{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_22112/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_22112","id":"gutenberg_22112","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/22112","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Children & Young Adult Reading","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Religion/Spirituality","Christian saints -- Juvenile literature"],"text":"Produced by Al Haines\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nA Child's Book of Saints\n\n\nby\n\nWilliam Canton\n\n\nWith illustrations by\n\nT. H. Robinson\n\n\n\n  This is fairy gold, boy;\n  And I will prove it so.\n      --Shakespeare\n\n\n  Every man I will go with thee, be thy guide\n  in thy most need to go by thy side.\n\n\n\n\n\nLondon\n\nPublished by J. M. Dent & Co.\n\nand in New York by\n\nE. P. Dutton & Co.\n\n\n\n\nFirst Edition, March 1906.\n\nReprinted May 1906.\n\n\n\n\nEDITOR'S NOTE.\n\n\"A Child's Book of Saints\" was first published in 1898, when Mr. Canton\nhad already found his audience.  The book is a near successor indeed to\nhis \"W. V.: Her Book,\" and to \"The Invisible Playmate\"; and W. V. again\nacts as guardian elf and guide to this new region of the child's\nearthly paradise.  The Saints are here treated with a simplicity that\nis almost or altogether childlike, and with an unforced imagination\nwhich is only to be learnt by becoming as a child.  And this is perhaps\nwhy, although comparatively a new book, it has the air of something\npleasantly old, and written long ago; and thus wins its way into the\nchildren's library of old favourite authors.\n\n\nMr. Canton's published works, up to January 1906, comprise:--\"A Lost\nEpic, and other Poems,\" 1887.  \"The Invisible Playmate: a Story of the\nUnseen,\" 1894, 1897.  \"W. V., Her Book and Various Verses,\" 1896.  \"A\nChild's Book of Saints,\" 1898, 1902.  \"Children's Sayings, Edited, with\na Digression on the Small People,\" 1900.  \"The True Annals of\nFairyland\" (The Reign of King Herla), 1900, &c.  \"In Memory of W. V.\"\n(Winifred Vida Canton), 1901.  \"The Comrades: Poems, Old and New,\"\n1902.  \"What is the Bible Society?\" 1903.  \"The Story of the Bible\nSociety,\" 1904.  \"A History of the British and Foreign Bible Society,\"\n1904.  \"Little Hands and God's Book: a Sketch of the Bible Society,\"\n1804-1904, 1905.\n\n\n\n\nContents\n\n\n  IN THE FOREST OF STONE\n  THE SONG OF THE MINSTER\n  THE PILGRIM OF A NIGHT\n  THE ANCIENT GODS PURSUING\n  THE DREAM OF THE WHITE LARK\n  THE HERMIT OF THE PILLAR\n  KENACH'S LITTLE WOMAN\n  GOLDEN APPLES AND ROSES RED\n  THE SEVEN YEARS OF SEEKING\n  THE GUARDIANS OF THE DOOR\n  ON THE SHORES OF LONGING\n  THE CHILDREN OF SPINALUNGA\n  THE SIN OF THE PRINCE BISHOP\n  THE LITTLE BEDESMAN OF CHRIST\n  THE BURNING OF ABBOT SPIRIDION\n  THE COUNTESS ITHA\n  THE STORY OF THE LOST BROTHER\n  THE KING ORGULOUS\n  THE JOURNEY OF RHEINFRID\n  LIGHTING THE LAMPS\n\n\n\n\nList of Illustrations\n\n\nWomen lived the life of prayer and praise and austerity and miracle\n\n\"These are the fields in which the Shepherds watched\"\n\nHilary wondered and mused\n\nA gaunt, dark figure, far up in the blue Asian sky\n\n\"Come not any nearer, turn thy face to the forest,\n  and go down\"\n\n\"I am not mad, most noble Sapricius\"\n\nThey won their long sea-way home\n\n\"And four good Angels watch my bed, two at the foot\n  and two the head\"\n\nAnd again in the keen November\n\nThe eight hundred horsemen turned in dismay\n\n\"Surely in all the world God has no more beautiful\n  house than this\"\n\nSt. Francis of Assisi\n\nItha rode away with her lord\n\nKing Orgulous\n\n\n\n\n_A saint, whose very name I have forgotten, had a vision, in which he\nsaw Satan standing before the throne of God; and, listening, he heard\nthe evil spirit say, \"Why hast Thou condemned me, who have offended\nThee but once, whilst Thou savest thousands of men who have offended\nThee many times?\"  God answered him, \"Hast thou_ once _asked pardon of\nme?\"_\n\n_Behold the Christian mythology!  It is the dramatic truth, which has\nits worth and effect independently of the literal truth, and which even\ngains nothing by being fact.  What matter whether the saint had or had\nnot heard the sublime words which I have just quoted!  The great point\nis to know that pardon is refused only to him who does not ask it._\n\nCOUNT DE MAISTRE.\n\n\n\n\nA Child's Book of Saints\n\n\nIn the Forest of Stone\n\nLooking down the vista of trees and houses from the slope of our\ngarden, W. V. saw the roof and spire of the church of the Oak-men\nshowing well above the green huddle of the Forest.\n\n\"It is a pretty big church, isn't it, father?\" she asked, as she\npointed it out to me.\n\nIt was a most picturesque old-fashioned church, though in my\nthoughtlessness I had mistaken it for a beech and a tall poplar growing\napparently side by side; but the moment she spoke I perceived my\nillusion.\n\n\"I expect, if we were anywhere about on a Sunday morning,\" she\nsurmised, with a laugh, \"we should see hundreds and hundreds of\nOak-girls and Oak-boys going in schools to service.\"\n\n\"Dressed in green silk, with bronze boots and pink feathers--the\ncolours of the new oak-leaves, eh?\"\n\n\"Oh, father, it would be lovely!\" in a burst of ecstasy.  \"Oughtn't we\nto go and find the way to their church?\"\n\nWe might do something much less amusing.  Accordingly we took the\nbearings of the green spire with the skill of veteran explorers.  It\nlay due north, so that if we travelled by the way of the North Star we\nshould be certain to find it.  Wheeling the Man before us, we made a\nNorth Star track for ourselves through the underwood and over last\nyear's rustling beech-leaves, till Guy ceased babbling and crooning,\nand dropped into a slumber, as he soon does in the fresh of the\nmorning.  Then we had to go slowly for fear he should be wakened by the\nnoise of the dead wood underfoot, for, as we passed over it with wheels\nand boots, it snapped and crackled like a freshly-kindled fire.  It was\na relief to get at last to the soft matting of brown needles and cones\nunder the Needle-trees, for there we could go pretty quickly without\neither jolting him or making a racket.\n\nWe went as far as we were able that day, and we searched in glade and\nlawn, in coppice and dingle, but never a trace could we find of the\nsylvan minster where the Oak-people worship.  As we wandered through\nthe Forest we came upon a number of notice boards nailed high up on the\ntrunks of various trees, but when W. V. discovered that these only\nrepeated the same stern legend: \"Caution.  Persons breaking, climbing\nupon, or otherwise damaging,\" she indignantly resented this incessant\nintrusion on the innocent enjoyment of free foresters.  How much nicer\nit would have been if there had been a hand on one of these repressive\nboards, with the inscription: \"This way to the North Star Church;\" or,\nif a caution was really necessary for some of the people who entered\nthe Forest, to say: \"The public are requested not to disturb the Elves,\nBirch-ladies, and Oak-men;\" but of course the most delightful thing\nwould be to have a different fairy-tale written up in clear letters on\neach of the boards, and a seat close by where one could rest and read\nit comfortably.\n\nI told her there were several forests I had explored, in which\nsomething like that was really done; only the stories were not\nfairy-tales, but legends of holy men and women; and among the branches\nof the trees were fixed most beautifully coloured glass pictures of\nthose holy people, who had all lived and died, and some of whom had\nbeen buried, in those forests, hundreds of years ago.  Most of the\nforests were very ancient--older than the thrones of many kingdoms; and\nmen lived and delighted in them long before Columbus sailed into\nunknown seas to discover America.  Many, indeed, had been blown down\nand destroyed by a terrible storm which swept over the world when Henry\nVIII. ruled in England, and only wrecks of them now remained for any\none to see, but others, which had survived the wild weather of those\ndays, were as wonderful and as lovely as a dream.  The tall trees in\nthem sent out curving branches which interlaced high overhead, shutting\nout the blue sky and making a sweet and solemn dimness, and nearly all\nthe light that streamed in between the fair round trunks and the\narching boughs was like that of a splendid sunset, only it was there\nall day long and never faded out till night fell.  And in some of the\nforests there were great magical roses, of a hundred brilliant colours\ncrowded together, and as big as the biggest cart-wheel, or bigger.\n\nThese woods were places of happy quietude and comfort and gladness of\nheart; but, instead of Oak-men, there were many Angels.\n\nHere and there, too, in the silent avenues, mighty warriors and saintly\nabbots, and statesmen bishops, and it might be even a king or a queen,\nhad been buried; and over their graves there were sometimes images of\nthem lying carved in marble or alabaster, and sometimes there had been\nbuilt the loveliest little chapels all sculptured over with tracery of\nflowers and foliage.\n\n\"True, father?\"\n\n\"True as true, dear.  Some day I shall take you to see for yourself.