While he was thus occupied, the door of the little chapel was opened by a priest of venerable and benevolent aspect, who stepped towards him, bade him a kindly good morrow, and bestowed a benison upon him.
“What brings Master Osbert Clinton to Saint Catherine’s Hill so early?” inquired the old priest.
“Nothing more than to hear matins in your chapel, good Father Jerome,” replied Osbert. “I trust I am in time.”
“You are in ample time, my son,” replied the old priest, smiling. “Matins have not yet been said, and will not commence for half an hour. Except myself, you are the first on Saint Catherine’s Hill this blessed morning. Indeed, I marvel to see you here so soon. That a young gallant like Master Osbert Clinton, engaged in all the gaieties of court, should have come to this little chapel to pray at so early an hour, argues a strength of devotion for which, I own, I scarcely give him credit.”
“I will not attempt to deceive you, good father,” returned Osbert. “It is not merely the desire to pray within your chapel that has brought me here, but the hope of meeting a fair maiden——”
“Dare you make such an avowal to me, young Sir?” interrupted Father Jerome, in a tone of stern rebuke.
“Nay Father, be not angry with me,” said Osbert. “You will pardon me, I am sure, when you know my motive. My object is to caution the damsel, and this is the only opportunity I may have of doing so.”
“Methinks I know the damsel you allude to, my son,” returned Father Jerome. “Mistress Constance Tyrrell, is it not? She was here yesterday, and after performing her devotions, poured forth the secrets of her heart to me, and besought my counsel.”
“You are aware, then, of the perilous position in which she is placed, and of the necessity of extricating her from it without delay?”
“I know she is beloved by some exalted personage, and that she is full of apprehension——”