Hal turned to take leave of his host, but the hermit’s eyes were raised in such rapt contemplation as to see nought, and, indeed, it might be matter of doubt whether he had ever perceived the presence of his visitor. Hal directed Piers to arrange the fire, and hurried away, becoming conscious as he came in sight of the cottage that there were horses standing before it, and guessing at once that it must be a visit from Sir Lancelot Threlkeld. It was Simon Bunce, however, who, with demonstrations of looking for him, came out to meet him as he emerged from the brushwood, and said in a gruff whisper, clutching his shoulder hard, ‘Not a word to give a clue! Mum! More than your life hangs on it.’ No more could pass, to explain the clue intended, whether to the presence of the young Lord Clifford himself, which was his first thought, or to the inhabitant of the hermitage. For Sir Lancelot’s cheerful voice was exclaiming, ‘Here he is, my lady! Here’s your son! How now, my young lord? Thou hast learnt to hold up thy head! Ay, and to bow in better sort,’ as, bending with due grace, Hal paused for a second ere hurrying forward to kneel before his mother, who raised him in her arms and kissed him with fervent affection. ‘My son! mine own dear boy, how art thou grown! Thou hast well nigh a knightly bearing!’ she exclaimed. ‘Master Bunce hath done well by thee.’ ‘Good blood will out, my lady,’ quoth Simon, well pleased at her praise. ‘He hath had no training but thine?’ said Sir Lancelot, looking full at Simon. ‘None, Sir Knight, unless it be honest Halstead’s here.’ ‘Methought I heard somewhat of the hermit in the glen,’ put in the lady. ‘He is a saint!’ declared two or three voices, as if this precluded his being anything more. ‘A saint,’ repeated the lady. ‘Anchorets are always saints. What doth he?’ ‘Prayeth,’ answered Simon. ‘Never doth a man come in but he is at his prayers. ‘Tis always one hour or another!’ ‘Ay?’ said Sir Lancelot, interrogatively. ‘Sayest thou so? Is he an old man?’ Simon put in his word before Hal could speak: ‘Men get so knocked about in these wars that there’s no guessing their age. I myself should deem that the poor rogue had had some clouts on the head that dazed him and made him fit for nought save saying his prayers.’ Here Sir Lancelot beckoned Simon aside, and walked him away, so as to leave the mother and son alone together.