\"\n\n\nWe know a dip in a dingle where the woodcutters have left a log among\nthe hazels, and here, having wheeled Guy into a dappling of sunny discs\nand leaf-shadows in a grassy bay, we sat down on the log, and talked in\nan undertone.  Our failure to find the Oak-men's church reminded me of\nthe old legends of lost and invisible churches, the bells of which are\nheard ringing under the snow, or in the depths of the woods, or far\naway in burning deserts, or fathom-deep beneath the blue sea; but the\npilgrim or the chance wayfarer who has heard the music of the bells has\nnever succeeded in discovering the way that leads to the lost church.\nIt is on the clear night of St. John's Day, the longest day of the\nyear, or on the last hour of Christmas Eve, that these bells are heard\npealing most sweet and clear.\n\nIt was in this way that we came to tell Christian legends and to talk\nof saints and hermits, of old abbeys and minsters, of visions and\nmiracles and the ministry of Angels.  Guy, W. V. thought, might be\nable, if only he could speak, to tell us much about heaven and the\nAngels; it was so short a time since he left them.  She herself had\nquite forgotten, but, then--deprecatingly--it was so long and long and\nlong ago; \"eight years, a long time for me.\"\n\nThe faith and the strange vivid daydreams of the Middle Ages were a new\nworld into which she was being led along enchanted footpaths; quite\ndifferent from the worldly world of the \"Old Romans,\" and of English\nhistory; more real it seemed and more credible, for all its wonders,\nthan the world of elves and water-maidens.  Delightful as it was, it\nwas scarce believable that fairies ever carried a little girl up above\nthe tree-tops and swung her in the air from one to another; but when\nSt. Catherine of Siena was a little child, and went to be a hermit in\nthe woods, and got terribly frightened, and lost her way, and sat down\nto cry, the Angels, you know, did really and truly waft her up on their\nwings and carried her to the valley of Fontebranda, which was very near\nhome.  And when she was quite a little thing and used to say her\nprayers going up to bed, the Angels would come to her and just \"whip\"\nher right up the stairs in an instant!\n\nOccasionally these legends brought us to the awful brink of religious\ncontroversies and insoluble mysteries, but, like those gentle savages\nwho honour the water-spirits by hanging garlands from tree to tree\nacross the river, W. V. could always fling a bridge of flowers over our\nabysses.  \"Our sense,\" she would declare, \"is nothing to God's; and\nthough big people have more sense than children, the sense of all the\nbig people in the world put together would be no sense to His.\"  \"We\nare only little babies to Him; we do not understand Him at all.\"\nNothing seemed clearer to her than the reasonableness of one legend\nwhich taught that though God always answers our prayers, He does not\nalways answer in the way we would like, but in some better way than we\nknow.  \"Yes,\" she observed, \"He is just a dear old Father.\"  Anything\nabout our Lord engrossed her imagination; and it was a frequent wish of\nhers that He would come again.  \"Then,\"--poor perplexed little mortal!\nwhose difficulties one could not even guess at--\"we should be quite\nsure of things.  Miss Catherine tells us from books: He would tell us\nfrom His memory.  People would not be so cruel to Him now.  Queen\nVictoria would not allow any one to crucify Him.\"\n\nI don't think that W. V., in spite of her confidence in my good faith,\nwas quite convinced of the existence of those old forests of which I\nhad told her, until I explained that they were forests of stone, which,\nif men did not mar them, would blossom for centuries unchanged, though\nthe hands that planted them had long been blown in dust about the\nworld.  She understood all that I meant when we visited York and\nWestminster, and walked through the long avenues of stone palms and\npines, with their overarching boughs, and gazed at the marvellous\nrose-windows in which all the jewels of the world seemed to have been\nset, and saw the colours streaming through the gorgeous lancets and\nhigh many-lighted casements.  After that it was delightful to turn over\nengravings and photographs of ruined abbeys and famous old churches at\nhome and abroad, and to anticipate the good time when we should visit\nthem together, and perhaps not only descend into the crypts but go\nthrough the curious galleries which extend over the pillars of the\nnave, and even climb up to the leaded roof of the tower, or dare the\nlong windy staircases and ladders which mount into the spire, and so\nlook down on the quaint map of streets, and houses, and gardens, and\nsquares, hundreds of feet below.\n\nShe liked to hear how some of those miracles of stone had been\nfashioned and completed--how monks in the days of old had travelled\nover the land with the relics of saints, collecting treasure of all\nsorts for the expense of the work; how sometimes the people came in\nhundreds dragging great oaks and loads of quarried stone, and bringing\nfat hogs, beans, corn, and beer for the builders and their workmen; how\neven queens carried block or beam to the masons, so that with their own\nhands they might help in the glorious labour; and poor old women gave\nassistance by cooking food and washing and spinning and weaving and\nmaking and mending; how when the foundations were blessed kings and\nprinces and powerful barons laid each a stone, and when the choir sang\nthe antiphon, \"And the foundations of the wall were garnished with all\nmanner of precious stones,\" they threw costly rings and jewels and\nchains of gold into the trench; and how years and generations passed\naway, and abbots and bishops and architects and masons and sculptors\nand labourers died, but new men took their places, and still the vast\nwork went on, and the beautiful pile rose higher and higher into the\neverlasting heavens.\n\nThen, too, we looked back at the vanished times when the world was all\nso different from our world of to-day; and in green and fruitful spots\namong the hills and on warm river-lawns and in olden cities of narrow\nstreets and overhanging roofs, there were countless abbeys and priories\nand convents; and thousands of men and women lived the life of prayer\nand praise and austerity and miracle and vision which is described in\nthe legends of the Saints.  We lingered in the pillared cloisters where\nthe black-letter chronicles were written in Latin, and music was scored\nand hymns were composed, and many a rare manuscript was illuminated in\ncrimson and blue and emerald and gold; and we looked through the fair\narches into the cloister-garth where in the green sward a grave lay\never ready to receive the remains of the next brother who should pass\naway from this little earth to the glory of Paradise.  What struck W.\nV. perhaps most of all was, that in some leafy places these holy houses\nwere so ancient that even the blackbirds and throstles had learned to\nrepeat some of the cadences of the church music, and in those places\nthe birds still continue to pipe them, though nothing now remains of\nchurch or monastery except the name of some field or street or well,\nwhich people continue to use out of old habit and custom.\n\n[Illustration: _Women lived the life of prayer and praise_]\n\n\nIt was with the thought of helping the busy little brain to realise\nsomething of that bygone existence, with its strange modes of thought,\nits unquestioning faith in the unseen and eternal, its vivid\nconsciousness of the veiled but constant presence of the holy and\nomnipotent God, its stern self-repression and its tender charity, its\nlovely ideals and haunting legends, that I told W. V. the stories in\nthis little book.  It mattered little to her or to me that that\nexistence had its dark shadows contrasting with its celestial light: it\nwas the light that concerned us, not the shadows.\n\nSome of the stories were told on the log, while Guy slept in his\nmail-cart in the dappled shelter of the dingle; others by a winter fire\nwhen the days were short, and the cry of the wind in the dark made it\neasy for one to believe in wolves; others in the Surrey hills, a year\nago, in a sandy hollow crowned with bloom of the ling, and famous for a\nlittle pool where the martins alight to drink and star the mud with a\nmaze of claw-tracks; and yet again, others, this year,[1] under the dry\nroof of the pines of Anstiebury, when the fosse of the old Briton\nsettlement was dripping with wet, and the woods were dim with the smoke\nof rain, and the paths were red with the fallen bloom of the red\nchestnuts and white with the flourish of May and brown with the catkins\nof the oak, and the cuckoo, calling in Mosses Wood, was answered from\nRedlands and the Warren, and the pines where we sat (snug and dry)\nlooked so solemn and dark that, with a little fancy, it was easy to\nchange the living greenwood into the forest of stone.\n\nAs they were told, under the pressure of an insatiable listener, so\nhave they been written, save for such a phrase, here and there, as\nslips more readily from the pen than from the tongue.\n\nOf the stories which were told, but which have not been written for\nthis book, if W. V. should question me, I shall answer in the wise\nwords of the Greybeard of Broce-Liande: \"However hot thy thirst, and\nhowever pleasant to assuage it, leave clear water in the well.\"\n\n\n\n[1] The year of the happy hills, 1898.