“St George and the Virgin protect thee, honest friend!” said the pilgrim, as he stood by an opening, just then performing the functions of both door and chimney.  Darby’s perceptions being much impeded by the smoke, he hastily approached the door.  His surprise manifested itself aloud, yet did he not forget a becoming reverence to the stranger, as he invited him into the only apartment, besides his workshop, of which the roof could boast.  It served for parlour, bedchamber, and kitchen; where the presiding deity, Grim’s helpmate, carried on her multifarious operations.

The officious housewife fetched a joint-stool, first clearing it from dust, whilst her husband added a billet to the heap.  She was just preparing breakfast.  A wooden porringer, filled to the brim with new milk, in which oatmeal was stirred, a rasher of salted mutton, and a large cake of coarse bread, comprised the delicacies of their morning repast.  To this, however, was added a snatch of cold venison from the hall.  “But this, you see,” said the old woman, “is not of our own killing; St Gregory forbid!—­it comes from Dan there, who has the care of the knight’s buttery.”

“Rot him for a churl!” said the smith; “Sir Osmund grudges every mouth about him; but”—­and here he looked wondrous knowing—­“he may happen to be ousted yet, if Earl Thomas should come by the worst in this cabal.”

“Sir Osmund, I find, is no favourite with his neighbours.”

“Hang him!” replied Grim, first looking cautiously into the shop; “there’s not a man of us but would like to see him and his countrymen packed off to-morrow upon ass-panniers.  They were spawned from the Welsh ditches to help that overgrown Earl against his master.  If Sir William had been alive I had spoken out without fear.  He was a loyal knight and a true—­he ever served his country and his king.  But I bethink me that peradventure ye may have heard of our late master’s death, and who knows but ye bring some token, pilgrim, to his lady?”

“Thou hast shrewdly guessed—­I bear the last message that Sir William sent to his lady; thinkest thou it may be delivered without the knight’s privity?”

“Save thee, father! peril betides him who would hazard a message to my lady without her husband’s leave.”

“Is the Lady Mabel in health?—­and the children?” inquired the stranger.

“Sorely did she grieve when tidings came of Sir William’s death in the great battle; but sorer still rues she her wedding with Sir Osmund Neville.  Poor soul!  It would melt the nails out of a rusty horse-shoe to see how she moans herself, when she can steal privily to her chamber.  They say the knight caught her weeping once over some token that belonged to Sir William, and he burnt it before her face, ill-treating her into the bargain.”

“How came she to wed this churl?”

“Oh, it’s a sorry history!”—­The speaker paused, and it was at the pilgrim’s entreaty that he thus continued:—­