“Pass on, my son,” replied the old man, without raising his eyes, “and hinder not my studies.”

But Richard would not be thus dismissed.

“Perchance you are not aware, father,” he said, “that the King is about to hunt within the park this morning.  The royal cavalcade has already left Hoghton Tower, and will be here ere many minutes.”

“The king and his retinue will pass along the broad avenue, as you should have done, and not through this retired road,” replied the hermit.  “They will not disturb me.”

“I would fain know the subject of your studies, father?” inquired Richard.

“You are inquisitive, young man,” returned the hermit, looking up and fixing a pair of keen grey eyes upon him.  “But I will satisfy your curiosity, if by so doing I shall rid me of your presence.  I am reading the Book of Fate.”

Richard uttered an exclamation of astonishment.

“And in it your destiny is written,” pursued the old man; “and a sad one it is.  Consumed by a strange and incurable disease, which may at any moment prove fatal, you are scarcely likely to survive the next three days, in which case she you love better than existence will perish miserably, being adjudged to have destroyed you by witchcraft.”

“It must indeed be the Book of Fate that tells you this,” cried Richard, springing from his horse, and approaching close to the old man.  “May I cast eyes upon it?”

“No, my son,” replied the old man, closing the volume.  “You would not comprehend the mystic characters—­but no eye, except my own, must look upon them.  What is written will be fulfilled.  Again, I bid you pass on.  I must speedily return to my hermit cell in the forest.”

“May I attend you thither, father?” asked Richard.

“To what purpose?” rejoined the old man.  “You have not many hours of life.  Go, then, and pass them in the fierce excitement of the chase.  Pull down the lordly stag—­slaughter the savage boar; and, as you see the poor denizens of the forest perish, think that your own end is not far off.  Hark!  Do you hear that boding cry?”

“It is the croak of a raven newly alighted in the tree above us,” replied Richard.  “The sagacious bird will ever attend the huntsman in the chase, in the hope of obtaining a morsel when they break up deer.”

“Such is the custom of the bird I wot well,” said the old man; “but it is not in joyous expectation of the raven’s-bone that he croaks now, but because his fell instinct informs him that the living-dead is beneath him.”

And, as if in answer to the remark, the raven croaked exultingly; and, rising from the tree, wheeled in a circle above them.

“Is there no way of averting my terrible destiny, father?” cried Richard, despairingly.

“Ay, if you choose to adopt it,” replied the old man.  “When I said your ailment was incurable, I meant by ordinary remedies, but it will yield to such as I alone can employ.  The malignant and fatal influence under which you labour may be removed, and then your instant restoration to health and vigour will follow.”