Hal had wandered farther than his wont, rather hoping to be out of call if Simon arrived to give him a lesson in chivalrous sports. He found himself on the slope of one of the gorges down which smaller streams rushed in wet weather to join the Derwent. There was a sound of tinkling water, and leaning forward, Hal saw that a tiny thread of water dropped between the ferns and the stones. Therewith a low, soft chant in a manly voice, mingling with the drip of the water.
The words were strange to him&&
Lucis Creator optime,
Lucem dierum proferens&&
but they were very sweet, and in leaning forward to look between the rowan branches and hear and see more, his foot slipped, and with Watch barking round him, he rolled helplessly down the rock, and found himself before a tall light-haired man, in a dark dress, who gave a hand to raise him, asking kindly, ‘Art hurt, my child?’
‘Oh, no, sir! Off, off, Watch!’ as the dog was about to resent anyone’s touching his master. ‘Holy sir, thanks, great thanks,’ as a long fair hand helped him to his feet, and brushed his soiled garment.
‘Unhurt, I see,’ said that sweet voice. ‘Hast thou lost thy way? Good dog, thou lovest thy master! Art thou astray?’
‘No, sir, thank you, I know my way home.’
‘Thou art the boy who lives with the shepherd at Derwentside, on Bunce’s ground?’
‘Ay, Hob Hogward’s herd boy,’ said Hal. ‘Oh, sir, are you the holy hermit of the Derwent vale?’
‘A hermit for the nonce I am,’ was the answer, with something of a smile responsive to the eager face.