\n\n\n\n\nThe Song of the Minster\n\nWhen John of Fulda became Prior of Hethholme, says the old chronicle,\nhe brought with him to the Abbey many rare and costly books--beautiful\nilluminated missals and psalters and portions of the Old and New\nTestament.  And he presented rich vestments to the Minster; albs of\nfine linen, and copes embroidered with flowers of gold.  In the west\nfront he built two great arched windows filled with marvellous storied\nglass.  The shrine of St. Egwin he repaired at vast outlay, adorning it\nwith garlands in gold and silver, but the colour of the flowers was in\ncoloured gems, and in like fashion the little birds in the nooks of the\nfoliage.  Stalls and benches of carved oak he placed in the choir; and\nmany other noble works he had wrought in his zeal for the glory of\nGod's house.\n\nIn all the western land was there no more fair or stately Minster than\nthis of the Black Monks, with the peaceful township on one side, and on\nthe other the sweet meadows and the acres of wheat and barley sloping\ndown to the slow river, and beyond the river the clearings in the\nancient forest.\n\nBut Thomas the Sub-prior was grieved and troubled in his mind by the\nrichness and the beauty of all he saw about him, and by the Prior's\neagerness to be ever adding some new work in stone, or oak, or metal,\nor jewels.\n\n\"Surely,\" he said to himself, \"these things are unprofitable--less to\nthe honour of God than to the pleasure of the eye and the pride of life\nand the luxury of our house!  Had so much treasure not been wasted on\nthese vanities of bright colour and carved stone, our dole to the poor\nof Christ might have been fourfold, and they filled with good things.\nBut now let our almoner do what best he may, I doubt not many a leper\nsleeps cold, and many a poor man goes lean with hunger.\"\n\nThis the Sub-prior said, not because his heart was quick with\nfellowship for the poor, but because he was of a narrow and gloomy and\ngrudging nature, and he could conceive of no true service of God which\nwas not one of fasting and praying, of fear and trembling, of\njoylessness and mortification.\n\nNow you must know that the greatest of the monks and the hermits and\nthe holy men were not of this kind.  In their love of God they were\nblithe of heart, and filled with a rare sweetness and tranquillity of\nsoul, and they looked on the goodly earth with deep joy, and they had a\ntender care for the wild creatures of wood and water.  But Thomas had\nyet much to learn of the beauty of holiness.\n\nOften in the bleak dark hours of the night he would leave his cell and\nsteal into the Minster, to fling himself on the cold stones before the\nhigh altar; and there he would remain, shivering and praying, till his\nstrength failed him.\n\nIt happened one winter night, when the thoughts I have spoken of had\ngrown very bitter in his mind, Thomas guided his steps by the glimmer\nof the sanctuary lamp to his accustomed place in the choir.  Falling on\nhis knees, he laid himself on his face with the palms of his\noutstretched hands flat on the icy pavement.  And as he lay there,\ntaking a cruel joy in the freezing cold and the torture of his body, he\nbecame gradually aware of a sound of far-away yet most heavenly music.\n\nHe raised himself to his knees to listen, and to his amazement he\nperceived that the whole Minster was pervaded by a faint mysterious\nlight, which was every instant growing brighter and clearer.  And as\nthe light increased the music grew louder and sweeter, and he knew that\nit was within the sacred walls.  But it was no mortal minstrelsy.\n\nThe strains he heard were the minglings of angelic instruments, and the\ncadences of voices of unearthly loveliness.  They seemed to proceed\nfrom the choir about him, and from the nave and transept and aisles;\nfrom the pictured windows and from the clerestory and from the vaulted\nroofs.  Under his knees he felt that the crypt was throbbing and\ndroning like a huge organ.\n\nSometimes the song came from one part of the Minster, and then all the\nrest of the vast building was silent; then the music was taken up, as\nit were in response, in another part; and yet again voices and\ninstruments would blend in one indescribable volume of harmony, which\nmade the huge pile thrill and vibrate from roof to pavement.\n\nAs Thomas listened, his eyes became accustomed to the celestial light\nwhich encompassed him, and he saw--he could scarce credit his senses\nthat he saw--the little carved angels of the oak stalls in the choir\nclashing their cymbals and playing their psalteries.\n\nHe rose to his feet, bewildered and half terrified.  At that moment the\nmighty roll of unison ceased, and from many parts of the church there\ncame a concord of clear high voices, like a warbling of silver\ntrumpets, and Thomas heard the words they sang.  And the words were\nthese--\n\n      _Tibi omnes Angeli._\n  _To Thee all Angels cry aloud._\n\nSo close to him were two of these voices that Thomas looked up to the\nspandrels in the choir, and he saw that it was the carved angels\nleaning out of the spandrels that were singing.  And as they sang the\nbreath came from their stone lips white and vaporous into the frosty\nair.\n\nHe trembled with awe and astonishment, but the wonder of what was\nhappening drew him towards the altar.  The beautiful tabernacle work of\nthe altar screen contained a double range of niches filled with the\nstatues of saints and kings; and these, he saw, were singing.  He\npassed slowly onward with his arms outstretched, like a blind man who\ndoes not know the way he is treading.\n\nThe figures on the painted glass of the lancets were singing.\n\nThe winged heads of the baby angels over the marble memorial slabs were\nsinging.\n\nThe lions and griffons and mythical beasts of the finials were singing.\n\nThe effigies of dead abbots and priors were singing on their tombs in\nbay and chantry.\n\nThe figures in the frescoes on the walls were singing.\n\nOn the painted ceiling westward of the tower the verses of the Te Deum,\ninscribed in letters of gold above the shields of kings and princes and\nbarons, were visible in the divine light, and the very words of these\nverses were singing, like living things.\n\nAnd the breath of all these as they sang turned to a smoke as of\nincense in the wintry air, and floated about the high pillars of the\nMinster.\n\nSuddenly the music ceased, all save the deep organ-drone.\n\nThen Thomas heard the marvellous antiphon repeated in the bitter\ndarkness outside; and that music, he knew, must be the response of the\ngalleries of stone kings and queens, of abbots and virgin martyrs, over\nthe western portals, and of the monstrous gargoyles along the eaves.\n\nWhen the music ceased in the outer darkness, it was taken up again in\nthe interior of the Minster.\n\nAt last there came one stupendous united cry of all the singers, and in\nthat cry even the organ-drone of the crypt, and the clamour of the\nbrute stones of pavement and pillar, of wall and roof, broke into words\narticulate.  And the words were these:\n\n      _Per singulos dies, benedicimus Te._\n  _Day by day: we magnify Thee,_\n  _And we worship Thy name: ever world without end._\n\n\nAs the wind of the summer changes into the sorrowful wail of the\nyellowing woods, so the strains of joyous worship changed into a wail\nof supplication; and as he caught the words, Thomas too raised his\nvoice in wild entreaty:\n\n    _Miserere nostri, Domine, miserere nostri._\n  _O Lord, have mercy upon us: have mercy upon us._\n\nAnd then his senses failed him, and he sank to the ground in a long\nswoon.\n\n\nWhen he came to himself all was still, and all was dark save for the\nlittle yellow flower of light in the sanctuary lamp.\n\nAs he crept back to his cell he saw with unsealed eyes how churlishly\nhe had grudged God the glory of man's genius and the service of His\ndumb creatures, the metal of the hills, and the stone of the quarry,\nand the timber of the forest; for now he knew that at all seasons, and\nwhether men heard the music or not, the ear of God was filled by day\nand by night with an everlasting song from each stone of the vast\nMinster:\n\n  _We magnify Thee,_\n  _And we worship Thy name: ever world without end._\n\n\n\n\nThe Pilgrim of a Night\n\nIn the ancient days of faith the doors of the churches used to be\nopened with the first glimmer of the dawn in summer, and long before\nthe moon had set in winter; and many a ditcher and woodcutter and\nploughman on his way to work used to enter and say a short prayer\nbefore beginning the labour of the long day.\n\nNow it happened that in Spain there was a farm-labourer named Isidore,\nwho went daily to his early prayer, whatever the weather might be.  His\nfellow-workmen were slothful and careless, and they gibed and jeered at\nhis piety, but when they found that their mockery had no effect upon\nhim, they spoke spitefully of him in the hearing of the master, and\naccused him of wasting in prayer the time which he should have given to\nhis work.\n\nWhen the farmer heard of this he was displeased, and he spoke to\nIsidore and bade him remember that true and faithful service was better\nthan any prayer that could be uttered in words.\n\n\"Master,\" replied Isidore, \"what you say is true, but it is also true\nthat no time is ever lost in prayer.  