‘What! Where! Who?’ demanded the bewildered boy, breaking off, as at that moment his friend appeared at the door of the hovel, no longer in the brown anchoret’s gown but in riding gear, partially defended by slight armour, and with a cap on his head, which made him look much younger than he had before done. ‘Child, art thou there? It is well; I could scarce have gone without bidding thee farewell,’ he said in his sweet voice; ‘thou, the dear companion of my loneliness.’ ‘O sir, sir, and are you going away?’ ‘Yea, so they will have it! These good fellows are come to guard me.’ ‘Oh! may I not go with thee?’ ‘Nay, my fair son. Thou art beneath thy mother’s wing, while I am like one who was hunted as a partridge on the mountains.’ ‘Whither, oh whither?’ gasped Hal. ‘That I know not! It is in the breasts of these good men, who are charged by my brave wife to have me in their care.’ ‘Oh! sir, sir, what shall I do without you? You that have helped me, and taught me, and opened mine eyes to all I need to know.’ ‘Hush, hush; it is a better master than I could ever be that thou needest. But,’ as tokens of impatience manifested themselves among the rude escort, ‘take thou this,’ giving him the little service-book, as he knelt to receive it, scarce knowing why. ‘One day thou wilt be able to read it. Poor child! whose lot it is to be fatherless and landless for me and mine, I would I could do more for thee.’ ‘Oh! you have done all,’ sobbed Hal. ‘Nay, now, but this be our covenant, my boy! If thou, and if mine own son both come to your own, thou wilt be a true and loyal man to him, even as thy father was to me, and may God Almighty make it go better with you both.’ ‘I will, I will! I swear by all that is holy!’ gasped Hal Clifford, with a flash of perception, as he knelt. ‘Come, my liege, we have far to go ere night. No time for more parting words and sighs.’ Hal scarcely knew more except that the hands were laid on his head, and the voice he had learnt to love so well said: ‘The blessing of God the Father be upon thee, thou fatherless boy, and may He reward thee sevenfold for what thy father was, who died for his faithfulness to me, a sinner! Fare thee well, my boy.’ As the hand that Hal was fervently kissing was withdrawn from him he sank upon his face, weeping as one heartbroken. He scarce heard the sounds of mounting and the trampling of feet, and when he raised his head he was alone, the woods and rocks were forsaken. He sprang up and ran along at his utmost speed on the trampled path, but when he emerged from it he could only see a dark party, containing a horseman or two, so far on the way that it was hopeless to overtake them. He turned back slowly to the deserted hut, and again threw himself on the ground, weeping bitterly. He knew now that his friend and master had been none other than the fugitive King, Henry of Windsor. CHAPTER X. -- THE SCHOLAR OF THE MOUNTAINS