“Some sturdy beggar or mendicant friar,” thought he, “that knocks at my door because the chantry gates are shut.  I care not to open my door to every losel that knocks,” cried he aloud.  “Hence!  I know thee not.”

“Goodman, give me a night’s lodging, and I will reward thee”—­the door flew open at this intimation—­“with a palmer’s benison,” continued the stranger, advancing towards the wan embers that yet flickered on the hearth.  Had Giles awaited the finishing of this sentence ere the latch was loosened, some other and more hospitable roof had enjoyed the benefit of that night’s adventure.

“Thanks are not over meet for a cool stomach,” growled the disappointed tapster; whilst his guest roused the decaying faggots into a faint and unsteady blaze.

Giles surveyed the new-comer with no very sanguine prepossessions in his behalf.  The figure that met his scrutiny was clad in a dark cloak.  The hood, partly thrown back, showed a somewhat “frosty poll,” though the vivacity of a wild and restless eye, peering from under his dark and luxuriant brow, would scarcely have betokened an age at which the coming winter of life usually scatters these chill warnings of its approach.  His features were finely moulded.  A weather-beaten cheek, mingling with a complexion evidently sallow, gave a rich autumnal hue to his visage:  a slight furrow, extending from the outer angle of the nostril around each corner of a narrow and retreating mouth, gave a careless expression of scorn to the countenance when at rest; but, as he smiled, this sinister aspect disappeared, and the soft gleam of benevolence which succeeded looked the brighter from the portentous scowl that had just passed.  His beard was grey, and of a most reverent equipment, well calculated to excite veneration and respect.  He was above the middle size:  his humble garb but ill concealed a majesty of deportment indicating a disposition rather to command than to solicit favours.  He seated himself on a low stool, and honest Giles, whose courage did not feel sufficiently invigorated, in the presence of this proud palmer, to dare an open warfare, began hostilities covertly, in manner as follows:—­

“What ails ye, to disturb honest folks i’ their beds at these hours?  You might ha’ tarried in your last baiting-place—­at any rate till the kye were astir.  I wonder the guard let you pass at the gate.  But since these evil days have o’ershadowed the land, every braggart has licence to do as he list; and the monks and the friars, with their whole crew of dubs and deputies, are the worst of all.  Old Cliderhow here, the parson, thought to have waged war with his betters; but he was a slight matter mistaken:  we whipt him up by the heels for his treason.”

“Is Cliderhow alive?” inquired the stranger.

“Save us, pilgrim! where had you knowledge of the traitor?”

“Our good king Edward,” continued the guest, apparently not attending to Giles’s question in reply, “is still sorely beset with his enemies.  Had a score of knaves such as Master Cliderhow been hanged long ago, his reign had been less burdensome both to prince and people.”