Father Philip, despite his faults, was universally beloved in the neighbourhood—­by the poor for the bounty he dispensed at the gates from the well-stocked larder of the knight; by the rich because he was by far the best tale-teller of the district, and the success of a feast at which he was present was at once assured; and by the children generally, for the confections and little silver pence he bestowed upon them, along with his kind word and cheery smile, in a most liberal manner.

At Haddon he was a prime favourite with all alike.  He had entered the service of the Vernons soon after the monasteries were dissolved, in the time of Henry VIII., and had grown old in his office.  Throughout the critical and changeful reigns of Edward and Mary, as well as the early years of Elizabeth’s time, he had, in spite of all the attempts made to oust him, retained his position as confessor to the family and priest of the chapel at Haddon, and, as he had christened Margaret, he was looking forward with pleasurable expectancy to the occasion when he would be called upon to marry her also.

Leaving Dorothy standing on the threshold of the doorway, Manners advanced to the injured man’s side, and endeavoured to sooth him by instilling into his mind a ray of hope.

“O, Dorothy,” gasped the priest, disregarding the words of his would-be comforter, “I am dying, dying like a dog.  O, for some of Dame Durden’s simples now.  For the blessed Virgin’s sake fetch Sir Benedict.  O, dear!  O, dear!” and he sank back with a groan.

Dorothy turned, and with a fast-beating heart hastened to deliver the captive knight, while her lover endeavoured to staunch the flow of blood by binding the wound tightly up in strips of cloth.

By dint of much shaking and shouting cousin Benedict was at last roused from his drunken sleep, and also at last was made to understand somewhat of the exigencies of the case for which his aid was needed.

“I will come soon,” he exclaimed, in answer to Dorothy’s entreaties.

“You must come now!” she replied, in a peremptory tone, which admitted of no prevarication.

“Where is the wine?” he asked, as he rubbed his eyes and glanced around; “why, this is the kitchen.”

“Come along, Benedict; Father Philip is dying, I tell you.  Do you understand?”

Benedict a Woode stood up as still as he was able, and rubbed off a quantity of the salt which tenaciously adhered to his garments, then, noticing for the first time that he was in the great salt trough, he exclaimed in a tone of great surprise, “What! have I been here?”

“You have,” she answered severely, “but why do you not come and succour Father Philip?  He is bleeding to death, while you, who are staying here, might help him.”

As the knight rapidly collected his scattered senses, he became more and more ashamed of himself; and now, clambering out of his ignominious confinement, with bowed head and tottering feet he humbly followed his fair companion across the yard.  Not even the gigantic vat, which was still steaming from a recent brew, the pungent odour of which could be plainly scented, induced him to alter his course; he meekly entered the room at Dorothy’s heels.