Simon examined Hal closely on what he had said to his mother, sighed heavily, and chided him for prating when he had been warned against it, but that was what came of dealing with children and womenfolk.
‘What can be the hurt?’ asked Hal. ‘Sir Lancelot knows well who I am! No lack of prudence in him would put men on my track.’
‘Hear him!’ cried Simon; ‘he thinks there is no nobler quarry in the woods than his lordship!’
‘The hermit! Oh, Simon, who is he?’
But Simon began to shout for Hob Hogward, and would not hear any further questions before he rode away, as far as Hal could see, in the opposite direction to the hermitage. But when he repaired thither the next day he was startled by hearing voices and the stamp of horses, and as he reconnoitred through the trees he saw half a dozen rough-looking men, with bows and arrows, buff coats, and steel-guarded caps—outlaws and robbers as he believed.
His first thought was that they meant harm to the gentle hermit, and his impulse was to start forward to his protection or assistance, but as he sprang into sight one of the strangers cried out: ‘How now! Here’s a shepherd thrusting himself in. Back, lad, or ‘twill be the worse for you.’
‘The hermit! the hermit! Do not meddle with him! He’s a saint,’ shouted Hal.
But even as he spoke he became aware of Simon, who called out: ‘Hold, sir; back, Giles; this is one well nigh in as much need of hiding as him yonder. Well come, since you be come, my lord, for we cannot get him there away without a message to you, and ‘tis well he should be off ere the sleuth-hounds can get on the scent.’
‘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.’