is
juncture.

The Reformation had come in with so much vigour; the enactments
against the Roman Catholics were so stringent, that not even another
priest could be found to shrive him. The pendulum of fortune had
indeed swung back again with a vengeance. From one extreme the
religious laws had gone to the other; and so it befell that the
father, to his exceeding great regret, found himself dying with never
a minister of his own persuasion near at hand.

Crowleigh again came to his relief. He had a friend, a staunch
Catholic who had been expelled from Oxford University soon after
Elizabeth's accession on account of his strong religious views. He had
turned monk, and, during the recent pitiless times, it had frequently
fallen to Sir Everard's lot to befriend him. He was at this time in
hiding at no great distance from Crowleigh's estate, and the latter
had sufficient confidence in his friend's willingness to come to
promise Sir George Vernon that he would fetch him.

The offer was gladly accepted. Without any delay the two best horses
in the stable were saddled, and within a very short space of time
both horses and rider were well started on their way towards the
south-western boundary of the shire.

Nicholas Bury had for two years lived the life of a hermit. In his
seclusion he had become happy, and though the reverence was denied him
which the early hermits had accustomed themselves to receive, yet he
was at least unmolested, and thanks to Sir Everard, who ever assisted
him in time of need, he was never left to want for the few necessaries
of life that he required.

Sir Everard Crowleigh rode hard all the morning, and stopping on his
errand but once--to partake of a light meal--he arrived at the abode
of his friend as the twilight put forth its gentle mask of gloom.

Deepdale was an attractive spot, but it was not the natural beauty of
the scene which had first attracted the eyes of Nicholas Bury so much
as the facilities it offered for his purpose. Centuries before a
pious Derby baker had retired to the self-same spot, and besides this
hallowed memory there was the still more substantial cell to hand
which the saintly old recluse had left behind him.

This, cut out of the solid rock, and situated at the summit of a deep
declivity, was overgrown by a curtain of ivy, which not only screened
its tenant from the wintry winds, but also hid his retreat from
the gaze of the innocent passer-by. The Abbey, hard by, had