Those who pray have God to work\nwith them, and the ploughshare which He guides draws as goodly and\nfruitful a furrow as another.\"\n\nThis the master could not deny, but he resolved to keep a watch on\nIsidore's comings and goings, and early on the morrow he went to the\nfields.\n\nIn the sharp air of the autumn morning he saw this one and that one of\nhis men sullenly following the plough behind the oxen, and taking\nlittle joy in the work.  Then, as he passed on to the rising ground, he\nheard a lark carolling gaily in the grey sky, and in the hundred-acre\nwhere Isidore was engaged he saw to his amazement not one plough but\nthree turning the hoary stubble into ruddy furrows.  And one plough was\ndrawn by oxen and guided by Isidore, but the two others were drawn and\nguided by Angels of heaven.\n\nWhen next the master spoke to Isidore it was not to reproach him, but\nto beg that he might be remembered in his prayers.\n\n\nNow the one great longing of Isidore's life was to visit that hallowed\nand happy country beyond the sea in which our Lord lived and died for\nus.  He longed to gaze on the fields in which the Shepherds heard the\nsong of the Angels, and to know each spot named in the Gospels.  All\nthat he could save from his earnings Isidore hoarded up, so that one\nday, before he was old, he might set out on pilgrimage to the Holy\nLand.  It took many years to swell the leather bag in which he kept his\ntreasure; and each coin told of some pleasure, or comfort, or necessary\nwhich he had denied himself.\n\nNow, when at length the bag was grown heavy, and it began to appear not\nimpossible that he might yet have his heart's desire, there came to his\ndoor an aged pilgrim with staff and scallop-shell, who craved food and\nshelter for the night.  Isidore bade him welcome, and gave him such\nhomely fare as he might--bread and apples and cheese and thin wine, and\nsatisfied his hunger and thirst.\n\nLong they talked together of the holy places and of the joy of treading\nthe sacred dust that had borne the marks of the feet of Christ.  Then\nthe pilgrim spoke of the long and weary journey he had yet to go,\nbegging his way from village to village (for his scrip was empty) till\nhe could prevail on some good mariner to give him ship-room and carry\nhim to the green isle of home, far away on the edge of sunset.\nThinking of those whom he had left and who might be dead before he\ncould return, the pilgrim wept, and his tears so moved the heart of\nIsidore that he brought forth his treasure and said:\n\n\"This have I saved in the great hope that one day I might set eyes on\nwhat thou hast beheld, and sit on the shores of the Lake of Galilee,\nand gaze on the hill of Calvary.  But thy need is very great.  Take it,\nand hasten home (ere they be dead) to those who love thee and look for\nthy coming; and if thou findest them alive bid them pray for me.\"\n\nAnd when they had prayed together Isidore and the pilgrim lay down to\nsleep.\n\n\nIn the first sweet hours of the restful night Isidore became aware that\nhe was walking among strange fields on a hillside, and on the top of a\nhill some distance away there were the white walls and low flat-roofed\nhouses of a little town; and some one was speaking to him and saying,\n\"These are the fields in which the Shepherds watched, and that rocky\npathway leads up the slope to Bethlehem.\"\n\n[Illustration: \"_These are the fields in which the Shepherds watched_\"]\n\nAt the sound of the voice Isidore hastily looked round, and behind him\nwas the pilgrim, and yet he knew that it was not truly the pilgrim, but\nan Angel disguised in pilgrim's weeds.  And when he would have fallen\nat the Angel's feet, the Angel stopped him and said, \"Be not afraid; I\nhave been sent to show thee all the holy places that thy heart has\nlonged to see.\"\n\nOn valley and hill and field and stream there now shone so clear and\nwonderful a light that even a long way off the very flowers by the\nroadside were distinctly visible.  Without effort and without weariness\nIsidore glided from place to place as though it were a dream.  And I\ncannot tell the half of what he saw, for the Angel took him to the\nvillage where Jesus was a little child, which is called Nazareth, \"the\nflower-village;\" and he showed him the River Jordan flowing through\ndark green woods, and Hermon the high mountain, glittering with snow\n(and the snow of that mountain is exceeding old), and the blue Lake of\nGennesareth, with its fishing-craft, and the busy town of Capernaum on\nthe great road to Damascus, and Nain where Jesus watched the little\nchildren playing at funerals and marriages in the market-place, and the\nwilderness where He was with the wild beasts, and Bethany where Lazarus\nlived and died and was brought to life again (and in the fields of\nBethany Isidore gathered a bunch of wild flowers), and Jerusalem the\nholy city, and Gethsemane with its aged silver-grey olive-trees, and\nthe hill of Calvary, where in the darkness a great cry went up to\nheaven: \"Why hast Thou forsaken me?\" and the new tomb in the white rock\namong the myrtles and rose-trees in the garden.\n\nThere was no place that Isidore had desired to see that was denied to\nhim.  And in all these places he saw the children's children of the\nchildren of those who had looked on the face of the Saviour--men and\nwomen and little ones--going to and fro in strangely coloured clothing,\nin the manner of those who had sat down on the green grass and been fed\nwith bread and fishes.  And at the thought of this Isidore wept.\n\n\"Why dost thou weep?\" the Angel asked.\n\n\"I weep that I was not alive to look on the face of the Lord.\"\n\nThen suddenly, as though it were a dream, they were on the sea-shore,\nand it was morning.  And Isidore saw on the sparkling sea a fisher-ship\ndrifting a little way from the shore, but there was no one in it; and\non the shore a boat was aground; and half on the sand and half in the\nwash of the sea there were swathes of brown nets filled with a hundred\ngreat fish which flounced and glittered in the sun; and on the sand\nthere was a coal fire with fish broiling on it, and on one side of the\nfire seven men--one of them kneeling and shivering in his drenched\nfisher's coat--and on the other side of the fire a benign and majestic\nfigure, on whom the men were gazing in great joy and awe.  And Isidore,\nknowing that this was the Lord, gazed too at Christ standing there in\nthe sun.\n\nAnd this was what he beheld: a man of lofty stature and most grave and\nbeautiful countenance.  His eyes were blue and very brilliant, his\ncheeks were slightly tinged with red, and his hair was of the ruddy\ngolden colour of wine.  From the top of his head to his ears it was\nstraight and without radiance; but from his ears to his shoulders and\ndown his back it fell in shining curls and clusters.\n\nAgain all was suddenly changed, and Isidore and the Angel were alone.\n\n\"Thou hast seen,\" said the Angel; \"give me thy hand so that thou shalt\nnot forget.\"\n\nIsidore stretched out his hand, and the Angel opened it, and turning\nthe palm upward, struck it.  Isidore groaned with the sharp pain of the\nstroke, and sank into unconsciousness.\n\nWhen he awoke in the morning the sun was high in the heavens, and the\npilgrim had departed on his way.  But the hut was filled with a\nheavenly fragrance, and on his bed Isidore perceived the wild flowers\nthat he had plucked in the fields of Bethany--red anemones and blue\nlupins and yellow marigolds, with many others more sweet and lovely\nthan the flowers that grew in the fields or Spain.\n\n\"Then surely,\" he cried, \"it was not merely a dream.\"\n\nAnd looking at his hand, he saw that the palm bore blue tracings such\nas one sees on the arms of wanderers and seafaring men.  These marks,\nIsidore learned afterwards, were the Hebrew letters that spelt the name\n\"JERUSALEM.\"\n\nAs long as he lived those letters recalled to his mind all the marvels\nthat had been shown him.  And they did more than this, for whenever his\neyes fell on them he said, \"Blessed be the promise of the Lord the\nRedeemer of Israel, who hath us in His care for evermore!\"\n\nNow these are the words of that promise:\n\n\"_Can a woman forget her sucking child, that she should not have\ncompassion on the son of her womb?  Yea, they may forget, yet will I\nnot forget thee.  Behold, I have engraven thee upon the palms of my\nhands._\"\n\n\n\n\nThe Ancient Gods Pursuing\n\nI will now tell of Hilary and his companions, who came over the snowy\npasses of the Alps, and carried the lamp of faith into the north; and\nthis was in the days of the ancient gods.  Many of their shrines had\nHilary overturned, and broken their images, and cut down their sacred\ntrees, and denied their wells of healing.  Wherefore terrible phantoms\npursued him in his dreams, and in the darkness, and in the haunted ways\nof the woods and mountains.  At one time it was the brute-god Pan, who\nsought to madden him with the terror of his piping in desolate places;\nat another it was the sun-god Apollo, who threatened him with fiery\narrows in the parching heat of noon; or it was Pallas Athene, who\nappeared to him in visions, and shook in his face the Gorgon's head,\nwhich turns to stone all living creatures who look on it.  But the holy\nBishop made the sign of the cross of the Lord, and the right arm of\ntheir power was broken, and their malice could not harm him.