“Nay, brethren, that is not my purpose.”

Another and a brief pause ensued.

“But the message?”

“Say that the will is here,”—­he looked towards his bosom as he spoke,—­“and at the appointed hour it shall be ready.  When Roger de Fitz-Eustace comes hither, his claim shall be duly certified.”

“Alas!” said the wayfaring guests, in a tone of deep sorrow and apprehension, “he went on a warfare against the infidels.”

“He will return,” was the reply.

“The Virgin grant him a safe deliverance! but he tarrieth long, and a rumour hath lately been abroad that he fell at Ascalon.”

“’Tis false!” cried the hermit, roused to an unexpected burst of wrath.  His eyes kindled with rage, and he darted a glance at the intruders which made them cower and shrink from his rebuke.  In a moment he grew calm, relapsing into his usual moody and thoughtful attitude.  Taking courage, they again addressed him.

“Is this thy message to the abbot of Stanlaw?  If so, our errand hath but a sorry recompense.”

“And what recompense should fall to the lot of miscreants like ye?” said the hermit, surveying them with a contemptuous glance.  “I hear the sound of your master’s feet behind ye.  Tell Robert, the proud Dean of Whalley, that when he sends ye next on so goodly an errand, to see that ye con your lesson more carefully, else will ye be known for a couple of errant knaves as ever went a-mousing into an owl’s nest!  Hence, begone!” said the hermit, as he drave them from his threshold; and the counterfeit monks went back to Whalley in haste, reporting the ill success of their mission.

“Nevertheless,” said De Whalley, “I have some clue to the search, if the glance of his eye, which these varlets have reported, do show truly where the treasure is hidden.  I will foil the old fox yet with his own weapons.”

This comfortable reflection, in all probability, moderated his anger at the unskilful disposition of his messengers, whom he dismissed with little ceremony from his presence.

In the meantime the new castellan was exercising his power with unsparing and immoderate severity.  Oliver de Wortshorn was almost heartbroken; the old man suddenly found himself reduced to the condition of a mere dependant on the self-will and caprice of this petty tyrant, his authority having been usurped, and his office wrested from him, by the hand of a stranger.  Adam de Dutton[51] was the name of this new functionary, and he rode it out bravely over the necks of the servants and retainers, discharging some, punishing others, and making the whole community groan beneath the iron yoke of his oppression.  Had there been a master-spirit to wield the elements of conspiracy, and unite the several members, so as to act from one common impulse, matters were just ripe for rebellion.

Early in the morning, after a day of more than ordinary discipline, Oliver bent his feeble steps to the hermitage.  He laid his complaints before the occupier of the cell, who was ever ready to administer aid and comfort to the afflicted.