"My son, I have been a knight, as thou well knowest, and in mine hot youth I also bore a feud against one who, in sooth, had wronged me. I slew him, and albeit there was no question of his evil-doing, yet I rue me of his blood, and in my lonely orisons I implore mercy for my blood-guiltiness. I would fain spare the lonely hours of sorrow and remorse that will await thee, if thou livest,--him, if he slay thee. For the dolour to him will be great; and as I well know his knightly heart and gentle and joyous nature, so--" "Now beshrew me for a soft-hearted chitling an I hearken to aught more of his laud. If thou hast no more but this to say, I will e’en take my leave, holy father. The sun is set, and I have matters to hasten withal." "Fare thee well then, my son," answered the old man, with a sigh. "At least be mindful of thy daughter; and if evil betide thee, see that as little as may be befall her, pretty innocent. But fear not. As is my bounden duty, all that I know of thy party, thy plots, and thine hopes is sunk deep in the inmost chambers of my mind, and thou needst not fear that I will bewray thee. I urged but thy duty as a Christian, and minding well the words, ’Blessed are the peace-makers.’ Mayhap the time will come soon, sooner than thou or I know, when thou wilt wish thou hadst hearkened to the voice of the Lord, through me, and hadst not hastened thy feet to shed blood. Farewell, my son, and fain would I that I could say, with any hope of its being true, _Pax vobiscum!_" So saying, the old man turned away, and took the path, or rather sheep-track, which led over the down behind him. When he had climbed some distance up the steep, wind-shorn slope of brown grass, he paused, and turned to look over the lovely view behind him. The sun had set, and storm-clouds were working up on the horizon. Above their deep, livid masses a clear, pale yellow sky, flecked with golden and purple patches of wind-torn vapour, told of the change that would shortly come. The wide-stretching "wine-dark sea" lay far below, as yet still and glassy, its surface only heaving with the long swell which rolled into the Channel, telling of a storm far off in the mysterious deserts of the yet boundless Atlantic. The roar of the surf, grinding among the rocks on that iron-bound coast, surged up to the giddy height whence the Hermit of St Catherine gazed out to the west and mused on the monotony of earthly passions, their dreary recurrence, and how they are blotted out by death and eternity. "’Lord, what is man that Thou art mindful of him, or the son of man that Thou so regardest him? Man is but a thing of naught, so soon passeth he away and he is gone.’ Ay, truly! but Thy word abideth." And with a weary sigh the old man once more turned to climb the steep-backed hill.