\n\nThe holy men traversed the mountains by that Roman road which climbed\nup the icy rocks and among the snowy peaks of the Mountain of Jove, and\nat sundown they came to that high temple of Jove which had crowned the\npass for many centuries.  The statue of the great father-god of Rome\nhad been hurled down the ravine into the snow-drift, and his altar had\nbeen flung into the little wintry mere which shivers in the pass, and\nhis last priest had died of old age a lifetime ago; and the temple was\nnow but a cold harbour for merchants and soldiers and wandering men.\n\nHere in the freezing air the apostles rested from their journey, but in\nthe dead of the night Hilary was awakened by a clamour of forlorn\nvoices, and opening his eyes he saw the mighty father-god of Olympus\nlooking down upon him with angry brows, and brandishing in his hand red\nflashes of lightning.  In no way daunted, the Bishop sprang to his\nfeet, and cried in a loud voice, \"In the name of Him who was crucified,\ndepart to your torments!\"  And at the sound of that cry the colossal\nfigure of the god wavered and broke like a mountain cloud when it\ncrumbles in the wind, and glimmering shapes of goddesses and nymphs\nflitted past, sighing and lamenting; and the Bishop saw no longer\nanything but the sharp cold stars, and the white peaks and the ridges\nof the mountains.\n\nWhen they had descended and reached the green valleys, they came at\nlength to a great lake, blue and beautiful to look upon, and here they\nsojourned for a while.  It was a fair and pleasant land, but the people\nwere rude and barbarous, and drove them away with stones when they\nwould enter their hamlets.  So, as they needed food, Hilary bade his\ncompanions gather berries and wild herbs, and he himself set snares for\nbirds, and wove a net to cast into the lake, and made himself a raft of\npine-trees, from which he might cast it the more easily.\n\nOne night as he floated on this raft in the starlight, he heard the\nvoice of the Spirit of the Peak calling to the Spirit of the Mere.  And\nthe Spirit of the Mere answered, \"Speak, I am listening.\"  Then the\nMountain Spirit cried, \"Arise, then, and come to my aid; alone I cannot\nchase away these men who are driving out all the ancient gods from\ntheir shrines in the land.\"  The Water Spirit answered, \"Of what avail\nis our strength against theirs?  Here on the starry waters is one whose\nnets I cannot break, and whose boat I cannot overturn.  Without ceasing\nhe prays, and never are his eyes closed in slumber.\"  Then Hilary arose\non his raft, and raising his hand to heaven cried against the Spirit of\nthe Peak and the Spirit of the Mere: \"In the name of Him crucified, be\nsilent for evermore, and leave these hills and waters to the servants\nof God.\"  And these creatures of evil were stricken dumb, and they fled\nin dismay, making a great moaning and sobbing, and the dolorous sound\nwas as that of the wind in the pines and the water on the rocks.\n\nThen Hilary and his companions fared away into the north, through the\nGrey Waste, which is a wild and deserted country where in the olden\ntime vast armies had passed with fire and sword; and now the field had\nturned into wildwood and morass, and the rich townsteads were barrows\nof ruins and ashes overgrown with brambles, and had been given for a\nlodging to the savage beasts.  The name of this waste was more terrible\nthan the place, for the season was sweet and gracious, and of birds and\nfish and herbs and wild honey there was no dearth.  They were now no\nlonger harassed by the phantoms of the ancient gods, or by the evil\nspirits of the unblessed earth.  Thus for many long leagues was their\njourney made easy for them.\n\nNow it chanced, when they had reached the further edge of this region,\nthat as they went one night belated along a green riding, which in the\nold time had been a spacious paved causeway between rich cities, they\nheard the music of a harp, more marvellously sweet and solacing than\nany mortal minstrel may make; and sweet dream-voices sighed to them\n\"Follow, follow!\" and they felt their feet drawn as by enchantment; and\nas they yielded to the magical power, a soft shining filled the dusky\nair, and they saw that the ground was covered with soft deep grass and\nbrilliant flowers, and the trees were of the colour of gold and silver.\nSo in strange gladness, and feeling neither hunger nor fatigue, they\nwent forward through the hours of the night till the dawn, wondering\nwhat angelic ministry was thus beguiling them of hardship and pain.\nBut with the first gleam of the dawn the music ceased amid mocking\nlaughter, the vision of lovely woodland vanished away, and in the grey\nlight they found themselves on the quaking green edges of a deep and\ndangerous marsh.  Hilary, when he saw this, groaned in spirit and said:\n\"O dear sons, we have deserved this befooling and misguidance, for have\nwe not forgotten the behest of our Master, 'Watch and pray lest ye\nenter into temptation'?\"\n\nNow when after much toilsomeness they had won clear of that foul tract\nof morass and quagmire, they came upon vast herds of swine grubbing\nbeneath the oaks, and with them savage-looking swineherds scantily clad\nin skins.  Still further north they caught sight of the squalid hovels\nand wood piles of charcoal burners; and still they pursued their way\ntill they cleared the dense forest and beheld before them a long range\nof hills blue in the distant air.  Towards sundown they came on a stony\nmoorland, rough with heather and bracken and tufts of bent; and when\nthere was but one long band of red light parting the distant land from\nthe low sky, they descried a range of thick posts standing high and\nblack against the red in the heavens.  As they drew near, these, they\ndiscovered, were the huge granite pillars of a great ring of stone and\nof an avenue which led up to it; and in the midst of the ring was a\nmighty flat stone borne up on three stout pillars, so that it looked\nlike a wondrous stone house of some strong folk of the beginning of\ndays.\n\n\"This, too, companions,\" said Hilary, \"is a temple of false gods.  Very\nancient gods of a world gone by are these, and it may be they have been\nlong dead like their worshippers, and their names are no more spoken in\nthe world.  Further we may not go this night; but on these stones we\nshall put the sign of the blessed tree of our redemption, and in its\nshelter shall we sleep.\"\n\nAs they slept that night in the lee of the stones Hilary saw in a dream\nthe place wherein they lay; and the great stones, he was aware, were\nnot true stones of the rock, but petrified trees, and in his spirit he\nknew that these trees of stone were growths of that Forbidden Tree with\nthe fruit of which the Serpent tempted our first mother in Paradise.\nOn the morrow when they rose, he strove to overthrow the huge pillars,\nbut to this labour their strength was not equal.\n\nThis same day was the day of St. John, the longest in all the year, and\nthey travelled far, till at last in the long afternoon they arrived in\nsight of a cluster of little homesteads, clay huts thatched with\nbracken and fenced about with bushes of poison-thorn, and of tilled\ncrofts sloping down the hillside to a clear river wending through the\nvalley.\n\nAs Hilary and his companions approached they saw that it was a day of\nrejoicing and merry-making among the people, for they were all abroad,\nfeasting and drinking from great mead horns in the open air, and\nshouting barbarous songs to the noise of rude instruments.  When it\ngrew to such duskiness as there may be in a midsummer night countless\nfires were lit, near at hand and far away, on the hills around; and on\nthe ridges above the river children ran about with blazing brands of\npine-wood, and young men and maidens gathered at the flaming beacon.\nWheels, too, wrapped round tire and spoke with straw and flax smeared\nwith pine-tree gum, were set alight and sent rolling down the hill to\nthe river, amid wild cries and clapping of hands.  Some of the wheels\nwent awry and were stayed among the boulders; on some the flames died\nout; but there were those which reached the river and plunged into the\nwater and were extinguished; and the owners of these last deemed\nthemselves fortunate in their omens, for these fiery wheels were images\nof the sun in heaven, and their course to the river was the forecasting\nof his prosperous journey through the year to come.\n\nThus these outland people held their festival, and Hilary marvelled to\nsee the many fires, for he had not known that the land held so many\nfolk.  But now when it was time for the wayfarers to cast about in\ntheir minds how and where they should pass the night, there came to\nthem a stranger, a grave and seemly man clad in the manner of the\nRomans, and he bowed low to them, and said: \"O saintly men, the Lady\nPelagia hath heard of your coming into this land, and she knows that\nyou have come to teach men the new faith, for she is a great lady,\nmistress of vast demesnes, and many messengers bring her tidings of all\nthat happens.  She bids me greet you humbly and prevail on you to come\nand abide this night in her house, which is but a little way from here.\"\n\n\"Is your lady of Rome?\" asked Hilary.\n\n\"From Rome she came hither,\" said the messenger, \"but aforetime she was\nof Greece, and she hath great friendship for all wise and holy men.