"Yes," said Master Peasegood! "and plenty of blackberries, and hips and haws, and cold night-dews, and damp ferns. Bah, man, we can't live like hermits here in this Christian land. This is not a place where a man can be happy in a hair-shirt and a scooped-out hole in the rock, with a handful of dates and a cup of water. My word, it would puzzle some of those early fathers to exist on such terms down here. But there, have no fear, there is not a man for miles round who would not give either of us a hiding-place and a regular meal if we were in need." "Brother Peasegood, you are a true friend," said Father Brisdone; "and I shall resign myself to thy advice, for I am weak, and I own that I shrink from the thought of martyrdom; for life is, after all, so very sweet." "Of course it is, or it wouldn't be given to us. Bah! When you meet with a man who talks much about the weariness and wretchedness of the world, depend upon it there is something wrong." Father Brisdone bowed his head. "I'm afraid I have a good deal of the evil one in me, brother," said Master Peasegood, helping himself to more tobacco. "See here, I try this herb to see what it is like, so that I may be able to follow out his Majesty's wishes, and duly preach it down; and how do I find myself? Why, tied neck and heels, and given over to the hands of the tempter." "Ah, yes," said Father Brisdone, re-lighting his own pipe, "it is a soothing and seductive weed." "Then again, about you? Sir Thomas at the Moat twitted me again with our intimacy, as not becoming the parson of Roehurst, and I told him I was converting you fast." "An untruth, brother Peasegood." "Yes; but it slipped out unawares. Ah, Brother Francis, I'm afraid that I resemble the unjust steward, and am making friends with such as thou against the days when thy party has the ascendancy once more, and we Protestants are of small account." Father Brisdone shook his head sadly. "Nay," he said, "the day is gone; and, if it were not, thou art not the man to stand on the order of taking care of self. But was not that a step?" They ceased speaking, for it was plainly enough a step, and directly after the door was unceremoniously opened and a figure stood on the threshold. "Gilbert Carr!" cried Master Peasegood; "why I thought thee miles away." "And so I should be," was the reply; "but I could not go without first saying a few words." Master Peasegood rose from his chair, and made way for his fresh visitor to take a seat; but Gil laid his hands upon the stout clerk's shoulders, and gently pressed him back. "Sit still," he said; "I have not a minute to stay. I have come across from Curtport, and must be back at daybreak, or my vessel will have to wait another tide." "Have you a horse?" "No; I walked," said Gil, smiling. "Why, it is nearly thirty miles," said Father Brisdone. "Quite," was the reply. "Look here, Master Peasegood, I can speak before Father Brisdone, for he is a friend."