canvas painting

canvas painting
The dawn was coming now; the hermit observed it, and spoke up sharply, with a touch of nervous apprehension in his voice:
"I may not indulge this ecstasy longer! The night is already gone. It seems but a moment-only a moment; would it had endured a year! Seed of the Church's spoiler, close thy perishing eyes, an thou fearest to look upon..." The rest was lost in inarticulate mutterings. The old man sank upon his knees, his knife in his hand, and bent himself over the moaning boy-
Hark! There was a sound of voices near the cabin-the knife dropped from the hermit's hand; he cast a sheepskin over the boy and started up, trembling. The sounds increased, and presently the voices became rough and angry; then came blows, and cries for help; then a clatter of swift footsteps retreating. Immediately came a succession of thundering knocks upon the cabin door, followed by:
"Hullo-o-o! Open! And despatch, in the name of all the devils!"
Oh, this was the blessedest sound that had ever made music in the king's ears; for it was Miles Hendon's voice!
The hermit, grinding his teeth in impotent rage, moved swiftly out of the bedchamber, closing the door behind him; and straightway the king heard a talk, to this effect, proceeding from the "chapel":