“I have not failed you, Father.”
“That is rarely a true boast with men,” said the Hermit, smiling mournfully, but without sarcasm; “and were the promise of greater avail, it might not have been so rigidly kept.”
“The promise, Father, seemed to me of greater weight than you would intimate,” answered I.
“How mean you?” said the Hermit, hastily.
“Why, that we may perhaps serve each other by our meeting: you, Father, may comfort me by your counsels; I you by my readiness to obey your request.”
The Hermit looked at me for some moments, and, as well as I could, I turned away my face from his gaze. I might have spared myself the effort. He seemed to recognize nothing familiar in my countenance; perhaps his mental malady assisted my own alteration.
“I have inquired respecting you,” he said, after a pause, “and I hear that you are a learned and wise man, who has seen much of the world, and played the part both of soldier and of scholar in its various theatres: is my information true?”
“Not true with the respect to the learning, Father, but true with regard to the experience. I have been a pilgrim in many countries of Europe.”
“Indeed!” said the Hermit, eagerly. “Come with me to my home, and tell me of the wonders you have seen.”
I assisted the Hermit to rise, and he walked slowly towards the cavern, leaning upon my arm. Ob, how that light touch thrilled through my frame! How I longed to cry, “Are you not the one whom I have loved, and mourned, and believed buried in the tomb?” But I checked myself. We moved on in silence. The Hermit’s hand was on the door of the cavern, when he said, in a calm tone, but with evident effort, and turning his face from me while he spoke:—