The Reformation had come in with so much vigour; the enactments against the Roman Catholics were so stringent, that not even another priest could be found to shrive him. The pendulum of fortune had indeed swung back again with a vengeance. From one extreme the religious laws had gone to the other; and so it befell that the father, to his exceeding great regret, found himself dying with never a minister of his own persuasion near at hand. Crowleigh again came to his relief. He had a friend, a staunch Catholic who had been expelled from Oxford University soon after Elizabeth's accession on account of his strong religious views. He had turned monk, and, during the recent pitiless times, it had frequently fallen to Sir Everard's lot to befriend him. He was at this time in hiding at no great distance from Crowleigh's estate, and the latter had sufficient confidence in his friend's willingness to come to promise Sir George Vernon that he would fetch him. The offer was gladly accepted. Without any delay the two best horses in the stable were saddled, and within a very short space of time both horses and rider were well started on their way towards the south-western boundary of the shire. Nicholas Bury had for two years lived the life of a hermit. In his seclusion he had become happy, and though the reverence was denied him which the early hermits had accustomed themselves to receive, yet he was at least unmolested, and thanks to Sir Everard, who ever assisted him in time of need, he was never left to want for the few necessaries of life that he required. Sir Everard Crowleigh rode hard all the morning, and stopping on his errand but once--to partake of a light meal--he arrived at the abode of his friend as the twilight put forth its gentle mask of gloom. Deepdale was an attractive spot, but it was not the natural beauty of the scene which had first attracted the eyes of Nicholas Bury so much as the facilities it offered for his purpose. Centuries before a pious Derby baker had retired to the self-same spot, and besides this hallowed memory there was the still more substantial cell to hand which the saintly old recluse had left behind him. This, cut out of the solid rock, and situated at the summit of a deep declivity, was overgrown by a curtain of ivy, which not only screened its tenant from the wintry winds, but also hid his retreat from the gaze of the innocent passer-by. The Abbey, hard by, had been dismantled before Nicholas knew it, but it was a source of gratification to him to be so near so sacred a building, and at eventide he would wander fondly about its walls and murmur his vespers to himself. Sir Everard paused before entering upon the solitude of his friend, and would fain have rested his weary limbs on the mossy banks of the slope, but remembering how nearly Father Philip was to death he overruled his feelings, and, brushing through the ivy covering of the doorway, he entered quietly into the sanctum of the hermit.