In speaking, the parson had come nearer and nearer to the chair of the knight. The latter started, as from the coil of a serpent.
“Never, never, Cliderhoe:—thou hypocrite,—base born!”
“Hush, hush,” said the parson, in tones which struck terror, from their very whisper, into the knight’s soul, “do not give me any more names than my natural father, and my spiritual mother the church, have conferred. Beware. I have never absolved one sin against myself, during a lifetime! Beware!”
Sir Osmund took the papers. His eye glanced quickly over them. He laid them aside, and arose to leave the room.
“Father Cliderhoe, next time make proposals a little more extravagant, and you shall precede me in my exit from this room!”
“Well,” thundered forth Cliderhoe, “bid adieu to Haigh Hall. Your rejection of my proposal makes it necessary. But hear me, before you go to ruin. I would yet spare you. Without my favour, you never can lay claim to one tittle of this property. Hush, come hither,” and he whispered earnestly, and smiled as he saw Sir Osmund’s cheek grow pale.
“What!” Sir Osmund exclaimed, “Sir William was not slain! Then he may return?”
“He may—he may; nay, he will! Haigh Hall is too goodly a mansion for him to leave to strangers. False was the word which reported him dead. But sign this document, giving to me the half of the estate—and let him return—we are safe. The pilgrim shall find a resting place, though I should be compelled to take my sword, and secure it for him. Sir Osmund, there’s light enough to sign the name. You are a knightly scholar; spell it quickly, else, you know, you know. Every letter will be a security against Sir William. Ha! the large O of your christian name will be his grave!”