Early in the morning, after a day of more than ordinary discipline,
Oliver bent his feeble steps to the hermitage. He laid his complaints
before the occupier of the cell, who was ever ready to administer aid
and comfort to the afflicted.
"Take little heed of the deputy now," said the holy man, "his master
will be here anon. I hear the tramp of armed men, with the herald's
trumpet. I see the red griffin, and the banner of the Fitz-Eustace."
"But, holy father, Sir Ulphilas," replied the ejected steward, "there is
no peace either by night or day, and we are nigh worn out with his
waywardness and oppression. If it might be that your reverence would
come with me, peradventure the churl would grow tame at your presence."
The hermit, complying with this importunity, accompanied Oliver to the
castle.
In the hall Adam de Dutton was about consigning one of the villains,
for some venial offence, unto the whipping-post and the stocks. The
accused besought his inexorable judge for some remission of the
sentence, falling on his knees before him just as the hermit, with great
solemnity, entered the hall. His face was partly concealed by a large
hood, and little of his countenance was visible above the long beard
which flowed over his bosom, and the fire of his eye, which seemed to
glow through the dark shadows beneath.
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