“Father,” said the knight, “the room is but poorly lighted. Shall I order the chandeliers to be trimmed?” “Nay, Sir Osmund,” returned the parson with a hideous leer and smile; “nay, we have light enough. You could sign your name by this light, Sir Osmund? I can read my prayers then. Eh? You could sign your name?” “Sign my name!” furiously exclaimed the knight, whilst he arose and stood upon the hearth. “Sign my name!” “Sir Osmund, you are not, surely, ashamed of your name,” meekly returned Cliderhoe. “A valiant knight is proud of it.” “But to what, good father, must I give my name?” inquired the knight, who, after the flash of first passion was over, thought it most prudent to be calm, for he knew the character of him with whom he had to deal. “To this little document. Written in a fair clerk’s hand; is it not? Ah! but you warriors write in blood! Yet, which is most durable? Read the papers. You appear exhausted, Sir Osmund. Ah! hunting is so fatiguing; to be sure, to be sure. Who can doubt it? The couch, brave knight, should receive your wearied limbs forthwith. Nay, nay, I will not trouble you with listening to these papers. Just sign your name; a few strokes of the pen, and then you may retire. I must have a care, brave knight, over your body: you are so reckless, and should any accident occur, chivalry would lose its brightest lance, and the church its firmest prop. Sir Osmund, here is a pen; affix your name below that writing.” In speaking, the parson had come nearer and nearer to the chair of the knight. The latter started, as from the coil of a serpent. “Never, never, Cliderhoe:--thou hypocrite,--base born!” “Hush, hush,” said the parson, in tones which struck terror, from their very whisper, into the knight’s soul, “do not give me any more names than my natural father, and my spiritual mother the church, have conferred. Beware. _I have never absolved one sin against myself, during a lifetime! Beware!_” Sir Osmund took the papers. His eye glanced quickly over them. He laid them aside, and arose to leave the room. “Father Cliderhoe, next time make proposals a little more extravagant, and you shall precede me in my exit from this room!” “Well,” thundered forth Cliderhoe, “bid adieu to Haigh Hall. Your rejection of my proposal makes it necessary. But hear me, before you go to ruin. I would yet spare you. Without my favour, you never can lay claim to one tittle of this property. Hush, come hither,” and he whispered earnestly, and smiled as he saw Sir Osmund’s cheek grow pale. “What!” Sir Osmund exclaimed, “Sir William was not slain! Then he may return?”