Somewhat to the surprise of Simon Bunce and Hob Hogward, Hal improved greatly, not only in speech but in bearing; he showed no such dislike or backwardness in chivalrous exercises as previously; and when once Sir Lancelot Threlkeld came over to see him, he was absolutely congratulated on looking so much more like a young knight. ‘Ay,’ said Bunce, taking all the merit to himself, ‘there’s nought like having an old squire trained in the wars in France to show a stripling how to hold a lance.’ Hal had been too well tutored to utter a word of him to whom his improvement was really due, not by actual training, but partly by unconscious example in dignified grace and courtesy of demeanour, and partly by the rather sad assurances that it was well that a man born to his station, if he ever regained it, should be able to defend himself and others, and not be a helpless burthen on their hands. Tales of the Seven Champions of Christendom and of King Arthur and his Knights likewise had their share in the moulding of the youthful Lord Clifford. His great desire was to learn to read, but it was not encouraged by the hermit, nor was there any book available save the portuary, crookedly and contractedly written on vellum, so as to be illegible to anyone unfamiliar with writing, with Latin, or the service. However, the anchoret yielded to his importunity so far as to let him learn the alphabet, traced on the door in charcoal, and identify the more sacred words in the book--which, indeed, were all in gold, red and blue. He did not advance more than this, for his teacher was apt to go off in a musing dream of meditation, repeating over and over in low sweet tones the holy phrases, and not always rousing himself when his pupil made a remark or asked a question. Yet he was always concerned at his own inattention when awakened, and would apologise in a tone of humility that always made Hal feel grieved and ashamed of having been importunate. For there was a dignity and gentleness about the hermit that always made the boy feel the contrast with his own roughness and uncouthness, and reverence him as something from a holier world. ‘Nurse, I do think he is a saint,’ one day said Hal. ‘Nay, nay, my laddie, saints don’t come down from heaven in these days of evil.’ ‘I would thou could see him when one comes upon him at his prayers. His face is like the angel at the cross I saw so long ago in the castle chapel.’ ‘Dost thou remember that chapel? Thou wert a babe when we quitted it.’ ‘I had well nigh forgotten it, but the good hermit’s face brought all back again, and the voice of the father when he said the Service.’ ‘That thou shouldst mind so long! This hermit is no priest, thou sayst?’ ‘No, he said he was not worthy; but sure all saints were not priests, nurse.’