Gaston, with a blast of his horn, recalls the hounds and attendants; and, despite the entreaties of the white horseman, and the reluctance of his followers, he bids them turn the horses into the field of green corn. Hastening to him, the hermit cries, in tones of earnest pleading: "Have pity, gracious lord; spare the labour of an old man; do not let your steeds devour and trample down the field which nourishes the solitary, the traveller, and the poor." "To the devil with hermits and nuns," replies the proud hunter. "Away with you, lazy rascal; or your carcass shall go to feed my hounds." Frightened and sad, the poor old man turns away, murmuring to himself: "Father, which art in Heaven, forgive this young man; Thy providence which feeds the birds of the air and clothes the flower of the field will suffice for me also." "Gaston," interposes the white rider, "Your words are harsh. Who knows but that you owe your very life to this old man? that, perchance without his prayers and fastings, your soul, already weighed many times in the heavenly scales, might well have been found too light." But the admonition of the white horseman passes unheeded. Seated beside the spring, the huntsmen make a long and merry repast; the jests ring out, loose and loud; with wild laughter the young baron applauds every sally of his dark companion. 'Tis the vesper hour; the hermit rings the chapel bell. To-day he is not alone in the sanctuary; the white horseman, leaving his companions, joins the old man in psalm and canticle. Never has the recluse heard a voice more pure, never has he joined in a more holy communion. The two servants of God, leaving the chapel together, pause for a moment on the threshold. They gaze out over the scene. The huntsmen are gone; the field of green corn is ravaged, blasted, as though by a storm of hail. In one hour, Gaston's horses have destroyed the work of a year. The white horseman bids farewell to the hermit, and hastens to join the baron. Regretfully the recluse watches the departing figure. "Who," he murmurs to himself, "may this noble hunter be? His kiss has filled me with peace and joy, and all my heart is aglow in his presence." Now the hunt is again set on. The wolf has doubled back upon his track. Meanwhile the forest shadows lengthen, the sun is low upon the horizon. Once more the hunt passes through the village. In the road, still red with the blood of the shepherdess, a poor man stands, awaiting Gaston. He seizes the young lord's cloak, and asks alms, for the love of God. "Dear baron," cries the white rider, "It is a means of grace, which the Saviour sends you. I beseech you, redeem your sins by the giving of alms; it is like water which quenches fire. Give a helping hand to him who stands for Jesus." "Gaston," retorts the black rider, "For this clown will you stay the hunt, and let the great wolf win the day? Gallop! gallop!"