\"\n\nThe wayfarers were surprised to hear of this lady, but they were\nrejoiced that, after such long wandering, there was some one to welcome\nthem where least they had expected word of welcome, and they followed\nthe messenger.\n\nHorn lantern in hand he led them through the warm June darkness, and on\nthe way answered many questions as to the folk of these parts, and\ntheir strange worship of sun and moon and wandering light of heaven;\n\"but in a brief while,\" he said, \"all these heathen matters will be put\nby, when you have taught them the new faith.\"\n\nUp a gloomily wooded rise he guided them, till they passed into the\nradiance of a house lit with many lamps and cressets, and the house,\nthey saw, was of fair marble such as are the houses of the patricians\nof Rome; and many beautiful slaves, lightly clad and garlanded with\nroses, brought them water in silver bowls and white linen wherewith\nthey might cleanse themselves from the dust of their travel.\n\nIn a little the Lady Pelagia received them and bade them welcome, and\nprayed them to make her poor house their dwelling-place while they\nsojourned in that waste of heathendom.  Then she led them to a repast\nwhich had been made ready for them.\n\nOf all the gracious and lovely women in the round of the kingdoms of\nthe earth none is, or hath been, or will be, more marvellous in beauty\nor in sweetness of approach than this lady; and she made Hilary sit\nbeside her, and questioned him of the Saints in the Queen City of the\nworld, and of his labours and his long wanderings, and the perils\nthrough which he and his companions had come.  All the while she spoke\nher starry eyes shed soft light on his face, and she leaned towards him\nher lovely head and fragrant bosom, drinking in his words with a look\nof longing.  The companions whispered among themselves that assuredly\nthis was rather an Angel of Paradise than a mortal creature of the dust\nof the earth, which to-day is as a flower in its desirableness and\nto-morrow is blown about all the ways of men's feet.  Even the good\nBishop felt his heart moved towards her with a strange tenderness, so\nsweet was the thought of her youth and her beauty and her goodness and\nhumility.\n\nSitting in this fashion at table and conversing, and the talk now\nveering to this and now to that, the Lady Pelagia said: \"This longest\nof the days has been to me the most happy, holy fathers, for it has\nbrought you to the roof of a sinful woman, and you have not disdained\nthe service she has offered you in all lowliness of heart.  A long and,\nit may be, a dangerous labour lies before you, for the folk of this\nland are fierce and quick to violence; but here you may ever refresh\nyourselves from toil and take your rest, free from danger.  No loving\noffices or lowly observance, no, nor ought you desire is there that you\nmay not have for the asking--or without the asking, if it be given me\nto know your wish unspoken.\"\n\nHilary and the brethren bowed low at these gracious words, and thought\nwithin themselves: Of a truth this may be a woman, but she is no less\nan Angel for our strength and solacement.\n\n\"In the days to come,\" said the lady, \"there will be many things to ask\nand learn from you, but now ere this summer night draws to end let me\nhave knowledge of divine things from thee, most holy father, for thou\nart wise and canst answer all my questionings.\"\n\nAnd Hilary smiled gravely, not ill pleased at her words of praise, and\nsaid: \"Ask, daughter.\"\n\n\"First tell me,\" she said, \"which of all the small things God has made\nin the world is the most excellent?\"\n\nHilary wondered and mused, but could find no answer; and when he would\nhave said so, the voice which came from his lips spoke other words than\nthose he intended to speak, so that instead of saying \"This is a\nquestion I cannot answer,\" his voice said: \"Of all small things made by\nGod, most excellent is the face of man and woman; for among all the\nfaces of the children of Adam not any one hath ever been wholly like\nany other; and there in smallest space God has placed all the senses of\nthe body; and it is in the face that we see, as in a glass, darkly, all\nthat can be seen of the invisible soul within.\"\n\n[Illustration: _Hilary wondered and mused_]\n\nThe companions listened marvelling, but Hilary marvelled no less than\nthey.\n\n\"It is well answered,\" said the lady, \"and yet it seemed to me there\nwas one thing more excellent.  But let me ask again: What earth is\nnearest to heaven?\"\n\nAgain Hilary mused and was silent.  Then, once more, the voice which\nwas his voice and yet spoke words which he did not think to speak, gave\nthe answer: \"The body of Him who died on the tree to save us, for He\nwas of our flesh, and our flesh is earth of the earth.\"\n\n\"That too is well answered,\" said the lady, who had grown pale and\ngazed on the Bishop with great gloomy eyes; \"and yet I had thought of\nanother answer.  Once more let me question you: What is the distance\nbetween heaven and earth?\"\n\nThen for the third time was Hilary unable to reply, but the voice\nanswered for him, in stern and menaceful tones: \"Who can tell us that\nmore certainly than Lucifer who fell from heaven?\"\n\nWith a bitter cry the Lady Pelagia rose from her seat, and raised her\nbeautiful white arms above her head; but the voice continued: \"Breathe\non her, Hilary--breathe the breath of the name of Christ!\"\n\nAnd the Bishop, rising, breathed on the white lovely face the breath of\nthe holy name; and in an instant the starry eyes were darkened, and the\nspirit and flower of life perished in her sweet body; and the\ncompanions saw no longer the Lady Pelagia, but in her stead a statue of\nwhite marble.  At a glance Hilary knew it for a statue of the goddess\nwhom men in Rome called Venus and in Greece Aphrodite, and with a\nshudder he remembered that another of her names was Pelagia, the Lady\nof the Sea.  But, swifter even than that thought, it seemed to them as\nthough the statue were smitten by an invisible hand, for it reeled and\nfell, shattered to fragments; and the lights were extinguished, and the\nair of the summer night blew upon their faces, and in the east, whence\ncometh our hope, there was a glimmer of dawn.\n\nPraying fervently, and bewailing the brief joy they had taken in the\nbeauty of that dreadful goddess, they waited for light to guide them\nfrom that evil place.\n\nWhen the day broadened they perceived that they were in the midst of\nthe ruins of an ancient Roman city, overgrown with bush and tree.\nAround them lay, amid beds of nettles and great dock leaves, and darnel\nand tangles of briars, and tall foxgloves and deadly nightshade, the\nbroken pillars of a marble temple.  This had been the fair house, lit\nwith lamps, wherein they had sat at feast.  Close beside them were\nscattered the white fragments of the image of the beautiful Temptress.\n\nAs they turned to depart three grey wolves snarled at them from the\nruins, but an unseen hand held these in leash, and Hilary and his\ncompanions went on their way unharmed.\n\n\n\n\nThe Dream of the White Lark\n\nThis was a thing that happened long and long ago, in the glimmering\nmorning of the Christian time in Erinn.  And it may have happened to\nthe holy Maedog of Ferns, or to Enan the Angelic, or it may have been\nMolasius of Devenish--I cannot say.  But over the windy sea in his\nsmall curragh of bull's hide the Saint sailed far away to the southern\nland; and for many a month he travelled afoot through the dark forests,\nand the sunny corn-lands, and over the snowy mountain horns, and along\nthe low shores between the olive-grey hills and the blue sea, till at\nlast he came in sight of a great and beautiful city glittering on the\nslopes and ridges of seven hills.\n\n\"What golden city may this be?\" he asked of the dark-eyed market folk\nwhom he met on the long straight road which led across the open country.\n\n\"It is the city of Rome,\" they answered him, wondering at his\nignorance.  But the Saint, when he heard those words, fell on his knees\nand kissed the ground.\n\n\"Hail to thee, most holy city!\" he cried; \"hail, thou queen of the\nworld, red with the roses of the martyrs and white with the lilies of\nthe virgins; hail, blessed goal of my long wandering!\"\n\nAnd as he entered the city his eyes were bright with joy, and his heart\nseemed to lift his weary feet on wings of gladness.\n\nThere he sojourned through the autumn and the winter, visiting all the\ngreat churches and the burial-places of the early Christians in the\nCatacombs, and communing with the good and wise men in many houses of\nreligion.  Once he conversed with the great Pope whose name was\nGregory, and told him of his brethren in the beloved isle in the\nwestern waters.\n\nWhen once more the leaf of the fig-tree opened its five fingers, and\nthe silvery bud of the vine began to unfurl, the Saint prepared to\nreturn home.  And once more he went to the mighty Pope, to take his\nleave and to ask a blessing for himself and his brethren, and to beg\nthat he might bear away with him to the brotherhood some precious relic\nof those who had shed their blood for the Cross.