The door stood ajar.
Softly approaching, Mora lifted her hand, and knocked.
No voice replied.
The sound of her knock did but make evident the presence of a vast solitude.
Pushing open the door, she ventured to look within.
The Hermit's cell was empty.

The remains of a frugal meal lay upon the rough wooden table.

Also an open breviary, much thumbed and worn.

At the further end of the table, a little pile of medicinal herbs heaped as if shaken hastily from the wallet which lay beside them.

Probably the holy man, even while at an early hour he broke his fast, had been called to some sick bedside.
Mora turned from the doorway and, shading her eyes, scanned the landscape.
At first she could see only sheep, slowly moving from tuft to tuft as they nibbled the short grass; or goats, jumping from rock to rock, and suddenly disappearing in the high bracken.
But soon, on a distant ridge, she perceived two figures and presently made out the brown robe and hood of the Hermit, and a little, barefoot peasant boy, running to keep up with his rapid stride.