"Holy father," said the tailor, on entering the cell, "I crave thy benison."
The anchorite, who was on his knees before a crucifix, did not speak until he had finished his devotions. He then rose and pronounced the usual benedictory welcome.
"So far all is well," thought Mike; "I've got one blow at the devil anyhow."
The holy father was very old, but he was hale and active. His white silky beard almost touched his girdle, and his sharp though rheumy eyes peered inquisitively on the person of his guest.
"What is thine errand, my son?" inquired the recluse.
"I have fallen into a grievous temptation, and would crave your succour and advice."
"Heaven wills it oft, my son, that we fall into divers extremities to humble us, and to show the folly and weakness of our hearts. What is thy trouble and thy petition?"
"Alas!" said the other, weeping, "I have been face to face with the father of lies, and I have suffered much damage therefrom."
"Thou hast not been tampering with forbidden arts, I hope?"
"Truly, that have I, and to my soul's cost, I fear," said the tailor, with a groan of heartrending despair.