"My curiosity is aroused," said the abbot. "I must see him."
"Noa sooner said than done," cried Ashbead, "for, be t' Lort Harry, ey see him stonding be yon moss poo' o' top t' hill, though how he'n getten theer t' Dule owny knoas."
And he pointed out a tall dark figure standing near a little pool on the summit of the mountain, about a hundred yards from them.
"Talk of ill, and ill cometh," observed Father Haydocke. "And see, the wizard hath a black hound with him! It may be his wife, in that likeness."
"Naw, ey knoas t' hount reet weel, Feyther Haydocke," replied the forester; "it's a Saint Hubert, an' a rareun fo' fox or badgert. Odds loife, feyther, whoy that's t' black bandyhewit I war speaking on."
"I like not the appearance of the knave at this juncture," said the abbot; "yet I wish to confront him, and charge him with his midemeanours."
"Hark; he sings," cried Father Haydocke. And as he spoke a voice was heard chanting,—
"One shall sit at a solemn feast,
Half warrior, half priest,
The greatest there shall be the least."
"The very ditty I heard," cried Father Eastgate; "but list, he has more of it." And the voice resumed,—
"He shall be rich, yet poor as me,
Abbot, and Earl of Poverty.
Monk and soldier, rich and poor,
He shall be hang'd at his own door."