\n\nAs he made that request in the green shadowy garden on the Hill\nCaelian, the Pope smiled, and, taking a clod of common earth from the\nsoil, gave it to the Saint, saying, \"Then take this with thee,\" and\nwhen the Saint expressed his surprise at so strange a relic, the\nServant of the Servants of God took back the earth and crushed it in\nhis hand, and with amazement the Saint saw that blood began to trickle\nfrom it between the fingers of the Pope.\n\nMarvelling greatly, the Saint kissed the holy pontiff's hand, and bade\nhim farewell; and going to and fro among those he knew, he collected\nmoney, and, hiring a ship, he filled it with the earth of Rome, and\nsailed westward through the Midland Sea, and bent his course towards\nthe steadfast star in the north, and so at last reached the beloved\ngreen island of his home.\n\nIn the little graveyard about the fair church of his brotherhood he\nspread the earth which had drunk the blood of the martyrs, so that the\nbodies of those who died in the Lord might await His coming in a\nblessed peace.\n\nNow it happened that but a few days after his return the friend of his\nboyhood, a holy brother who had long shared with him the companionship\nof the cloister, migrated from this light, and when the last requiem\nhad been sung and the sacred earth had covered in the dead, the Saint\nwept bitterly for the sake of the lost love and the unforgotten years.\n\nAnd at night he fell asleep, still weeping for sorrow.  And in his\nsleep he saw, as in a dream, the grey stone church with its round tower\nand the graveyard sheltered by the woody hills; but behold! in the\ngraveyard tall trees sprang in lofty spires from the earth of Rome, and\nreached into the highest heavens; and these trees were like trees of\ngreen and golden and ruddy fire, for they were red with the blossoms of\nlife, and every green leaf quivered with bliss, like a green flame; and\namong the trees, on a grassy sod at their feet, sat a white lark,\nsinging clear and loud, and he knew that the lark was the soul of the\nfriend of his boyhood.\n\nAs he listened to its song, he understood its unearthly music; and\nthese were the words of its singing: \"Do not weep any more for me; it\nis pity for thy sorrow which keeps me here on the grass.  If thou wert\nnot so unhappy I should fly.\"\n\nAnd when the Saint awoke his grief had fallen from him, and he wept no\nmore for the dead man whom he loved.\n\n\n\n\nThe Hermit of the Pillar\n\nOn one of the hills near the city of Ancyra Basil the hermit stood day\nand night on a pillar of stone forty feet high, praying and weeping for\nhis own sins and for the sins of the world.\n\nA gaunt, dark figure, far up in the blue Asian sky, he stood there for\na sign and a warning to all men that our earthly life is short, whether\nfor wickedness or repentance; that the gladness and the splendour of\nthe world are but a fleeting pageant; that in but a little while the\nnations should tremble before the coming of the Lord in His power and\nmajesty.  Little heed did the rich and dissolute people of that city\ngive to his cry of doom; and of the vast crowds who came about the foot\nof his pillar, the greater number thought but to gaze on the wonder of\na day, though some few did pitch their tents hard by, and spent the\ntime of their sojourn in prayer and the lamentation of hearts humbled\nand contrite.\n\n[Illustration: _A gaunt, dark figure, far up in the blue Asian sky_]\n\nNow, in the third year of his testimony, as Basil was rapt in devotion,\nwith hands and face uplifted to the great silent stars, an Angel,\nclothed in silver and the blue-green of the night, stood in front of\nhim in the air, and said: \"Descend from thy pillar, and get thee away\nfar westward; and there thou shalt learn what is for thy good.\"\n\nWithout delay or doubt Basil descended, and stole away alone in the\nhush before the new day, and took the winding ways of the hills, and\nthereafter went down into the low country of the plain to seaward.\n\nAfter long journeying among places and people unknown, he crossed the\nrunning seas which part the eastern world from the world of the west,\nand reached the City of the Golden Horn, Byzantium; and there for four\nmonths he lived on a pillar overlooking the city and the narrow seas,\nand cried his cry of doom and torment.  At the end of the fourth month\nthe Angel once more came to him and bade him descend and go further.\n\nSo with patience and constancy of soul he departed between night and\nlight, and pursued his way for many months till he had got to the\nancient city of Treves.  There, among the ruins of a temple of the\nheathen goddess Diana, he found a vast pillar of marble still erect,\nand the top of this he thought to make his home and holy watch-tower.\nWherefore he sought out the Bishop of the city and asked his leave and\nblessing, and the Bishop, marvelling greatly at his zeal and austerity,\ngave his consent.\n\nThe people of Treves were amazed at what they considered his madness;\nbut they gave him no hindrance, nor did they molest him in any way.\nIndeed, in no long time the fame of his penance was noised abroad, and\nmultitudes came, as they had come at Ancyra, to see with their own eyes\nwhat there was of truth in the strange story they had heard.\nAfterwards, too, many came out of sorrow for sin and an ardent desire\nof holiness; and others brought their sick and maimed and afflicted, in\nthe hope that the Hermit might be able to cure their ailments, or give\nthem assuagement of their sufferings.  Many of these, in truth, Basil\nsent away cleansed and made whole by the virtue of his touch or of the\nblessing he bestowed upon them.\n\nNow, though there were many pillar-hermits in the far eastern land,\nthis was the first that had ever been seen in the west, and after him\nthere were but few others.\n\nA strange and well-nigh incredible thing it seemed, to look upon this\nman on the height of his pillar, preaching and praying constantly, and\nenduring night and day the inclemency of the seasons and the weariness\nand discomfort of his narrow standing place.  For the pillar, massive\nas it was, was so narrow where the marble curved over in big acanthus\nleaves at the four corners that he had not room to lie down at length\nto sleep; and indeed he slept but little, considering slumber a waste\nof the time of prayer, and the dreams of sleep so many temptations to\nbeguile the soul into false and fugitive pleasures.  No shelter was\nthere from the wind, but he was bare as a stone in the field to the\ndriving rain and the blaze of the sun at noon; and in winter the frost\nwas bitter to flesh and blood, and the snow fell like flakes or white\nfire.  His only clothing was a coat of sheepskin; about his neck hung a\nheavy chain of iron, in token that he was a thrall and bondsman of the\nLord Christ, and each Friday he wore an iron crown of thorns, in\npainful memory of Christ's passion and His sorrowful death upon the\ntree.  Once a day he ate a little rye bread, and once he drank a little\nwater.\n\nNo man could say whether he was young or aged; and the mother who had\nborne him a little babe at her bosom, and had watched him grow to\nboyhood, could not have recognised him, for he had been burnt black by\nthe sun and the frost, and the weather had bleached his hair and beard\ntill they looked like lichens on an ancient forest-tree, and the crown\nof thorns had scarred his brow, and the links of the chain had galled\nhis neck and shoulders.\n\nFor three summers and three winters he endured this stricken life with\ncheerful fortitude, counting his sufferings as great gain if through\nthem he might secure the crown of celestial glory which God has woven\nfor His elect.  Remembering all his prayers and supplications, and the\nlong martyrdom of his body, it was hard for him, at times, to resist\nthe assurance that he must have won a golden seat among the blessed.\n\n\"For who, O Lord Christ!\" he cried, with trembling hands outstretched,\nand dim eyes weeping, \"who hath taken up Thy cross as I have done, and\nthe anguish of the thorns and the nails, and the parched sorrow of Thy\nthirst, and the wounding of Thy blessed body, and borne them for years\ntwenty and three, and shown them as I have shown them to the sun and\nstars and the four winds, high up between heaven and earth, that men\nmight be drawn to Thee, and carried them across the world from the\noutmost East to the outmost West?  Surely, Lord God!  Thou hast written\nmy name in Thy Book of Life, and hast set for me a happy place in the\nheavens.  Surely, all I have and am I have given Thee; and all that a\nworm of the earth may do have I done!  If in anything I have failed,\nshow me, Lord, I beseech Thee, wherein I have come short.  If any man\nthere be more worthy in Thine eyes, let me, too, set eyes upon him,\nthat I may learn of him how I may the better please Thee.  Teach me,\nLord, that which I know not, for Thou alone knowest and art wise!\"\n\nAs Basil was praying thus in the hour before dawn, once more the Angel,\nclothed in silver and blue-green, as though it had been a semblance of\nthe starry night, came to him, and said: \"Give me thy hand;\" and Basil\ntouched the hand celestial, and the Angel drew him from his pillar, and\nplaced him on the ground, and said: \"This is that land of the west in\nwhich thou art to learn what is for thy good.  Take for staff this\npiece of tree, and follow this road till thou reachest the third\nmilestone; and there, in the early light, thou shalt meet him who can\ninstruct thee.  