f his
presence, and I will speak to the stranger."

They scattered about the place in groups, for they yet feared to be
alone, and the priest came up to me, scanning my arms as he did so, to
guess my rank. My handsome sword and belt seemed to decide him, for
though the armour and helm were plain, they were good enough for any
thane who meant them for hard wear and not for show.

"Sir," he said, very courteously but without any servility, "I see you
are a stranger, and you meet me on a strange errand. I am the priest
whom they call the hermit, Leofwine--should I name you thane?"

I was going to answer him as I would have replied but yesterday morning
--so hesitated a little, and then answered shortly.

"No thane, Father, but the next thing to it--a masterless man."

"As you will, sir," he replied, thinking that I doubtless had my own
reason for withholding whatever rank I had. "We meet few strangers in
this wild."

"I lost my way, Father," I said, "and wandered here in the night, and,
being sorely weary, slept in this empty hut till two hours ago, waking
to find yon child here."

Now little Turkil, seeing that I looked towards him, got free from his
mother and ran to me, saying that he must go home, and that I must speak
for him, as his mother was wroth with him for playing truant.

The woman, who seemed to be the wife of some well-to-do freeman,
followed him, and I spoke to her, begging her to forgive the boy, as he
had been a pleasant comrade to me, and that, indeed, I had kept him, as
he said some folk were coming from the village.

Whereon she thanked me for tending him, saying that she had feared the
foul fiend whom the collier had seen would surely have devoured him. So
I pleased her by saying that a boy who would face such a monster now
would surely grow up a valiant man. Then Turkil must kiss me in going,
bidding me come and see him again, and I knew not how to escape
promising that, though it was a poor promise that could not be kept,
seeing that I must fly the kingdom of Wessex as soon as I might. Then
his mother took him away, he looking back often at me. With them went
the most of the people, some wondering, but the greater part laughing at
Dudda Collier's fright.

I asked the old priest where the village might be, and he told me that
it lay in a clearing full two miles off, and that the father of Turkil
was the chief franklin there, though of little account elsewhere. He had
not yet come back fro