Now as he said that, the old man looked kindly, but searchingly, at me, and I rebelled against it:  but he was so saintly looking that I might not be angry, so tried to turn it off.

“Turkil the Valiant called me Grendel, Father.  Also I think you came out to exorcise the same by name, for I heard it in the Latin.  But that was a heathen fiend.”

The hermit sighed a little and answered me.

“They sing the song of Beowulf and love it, heathen though it be, better than aught else, and will till one rises up who will turn Holy Writ into their mother tongue, as Caedmon did for Northumbria.  Howbeit, doubtless those who were fiends in the days of the false gods are fiends yet, and if Grendel then, so also Grendel now, though he may have many other names.  And knowing that name from their songs, small wonder that the terror that came from the marsh must needs be he.  And, no doubt,” went on the good priest, though with a little twinkle in his eye, “he knew well enough whom I came to exorcise, even if the name were wrong, had he indeed been visibly here.”

So he spoke:  but my mind was wandering away to my own trouble; and when I spoke of Sherborne just now, the thought of Bishop Ealhstan and his words had come to me, and I wondered if I would tell my troubles to this old man as he bade me.  But, though to think of it showed that I was again more myself, something of yesterday’s bitterness rose up again as the scene at the Moot came back, and I would not.

The priest was silent for a while, and must have watched my face as these thoughts hardened it again.

“Be not wroth with an old man, my son,” he said, very gently; “but there is some trouble on your mind, as one who has watched the faces of men as long as I may well see.  And it is bitter trouble, I fear.  Sometimes these troubles pass a little, by being told.”

The kind words softened me somewhat, and I answered him quietly: 

“Aye, Father—­there is trouble, but not to be told.  I will take myself and it away in the morning, and so bear it by myself.”

He looked wistfully at me as one who fain would help another, saying: 

“Other men’s troubles press lightly on such as I, my son, save that they add to my prayers.”

And I was half-minded to tell him all and seek his counsel:  but I would not.  Still, I would answer him, and so feigning cheerfulness, said: 

“One trouble, Father, I fear you cannot help me in.  I have nought wherewith to reward this honest man for lodging and guidance—­nor for playing Grendel on him, and eating his food to boot.”

“Surely you have honest hands by whom to send him somewhat? or he will lead you to friends who will willingly lend to you?”

And I had neither.  I, who but a few weeks ago could have commanded both by scores—­and now none might aid me.  None might call me friend—­I was alone.  These words brought it home to me more clearly than before, and the loneliness of it sank into my heart, and my pride fled, and I told the good man all, looking to see him shrink from me.