Whereupon the two were parted for the while.

Two hours afterwards, Hereward, completely armed with helmet and mail
shirt, sword and javelin, hurried across the great court-yard, with Martin
Lightfoot at his heels, towards the little church upon the knoll above.
The two wild men entered into the cool darkness, and saw before them, by
the light of a tiny lamp, the crucifix over the altar, and beneath it that
which was then believed to be the body of Him who made heaven and earth.
They stopped, trembling, for a moment, bowed themselves before that, to
them, perpetual miracle, and then hurried on to a low doorway to the
right, inside which dwelt Alef's chaplain, one of those good Celtic
priests who were supposed to represent a Christianity more ancient than,
and all but independent of, the then all-absorbing Church of Rome.

The cell was such a one as a convict would now disdain to inhabit. A low
lean-to roof; the slates and rafters unceiled; the stone walls and floor
unplastered; ill-lighted by a hand-broad window, unglazed, and closed with
a shutter at night. A truss of straw and a rug, the priest's bed, lay in a
corner. The only other furniture was a large oak chest, containing the
holy vessels and vestments and a few old books. It stood directly under
the window for the sake of light, for it served the good priest for both
table and chair; and on it he was sitting reading in his book at that
minute, the sunshine and the wind streaming in behind his head, doing no
good to his rheumatism of thirty years' standing.

"Is there a priest here?" asked Hereward, hurriedly.

The old man looked up, shook his head, and answered in Cornish.

"Speak to him in Latin, Martin! May be he will understand that."