench. He seated himself upon it, half his body in the
dim and flickering light, and the other half in shadow; and so,
with his craving eyes bent upon the slumbering boy, he kept his
patient vigil there, heedless of the drift of time, and softly
whetted his knife, and mumbled and chuckled; and in aspect and
attitude he resembled nothing so much as a grizzly, monstrous
spider, gloating over some hapless insect that lay bound and
helpless in his web.
After a long while, the old man, who was still gazing,–yet not
seeing, his mind having settled into a dreamy abstraction,–
observed, on a sudden, that the boy’s eyes were open! wide open
and staring!–staring up in frozen horror at the knife. The smile
of a gratified devil crept over the old man’s face, and he said,
without changing his attitude or his occupation–
“Son of Henry the Eighth, hast thou prayed?”
The boy struggled helplessly in his bonds, and at the same time
forced a smothered sound through his closed jaws, which the hermit
chose to interpret as an affirmative answer to his question.
“Then pray again. Pray the prayer for the dying!”
A shudder shook the boy’s frame, and his face blenched. Then he
struggled again to free himself–turning and twisting himself this
way and that; tugging frantically, fiercely, desperately–but
uselessly–to burst his fetters; and all the while the old ogre
smiled down upon him, and nodded his head, and placidly whetted
his knife; mumbling, from time to time, “The moments are precious,
they are few and precious–pray the prayer for the dying!”
The boy uttered a despairing groan, and ceased from his struggles,
panting. The tears came, then, and trickled, one after the other,
down his face; but this piteous sight wrought no softening effect
upon the savage old man.
The dawn was coming now; the hermit observed it, and spoke up
sharply, with a touch of nervous apprehension in his voice–
“I may not indulge this ecstasy longer! The night is already
gone. It seems but a moment–only a moment; would it had endured
a year! Seed of the Church’s spoiler, close thy perishing eyes,
an’ thou fearest to look upon–”
The rest was lost in inarticulate mutterings. The old man sank
upon his knees, his knife in his hand, and bent himself over the
moaning boy.
Hark! There was a sound of voices near the cabin–the knife
dropped from the hermit’s hand; he cast a sheepskin over the boy
and started up, trembling. The sounds increased, and presently
the voices became rough and angry; then came blows, and cries for
help; then a clatter of swift footsteps, retreating. Immediately
came a succession of thundering knocks upon the cabin door,
followed by–
“Hullo-o-o! Open! And despatch, in the name of all the devils!”
Oh, this was the blessedest sound that had ever made music in the
King’s ears; for it was Miles Hendon’s voice!
The hermit, grinding his teeth in impotent rage, moved swiftly out
of the bedchamber, closing the door behind him; and straightway
the King heard a talk, to this effect, proceeding from the
‘chapel’:–
“Homage and greeting, reverend sir! Where is the boy–MY boy?”
“What boy, friend?”
“What boy! Lie me no lies, sir priest, play me no deceptions!–I
am not in the humour for it. Near to this place I caught the
scoundrels who I judged did steal him from me, and I made them
confess; they said he was at large again, and they had tracked him
to your door. They showed me his very footprints. Now palter no
more; for look you, holy sir, an’ thou produce him not–Where is
the boy?”
“O good sir, peradventure you mean the ragged regal vagrant that
tarried here the night. If such as you take an interest in such
as he, know, then, that I have sent him of an errand. He will be
back anon.”
“How soon? How soon? Come, waste not the time–cannot I overtake
him? How soon will he be back?”
“Thou need’st not stir; he will return quickly.”
“So be it, then. I will try to wait. But stop!–YOU sent him of