Cartmel was a queer spot, then-a-days. It was a little village of wattled huts, heavily thatched above, and daubed with clay, round the miry green where children played in the sunset. On one side of the green a beck ran up, and on the other side a beck ran down; and between the becks was a big house, not unlike the rest except that it was big and they were little. That was where the Reeve of the York priests dwelt. In the midmost of the green was another house, daub and wattle and thatch, standing all alone, with a cross on the gable-end of it, and a wooden tower of open work wherein a bell hung.

A man in a long gown was pulling at a rope and ringing the bell. It tinkled in the quiet air, above the shouts of the children on the green, with a pleasant music that seemed to well over the fields of the broad valley, and their quickset hedges and flagged walls, to the brown woods of the hills that lay around, and up into the golden evening sky.

It was but a twelvemonth ago that Thorstein had been christened and taught the faith: but since then, what things had happened? Dare he now enter the church, he who had kept no day holy nor heard mass, nor even latterly said the prayers he used to say night and morning? It had come to this that his stony heart was shut to man and God alike. When Hundi and Halldora knelt, for she had learned her husband’s faith,—when they knelt to their cross, he would walk out of the way dowly enough. If his brother’s blood was on his hands, that was little in an age when few men’s hands were white: but there came over him a vague and terrible fear that he could not name to himself,—the conscience of backsliding, the haunting of Hakon; and the words of the applegarth at Ladir rose up in his mind, “Whoso denieth me.” He could not say what he had then said to Hakon, nor take the answer. “You have preached to me,” said the poor young king: and here he was, a castaway.

The bell stayed ringing, and there was a voice within, the sound that he knew well, of evensong. He sat down by the church door, rudely pillared in wood with some rough notching on it to imitate the carving of the great churches he had seen: and sitting without, listened while Amen followed Amen like the noise of a beck in a gill. The children left playing, and stood round him out of arm’s reach, to stare.

By and by the droning within stopped. A hand was laid on his shoulder.

“Who art thou, son?” said an English voice. But there was no answer.

“Who art thou, son?” it said again in Welsh.

“A wanderer.”

“Returned?” said the priest.

Thorstein knelt before him and burst into sobs. The children had crept up behind the priest, and two or three were holding by his gown.

“Children, run home: it is supper-time for all of you,” said the priest, making the sign of blessing over their rough white heads. “And thou, son, give me thy heart. It shall be in safe keeping.”

He led Thorstein into his dwelling and set food before him, and bade him rest. In due time the lad’s heart was opened, and he told his tale, or somewhat of it; so much as let it be known that he was born a heathen and baptised a Christian, but had fallen back; and that all was wrong with him now.

“Aye,” said the priest, “for thy sin’s sake. I spare thee not, for it is written, Whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth. But I smite thee not, for it is written again, Him that cometh to me I will in no wise cast out.”

“Father,” said Thorstein, “I have learned enough to know that a man may be made clean with penance from many a crime. Is there a penance strong enough for such as me?”

“Son,” said he, “for every sin the church has penance, and for ever sinner she has room. To confess thy sin is the first thing; to weep for it is the next; and what more is there but to bring forth fruits worthy of repentance? For thy backsliding I bid thee dwell henceforward with Christians, and forsake the heathen and their ways. Fast and pray as it is commanded. And for the man-slaying thou hast done, if thou have told the truth about it, God alone will be thy Judge. It is not for me to bind or loose.”

Thorstein slept that night, and awoke with a new heart. After matins were done the priest brought him to the Reeve, praying that something might be given to put him in a way of living among Christian folk, for he was a penitent and a brand plucked from the burning.

The Reeve, a burly Englishman from York, and to all purpose lord of Cartmel, looked the stranger up and down.

“Well, my penitent,” said he, “this is church land, and churchman’s word is law here,” said he. “But by thy looks I should name thee a church-robber, and no lamb of our flock. However,” said he, “since father John there stands for thee, knowing the risks, I’ll see to it. What can’st thou do, man?”

Thorstein said, very humbly for him, that he would put his hand to anything to addle whittlegate: that he knew something about beasts, and smithying, and such-like.

“In a word,” said the Reeve, “man of all trades and master of none, or thou would’st not be here. But come thy ways, and I’ll prove thee.”

Sure enough he set him one job and another: and if Thorstein was willing at the muck-heap, he was clever at the stithy: until the Reeve laughed again, and clapped him on the back saying, “Good lad. I never knew yon thieving, murdering rascals could turn out such a fellow!”

So he guested him in his house that winter, and took on with him as never was. And to cap all, when the spring was come, “Young man,” said he, “folk can’t be always on hand,” said he.

“That they can’t,” said Thorstein wondering.

“And when they are gone they would like to lie easy, by the church yonder, and see things done right by the land?”

“That they would,” said Thorstein.

“Well,” said he, “I am but the servant of the blessed Minster of York, and of the abbot yonder: but I think they owe me somewhat; and what with father John’s good word and all we might manage it. Now, look here. There’s none of these fellows fit to hold a candle to me and you, and none knows the land as they that live on it. Reason is when I drop off the best man should follow me; and the abbot, he would say aye to that, if we got the soft side of him. Now, Master Thurstan, I’ve a daughter. She is a fine girl, though I say it who shouldn’t; and a right good one, and the apple of my eye. But what, lad, thou hast set eyes on her. What then?”

Thorstein thanked him kindly, and said it was more than he deserved.

“Not a bit, lad. There, think it over, and I’ll answer for the wench.”

Thorstein went to father John, for he was very thick with him, and never missed his church, fast-day or feast-day.

“Father,” said he, “I would go on pilgrimage to York. Maybe a sight of the blessed Minster would do me good.”

“Well said, my son: go in peace.”