Parson Cliderhoe was then dreaded throughout all the country. By wiles and deceits he laid a firm hand upon property. But he was as intriguing as he was avaricious, and his plots had been treasonable in the highest degree. These would have involved him in utter ruin, had not gold, that potent being, redeemed him. In consideration of large sums of money, he had been released from prison, and restored to his living and life, when both had been justly forfeited. He had lately become an inmate of Haigh Hall, and might have been considered its master. Sir Osmund Neville, it is true, could make the parson the subject of jest: but the knight, in return, was the subject of rule and command. To Lady Mabel and the boys, Cliderhoe paid no attention, either in the shape of flattery or scorn. On securing the door, he laid aside his priestly robes, drew the table back from the view of the window, nearer to the Welsh knight’s chair, and seated himself opposite. He was of tall stature, and nature, in this specimen of her architecture, had not been sparing of materials, although, certainly, she might have put them better together. If we may be allowed the expression, she had not counted the cost with arithmetical accuracy. The head bore no proportion to the other parts, as if her extravagance in these had caused her to be penurious to that. Although the bones were well cemented by fat, yet the structure was far from being elegant. It was difficult to decide upon the true figure; and Euclid himself must have abandoned the problem in despair. His head, which was not shaven, but clipped closely, could not be compared to a globe; neither was it like Atlas’s, between his shoulders. It moved backwards and forwards with such velocity, and describing such a large parabola, that one moment it seemed to be a few feet in advance of the breast, and the next, its retreat was as distant. His large ears (a true mark of villainy and vulgarity) were left altogether exposed, stretching their wide shelter over his flabby cheeks. His legs were not elastic, they might have been glass; but his arms were electric, and they jerked about at every roll and wriggle of his mis-shapen trunk. He took large strides, as if his feet were not friendly to each other, save at the distance of two yards. His complexion was dark. His eye, when it gazed on vacancy, was dull; it only became bright from the reflection of gold. But still, in spite of all these deformities, there was a conscious power breathed over the appearance of Father Cliderhoe; and, although villainy, deceit, and guile, are generally allied to a more dwarfish form, you could not hesitate, upon seeing the man, to pronounce that he was a habitation for such dark spirits. Sir Osmund Neville looked suspiciously towards him, as he sat silent on his chair, occasionally moving it about, as if anxious for something which might introduce the subject he wished to be considered.