to fetch thee. Art thou ready now?"

"What, so soon? This is sudden indeed."

"Aye, man, so soon. Death tarries for no man, and, beshrew me, it will
not tarry for us either."

"I must take Leo, then."

"Very well, pick him up, but let us be off I pray."

"This is _too_ sudden, Everard, indeed it is. I have many sick to
visit, and I would fain go to the monastery just once again, to
bid----"

"There must be no buts about it, Nicholas," returned his friend
quickly, "the father is dying, and the baron expects you."

"Give me but an hour, then I will go with thee. 'Tis sad to break
away from a spot hallowed by so many sacred memories, and at so short
warning, too. I am loth to go, Everard, even now. There is no other
spot on earth like this to me."

"'Tis a cold and cheerless home, truly," exclaimed the knight,
sympathetically, "and I will find thee a far better one, Nicholas.
See, I will give thee half-an-hour, and then you must bid adieu to
this place or I must return alone and leave thee."

Nicholas submitted to the decision of his friend, and in less than the
stipulated time they had both turned their backs upon the hospitable
shelter which had been a home to the monk when every door seemed shut
against him, and were on their way to Haddon.

CHAPTER XVIII.

THE CHAMBER OF DEATH.

Child, if it were thine error or thy crime,
I care no longer, being all unblest;
Wed whom thou wilt; but I am sick of time.
And I desire to rest.

TENNYSON.

Haddon Hall was sighted by the two travellers just before mid-day, and
long before they reached it Manners had been despatched in great haste
to hasten them forward with the news that the poor father was almost
at his last gasp.

They needed not the urging, for they had ridden hard, almost without a
rest, and not only was Nicholas thoroughly wearied out by the unusual
exertion of riding but the horses were sorely jaded too.

In a few minutes they all three rode up to the doorway together, and
leaving their steeds to Manners, Sir Everard Crowleigh took the priest
to the sick man's chamber.

Father Philip was reclining upon the well-cushioned couch when they
entered. His eyes were closed, but he was not asleep; he had
not enjoyed the luxury of a sleep for days past, and the haggard
expression of his face, and the twitching muscles of his body,
foretold only too truly that the end of the father was not very far
away.

The sick man knew it, and