The other’s eyes twinkled for a moment.
“And dost thou feast on Christmas Day, father? Methought dried peas and, perchance, a cut of goat’s flesh would be dainties fitted to thy scruples.”
The hermit smiled.
“Why, so they are; but truly the food matters little more than the place.”
Then the knight sighed loudly.
“Ah, but I bethink me,” he said, “of a great hall in Merry England, and the boar’s head and the foaming ale and the songs and laughter! I would I were there, across yon blue sea!”
The hermit smiled again.
“Truly, Sir Knight, dried goat’s flesh is not a boar’s head, and this gourd I take from thee is not a horn of ale; but this is Christmas Day, and thou art welcome.”
“And I will stay, good father, and dine with thee! but in truth I had meant so to do, an the hermit’s face were not too long.” He glanced up, sidelong, at the hermit’s solemn visage above him. “Yonder, on the road by the sea, lies my horse with a broken leg. God’s mercy that he did not break my skull when he fell! I saw a path leading away through the forest toward the mountain, and as all paths on Athos do now but lead to hermits’ caves, ’twas but a short moment before I turned my steps hitherward.”