So it was, and I looked round for my kind host, but he was not to be seen.  Outside the wind was still strong, but not what it had been, for the gale was sinking suddenly as it rose, and into the one little window the sun shone brightly enough now and then as the clouds fled across it.  There was a bright fire on the hearth, and over it hung a cauldron, whence steam rose merrily, and it was plain that my friend of last night was not far off, so I lay still and waited his return.

Then my eyes fell on my clothes and arms as they hung from pegs in the walls over against me, and it seemed as if the steel of mail and helm and sword had been newly burnished.  Then I saw also that a rent in my tunic, made when my horse fell, had been carefully mended, and that no speck of the dust and mire I had gathered on my garments from collar to hose was left.  All had been tended as carefully as if I had been at home, and I saw Elfrida’s little brooch shining where I had pinned it.

That took me back to Glastonbury in a moment, but I had to count before I could be sure that it was but a matter of hours since I took that gift in the orchard, rather than of months.  And I wondered if Owen knew yet that I was lost, or if my men sought me still.  Then my mind went to Evan, the chapman outlaw, and I thought that by this time he would have given me up, and would be far away by now, beyond the reach of Thorgils and his wrath.

Now the seaward door opened, and a swirl of spray from the breakers on the rocks came in with my host, who set a great armful of drift wood on the floor, closed it, and so turned to me.

“Good morrow, my son,” he said.  “How fare you after rest?”

“Well as can be, father,” I answered, sitting up.  “Stiff I am, and maybe somewhat black and blue, but that is all.  I have no hurt.  But surely I have slept long?”

“A matter of ten hours, my son, and that without stirring.  You needed it sorely, so I let you be.  Now it is time for food, but first you shall have a bath, and that will do wonders with the soreness.”

Thankful enough was I of the great tub of hot water he had ready for me, and after it and a good meal I was a new man.  My host said nought till I had finished, and then it was I who broke the silence between us.

“Father,” I said, “I have much to thank you for.  What may I call you?”

“They name me Govan the Hermit, my son.”

“I do not know how to say all I would, Father Govan,” I went on, “but I was in a sore strait last night, and but for your bell I think I must have perished in the snow, or in some of the clefts of these cliffs.”

“I rang the bell for you, my son, though I knew not why.  It came on me that one was listening for some sign of help in the storm.”

“How could you know?” I asked in wonder.

Govan shook his head.

“I cannot tell.  Men who bide alone as I bide have strange bodings in their solitude.  I have known the like come over me before, and it has ever been a true warning.”