"Nay, Nicholas," returned his friend, "thou art in a gloomy strain. I am a messenger of peace; I bear good tidings to thee, not ill-news. Thou must away with me at once." "I cannot go; but see! my lamp is out. I must light it again. You see how indifferent I am," he apologetically exclaimed, "I even fall asleep over my prayers." "Ha! I perceive thou art over-weary; take my advice for the once, and do not rise so soon, nor pray so long." "Ah, Everard, 'tis not that," replied the holy man; "I have not been to my poor couch since yester morning. I have been praying through the night for the speedy restoration of our holy Church." "And see, whilst thou hast been sleeping I have saved thy life," interjected Everard; "but I must tell thee on my journey. I would have thee accompany me back to Haddon." "My poor pets!" exclaimed the hermit sorrowfully, as he lifted up the stone; "they are all killed." "'Tis a case of death, I fear," pursued Crowleigh, referring to the father's illness. "I fear it is," replied the other, looking ruefully at his dead pets. "Thou hast killed my companions, Everard." "Ugh! pretty companions, I trow," said the knight, scornfully; "but we must hasten. I will acquaint thee with the whys and wherefores as we go. Nay, never mind the lamp, thou can'st say adieu to that. Our horses are tethered to a tree below, and thou must shrive a friend who is at death's door--a priest. I have ridden throughout the livelong day to fetch thee. Art thou ready now?" "What, so soon? This is sudden indeed." "Aye, man, so soon. Death tarries for no man, and, beshrew me, it will not tarry for us either." "I must take Leo, then." "Very well, pick him up, but let us be off I pray." "This is _too_ sudden, Everard, indeed it is. I have many sick to visit, and I would fain go to the monastery just once again, to bid----" "There must be no buts about it, Nicholas," returned his friend quickly, "the father is dying, and the baron expects you." "Give me but an hour, then I will go with thee. 'Tis sad to break away from a spot hallowed by so many sacred memories, and at so short warning, too. I am loth to go, Everard, even now. There is no other spot on earth like this to me." "'Tis a cold and cheerless home, truly," exclaimed the knight, sympathetically, "and I will find thee a far better one, Nicholas. See, I will give thee half-an-hour, and then you must bid adieu to this place or I must return alone and leave thee." Nicholas submitted to the decision of his friend, and in less than the stipulated time they had both turned their backs upon the hospitable shelter which had been a home to the monk when every door seemed shut against him, and were on their way to Haddon. CHAPTER XVIII. THE CHAMBER OF DEATH. Child, if it were thine error or thy crime, I care no longer, being all unblest; Wed whom thou wilt; but I am sick of time. And I desire to rest. TENNYSON.