But he was quickly undeceived, for a hand was placed on his shoulder, and a friendly voice whispered in his ears, "Cum along wi' meh, lort abbut.

Get up, quick--quick!" Thus addressed, the abbot raised his eyes, and beheld a rustic figure standing beside him, divested of his clouted shoes, and armed with a long bare wood-knife.
"Dunna yo knoa me, lort abbut ?" cried the person.

"Ey'm a freent--Hal o' Nabs, o' Wiswall.

Yo'n moind Wiswall, yeawr own birthplace, abbut?
Dunna be feert, ey sey.

Ey'n getten a steigh clapt to yon windaw, an' you con be down it i' a trice--an' along t' covert way be t' river soide to t' mill." But the abbot stirred not.
"Quick! quick!" implored Hal o' Nabs, venturing to pluck the abbot's sleeve.