“And how came Sir Walter to leave the seat of his ancestors?”
“Why, sir, he married his sister to this said Lord; and so he sold the Castle to him, and went away, and built himself a house in the north country, as far as Northumberland, I think they call it.”
“That is very strange!” said Sir Philip.
“So it is, please your honour; but this is all I know about it.”
“I thank you, friend, for your intelligence; I have taken a long journey to no purpose, and have met with nothing but cross accidents. This life is, indeed, a pilgrimage! Pray direct me the nearest way to the next monastery.”
“Noble sir,” said the peasant, “it is full five miles off, the night is coming on, and the ways are bad; I am but a poor man, and cannot entertain your honour as you are used to; but if you will enter my poor cottage, that, and every thing in it, are at your service.”
“My honest friend, I thank you heartily,” said Sir Philip; “your kindness and hospitality might shame many of higher birth and breeding; I will accept your kind offer;—but pray let me know the name of my host?”
“John Wyatt, sir; an honest man though a poor one, and a Christian man, though a sinful one.”
“Whose cottage is this?”
“It belongs to the Lord Fitz-Owen.”
“What family have you?”
“A wife, two sons and a daughter, who will all be proud to wait upon your honour; let me hold your honour’s stirrup whilst you alight.”
He seconded these words by the proper action, and having assisted his guest to dismount, he conducted him into his house, called his wife to attend him, and then led his horse under a poor shed, that served him as a stable. Sir Philip was fatigued in body and mind, and was glad to repose himself anywhere. The courtesy of his host engaged his attention, and satisfied his wishes. He soon after returned, followed by a youth of about eighteen years.
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