The old man glided away, stooping, stealthy, cat-like, and brought the low bench.  He seated himself upon it, half his body in the dim and flickering light, and the other half in shadow; and so, with his craving eyes bent upon the slumbering boy, he kept his patient vigil there, heedless of the drift of time, and softly whetted his knife, and mumbled and chuckled; and in aspect and attitude he resembled nothing so much as a grizzly, monstrous spider, gloating over some hapless insect that lay bound and helpless in his web. After a long while, the old man, who was still gazing,—yet not seeing, his mind having settled into a dreamy abstraction,—observed, on a sudden, that the boy’s eyes were open! wide open and staring!—staring up in frozen horror at the knife.  The smile of a gratified devil crept over the old man’s face, and he said, without changing his attitude or his occupation—
“Son of Henry the Eighth, hast thou prayed?”
The boy struggled helplessly in his bonds, and at the same time forced a smothered sound through his closed jaws, which the hermit chose to interpret as an affirmative answer to his question.
“Then pray again.  Pray the prayer for the dying!”
A shudder shook the boy’s frame, and his face blenched.  Then he struggled again to free himself—turning and twisting himself this way and that; tugging frantically, fiercely, desperately—but uselessly—to burst his fetters; and all the while the old ogre smiled down upon him, and nodded his head, and placidly whetted his knife; mumbling, from time to time, “The moments are precious, they are few and precious—pray the prayer for the dying!”
The boy uttered a despairing groan, and ceased from his struggles, panting.  The tears came, then, and trickled, one after the other, down his face; but this piteous sight wrought no softening effect upon the savage old man.
The dawn was coming now; the hermit observed it, and spoke up sharply, with a touch of nervous apprehension in his voice—
“I may not indulge this ecstasy longer!  The night is already gone.  It seems but a moment—only a moment; would it had endured a year!  Seed of the Church’s spoiler, close thy perishing eyes, an’ thou fearest to look upon—”
The rest was lost in inarticulate mutterings.  The old man sank upon his knees, his knife in his hand, and bent himself over the moaning boy.
 
Hark!  There was a sound of voices near the cabin—the knife dropped from the hermit’s hand; he cast a sheepskin over the boy and started up, trembling.  The sounds increased, and presently the voices became rough and angry; then came blows, and cries for help; then a clatter of swift footsteps, retreating.  Immediately came a succession of thundering knocks upon the cabin door, followed by—
“Hullo-o-o!  Open!  And despatch, in the name of all the devils!”
Oh, this was the blessedest sound that had ever made music in the King’s ears; for it was Miles Hendon’s voice!
The hermit, grinding his teeth in impotent rage, moved swiftly out of the bedchamber, closing the door behind him; and straightway the King heard a talk, to this effect, proceeding from the ‘chapel’:—
“Homage and greeting, reverend sir!  Where is the boy—my boy?”
“What boy, friend?”
“What boy!  Lie me no lies, sir priest, play me no deceptions!—I am not in the humour for it.  Near to this place I caught the scoundrels who I judged did steal him from me, and I made them confess; they said he was at large again, and they had tracked him to your door.  They showed me his very footprints.  Now palter no more; for look you, holy sir, an’ thou produce him not—Where is the boy?”
“O good sir, peradventure you mean the ragged regal vagrant that tarried here the night.  If such as you take an interest in such as he, know, then, that I have sent him of an errand.  He will be back anon.”
“How soon?  How soon?  Come, waste not the time—cannot I overtake him? How soon will he be back?”
“Thou need’st not stir; he will return quickly.”
“So be it, then.  I will try to wait.  But stop!—you sent him of an errand?—you!  Verily this is a lie—he would not go.  He would pu............