There was a sound of feet clambering up the rocky way. A voice reached them, harsh and nasal, uttering loud curses upon lands where Christian hospitality dwelt in caves on mountain-tops. Then an unkempt head came into view, followed by a body clothed in rags and patches.
The hermit greeted the newcomer after the fashion of the East: “Peace to thee.”
The man paused to get his breath, and answered, “Thou art set on high indeed, holy father. ’Twere more friendly to set thy cave by the roadside below.”
“Make thy complaint to God who made the cave, thou unmannerly rascal!” the knight interrupted, jumping to his feet. “By thy costume thou art a beggar. Go thou and beg of richer men.”
“Peace, peace!” said the hermit. “All men are beggars at my door—and all are guests—and all are welcome.”
“Then thou shalt have a full table for thy Christmas dried peas, father, for yonder come more of thy guests.”
The hermit and the beggar looked down where he pointed. Up the steep path toiled four men, one after the other. The three above stood waiting their arrival. At length they came. The knight checked them off in an undertone as the hermit gave to each his kindly “Peace to thee!”
“Thou art a merchant, and wealthy, by thy girth”—so ran the commentary—“and thou—a thief, by thine eyes and thy nearness to Sir Merchant. And thou—thou art I know not what, but thou hast broken heart written on thy face. And thou art a thinker, by thy broad brow and thy slender figure.”
One after another they returned the hermit’s greeting, each after his kind. He whom the knight called merchant offered bluntly to pay for a good meal; the thief spoke with oily heartiness; the broken-hearted said never a word; and he of the broad brow and the uncalloused fingers responded with the courtesy of one at home in any place.
“A fair Christmas Day, good sirs,” quoth the hermit then; “and all I have for your Christmas feast! Come hither into the shade of the rock and sit ye down.”