It would have gone hard with the chest had not the gate sounded, and presently after the door of the house opened and admitted a tall, portly, ruddy, black-eyed man of near fifty, in a surplice and black robe.
"Appleyard"-- the newcomer was saying, as he entered; but he stopped dead.
"Ave Maria!" he cried.

"Saints be our shield! What cheer is this ?" "Cold cheer with Appleyard, sir parson," answered Hatch, with perfect cheerfulness.

"Shot at his own door, and alighteth even now at purgatory gates.

Ay! there, if tales be true, he shall lack neither coal nor candle." Sir Oliver groped his way to a joint-stool, and sat down upon it, sick and white.
"This is a judgment! O, a great stroke!" he sobbed, and rattled off a leash of prayers.
Hatch meanwhile reverently doffed his salet and knelt down.
"Ay, Bennet," said the priest, somewhat recovering, "and what may this be?
What enemy hath done this ?" "Here, Sir Oliver, is the arrow.

See, it is written upon with words," said Dick.
"Nay," cried the priest, "this is a foul hearing! John Amend-All! A right Lollardy word.