And then he thought of his lord's command, and of the urgency of the matter. What should he do? With the recklessness of despair, he bawled aloud,--
"You varlets, which way am I to go to get to St Catherine's?" But only the echo from the blackness beyond answered mockingly "Catherine" in quivering note, and the waves surged ceaselessly below. He cried again,--"You caitiffs, you, why don't you answer?" and the echo laughed back "answer," but none other answer came. "'Tis little use," he muttered, in sullen bitterness of spirit; "but I will yet find out where that smoke came from." He looked at his horse, how should he tether him? He saw beyond, and nearer the head of the chasm, a few bushes growing. Carefully he led his horse along the edge of the abyss, marvelling how he had escaped so awful a death, and regretfully thinking how he had chidden his noble horse, whose sensible instinct had saved both their lives.
When he reached the bushes, he saw that he was on the brink of a deep gully, but the ground was all broken and boggy, and covered with closely-growing bush, bramble, and scrub. The mist was gathering up afresh. Great banks of vapour were scudding across the moon, and flitting up the black chasm, suddenly appearing in the moonlight out of the darkness below, like steam out of a cauldron.
While he was debating what to do, he was startled by a gentle voice almost at his elbow. Turning quickly round, he saw a graceful figure standing on the edge of the gully, looking like black marble against the broad path of silver glory that stretched across the sea behind it.
"Fair sir, whither wouldst thou go?" said the voice.
"If thou art of real flesh and blood, gentle damoiselle, I would thank thee to tell me which is my way to St Catherine's Hermitage."
"And thou wouldst not thank me if I were not real flesh and blood?"
"Ay, marry would I, an' thou wert Sathanas himself!" cried the youth impatiently, "if only I could escape from this quagmire of a hole."
"Thou art not over-courteous, Sir Page," said the gentle voice.
"Certes, fair damsel, I crave thy pardon, but I am much belated, and have been sorely bested. I cry your mercy. But tell me, an thou canst, how I can find the Hermit of St Catherine's?"