“Death!” cried the dean; “what meanest thou?”

“Did I not counsel thee to beware?  But thou wilt tumble into thine own pitfall.  The trap is laid for thine own feet!”

The hermit sat on the low couch, and he gazed wildly round the cell as though pursuing some object visible only to himself.

“Give me the parchments committed to thy trust by De Lacy, and I will build a house to thy good saint, enriching it with rare endowments.”

“Thou wouldest drive a thrifty bargain with Heaven.  Verily thou shouldst have the best on ’t, though,” replied the hermit, with a contemptuous smile.

“Truly I could but return to Heaven the bounties that it gave; yet would I, peradventure, build, for His honour and glory, to whom all things belong, a habitation, the like whereof hath not been seen for stateliness and grandeur,” said the dean, with affected reverence and humility of spirit.

“Others may do that as well as thou.”

“But will he, whose coming is now at hand, make so costly a sacrifice for the welfare of the Church?  I will found an abbey, holy father, consecrate to thy patron, wherein thou shalt be the ruler.  I purpose to enrich it with half my possessions, even of those whereby, through thy ministry, I do become entitled from the death of Robert de Lacy.”

“Which meaneth, if I but aid thee to rob another of some large and goodly inheritance, thou wilt give to Heaven, forsooth, a portion of what belongs not to thee.”

“Once thou didst promise me thine aid.”

“To robbery and rapine?”

“I have not wronged thee!”

“Nor I”—­

“Thou hast; the inheritance is mine; thou hast robbed me of my right, but I will regain these lands or perish on them.”

“And so thou mayest, unblushing traitor.”

“Traitor!—­ah! this word to me?”

“Yes, to thee, Robert de Whalley!”

“Thou art in my power, old man; ere I entered thy cell I left a trusty keeper at the door,” cried the dean, with a grin of savage exultation.

“In thy power!—­never, miscreant.”

“Give the deed to my keeping, and no harm shall happen thee; refuse, and thou art my prisoner.  Force may accomplish my wishes without thy compliance.”

The hermit’s eyes glistened like twin fires in their hollow recesses.  He stood erect, confronting his visitor, who, bold in audacity and guilt, repeated his demand.

“Never!” said the hermit.

“Then die, fond dotard!” cried De Whalley; and, sudden as the lightning-stroke, he drew a dagger from his vest, aiming a blow at the hermit’s bosom; but, marvellous to relate, the steel hardly penetrated the folds of his drapery, glancing back with a dull sound, his person remaining uninjured.  A look of unutterable scorn curled the features of the charmed, and apparently invulnerable, being before him.

“Cowardly assassin!” he cried, “I hold thy threats at less worth than a handful of this base dust beneath my feet, and utterly defy thy power.  I am free as the untrammelled air, and thou mayest as well attempt to grasp the shadow or the sunbeam!”