For a sign, thou shalt know the man by the little maid\nof seven years who helpeth him to drive the geese.  But the man, though\nyoung, may teach one who is older than he, and he is one who is greatly\npleasing in God's eyes.\"\n\nThe clear light was glittering on the dewy grass and the wet bushes\nwhen Basil reached the third milestone.  He heard the distant sound as\nof a shepherd piping, and he saw that the road in front of him was\ncrowded for near upon a quarter of a mile with a great gathering of\ngeese--fully two thousand they numbered--feeding in the grass and\nrushes, and cackling, and hustling each other aside, and clacking their\nbig orange-coloured bills, as they waddled slowly onward towards the\ncity.\n\nAmong them walked a nut-brown little maiden of seven, clad in a green\nwoollen tunic, with bright flaxen hair and innocent blue eyes, and bare\nbrown legs, and feet shod in shoes of hide.  In her hand she carried a\nlong hazel wand, with which she kept in rule the large grey and white\ngeese.\n\nAs the flock came up to the Hermit, she gazed at him with her sweet\nwondering eyes, for never had she seen so strange and awful a man as\nthis, with his sheepskin dress and iron chain and crown of thorns, and\nskin burnt black, and bleached hair and dark brows stained with blood.\nFor a moment she stood still in awe and fear, but the Hermit raised his\nhand, and blessed her, and smiled upon her; and even in that worn and\ndisfigured face the light in the Hermit's eyes as he smiled was tender\nand beautiful; and the child ceased to fear, and passed slowly along,\nstill gazing at him and smiling in return.\n\nIn the rear of the great multitude of geese came a churl, tall and\nyoung, and comely enough for all his embrowning in the sun and wind,\nand his unkempt hair and rude dress.  It was he who made the music,\nplaying on pan's-pipes to lighten the way, and quickening with his\nstaff the loiterers of his flock.\n\nWhen he perceived the Hermit he stayed his playing, for he bethought\nhim, Is not this the saintly man of whose strange penance and miracles\nof healing the folk talk in rustic huts and hamlets far scattered?  But\nwhen they drew nigh to each other, the Hermit bowed low to the\nGooseherd, and addressed him: \"Give me leave to speak a little with\nthee, good brother; for an Angel of heaven hath told me of thee, and\nfain would I converse with thee.  Twenty years and three have I served\nthe King of Glory in supplication and fasting and tribulation of\nspirit, and yet I lack that which thou canst teach me.  Now tell me, I\nbeseech thee, what works, what austerities, what prayers have made thee\nso acceptable to God.\"\n\nA dark flush rose on the Goose-herd's cheeks as he listened, but when\nhe answered it was in a grave and quiet voice: \"It ill becomes an aged\nman to mock and jeer at the young, nor is it more seemly that the holy\nshould gibe at the poor.\"\n\n\"Dear son in Christ,\" said the Hermit, \"I do not gibe or mock at thee.\nBy the truth of the blessed tree, I was told of thee by an Angel in the\nvery night which is now over and gone, and was bidden to question thee.\nWherefore be not wrathful, but answer me truly, I beg of thy charity.\"\n\nThe Goose-herd shook his head.  \"This is a matter beyond me,\" he\nreplied.  \"All my work, since thou askest of my work, hath been the\ntending and rearing of geese and driving them to market.  From the good\nmarsh lands at the foot of the hills out west I drive them, and the\ndistance is not small, for, sleeping and resting by boulder and tree,\nfor five days are we on the way.  Slow of foot goeth your goose when he\ngoeth not by water, and it profits neither master nor herd to stint\nthem of their green food.  And all my prayer hath been that I might get\nthem safe to market, none missing or fallen dead by the way, and that I\nmight sell them speedily and at good price, and so back to the fens\nagain.  What more is there to say?\"\n\n\"In thy humility thou hidest something from me,\" said the Hermit, and\nhe fixed his eyes thoughtfully on the young man's face.\n\n\"Nay, I have told thee all that is worth the telling.\"\n\n\"Then hast thou always lived this life?\" the Hermit asked.\n\n\"Ever since I was a small lad--such a one as the little maid in front,\nand she will be in her seventh year, or it may be a little older.\nBefore me was my father goose-herd; and he taught me the windings of\nthe journey to the city, and the best resting-places, and the ways of\ngeese, and the meaning of their cries, and what pleaseth them and\nserveth flesh and feather, and how they should be driven.  And now, in\nturn, I teach the child, for there be goose-girls as well as men.\"\n\n\"Is she then thy young sister, or may it be that she is thy daughter?\"\n\n\"Neither young sister nor daughter is she,\" replied the Herd, \"and yet\nin truth she is both sister and daughter.\"\n\n\"Wilt thou tell me how that may be?\" asked the Hermit.\n\n\"It is shortly told,\" said the Herd.  \"Robbers broke into their poor\nand lonely house by the roadside and slew father and mother and left\nthem dead, but the babe at the breast they had not slain, and this was\nshe.\"\n\n\"Didst thou find her?\" asked the Hermit.\n\n\"Ay, on a happy day I found her; a feeble little thing bleating like a\nlambkin forlorn beside its dead dam.\"\n\n\"And thy wife, belike, or thy mother, reared her?\"\n\n\"Nay,\" said the Herd, \"for my mother was dead, and no wife have I.  I\nreared her myself--my little white gooseling; and she throve and waxed\nstrong of heart and limb, and merry and brown of favour, as thou hast\nseen.\"\n\n\"Thou must have been thyself scantly a man in those days,\" said the\nHermit.\n\n\"Younger than to-day,\" replied the Herd; \"but I was ever big of limb\nand plentiful of my inches.\"\n\n\"And hath she not been often since a burthen to thee, and a weariness\nin the years?\"\n\n\"She hath been a care in the cold winter, and a sorrow in her sickness\nwith her teeth--for no man, I wot, can help a small child when the\nteeth come through the gum, and she can but cry ah! ah! and hath no\nwords to tell what she aileth.\"\n\n\"Why didst thou do all this?\" asked the Hermit.  \"What hath been thy\nreward?  Or for what reward dost thou look?\"\n\nThe Goose-herd looked at him blankly for a moment; then his face\nbrightened.  \"Surely,\" he said, \"to see her as she goes on her way, a\nbright, brown little living thing, with her clear hair and glad eyes,\nis a goodly reward.  And a goodly reward is it to think of her growth,\nand to mind me of the days when she could not walk and I bore her\nwhithersoever I went; and of the days when she could but take faltering\nsteps and was soon fain to climb into my arms and sit upon my neck; and\nof the days when we first fared together with the geese to market and I\ncut her her first hazel stick; and in truth of all the days that she\nhath been with me since I found her.\"\n\nAs the Goose-herd spoke the tears rose in the Hermit's eyes and rolled\nslowly down his cheeks; and when the young man ceased, he said: \"O son,\nnow I know why thou art so pleasing in the eyes of God.  Early hast\nthou learned the love which gives all and asks nothing, which suffereth\nlong and is ever kind, and this I have not learned.  A small thing and\ntoo common it seemed to me, but now I see that it is holier than\nausterities, and availeth more than fasting, and is the prayer of\nprayers.  Late have I sought thee, thou ancient truth, late have I\nfound thee, thou ancient beauty; yet even in the gloaming of my days\nmay there still be light enough to win my way home.  Farewell, good\nbrother; and be God tender and pitiful to thee as thou hast been tender\nand pitiful to the little child.\"\n\n\"Farewell, holy man!\" replied the Herd, regarding him with a perplexed\nlook, for the life and austerities of the Hermit were a mystery he\ncould not understand.\n\nThen going on his way, he laid the pan's-pipes to his lips and whistled\na pleasant music as he strode after his geese.\n\n\n\n\nKenach's Little Woman\n\nAs the holy season of Lent drew nigh, the Abbot Kenach felt a longing\nsuch as a bird of passage feels in the south when the first little\nsilvery buds on the willow begin here to break their ruddy sheaths, and\nthe bird thinks to-morrow it will be time to fly over-seas to the land\nwhere it builds its nest in pleasant croft or under the shelter of\nhomely eaves.  And Kenach said, \"Levabo oculos--I will lift up mine\neyes unto the hills from whence cometh my help;\" for every year it was\nhis custom to leave his abbey and fare through the woods to the\nhermitage on the mountain-side, so that he might spend the forty days\nof fasting and prayer in the heart of solitude.\n\nNow on the day which is called the Wednesday or Ashes he set out, but\nfirst he heard the mass of remembrance and led his monks to the altar\nsteps, and knelt there in great humility to let the priest sign his\nforehead with a cross of ashes.  And on the forehead of each of the\nmonks the ashes were smeared in the form of a cross, and each time the\npriest made the sign he repeated the words, \"Remember, man, that thou\nart dust, and unto dust thou shalt return.\"\n\nSo with the ashes still on his brow and with the remembrance of the end\nof earthly days in his soul, he bent his steps towards the hermitage;\nand as he was now an aged man and nowise strong, Diarmait, one of the\nyounger brethren, accompanied him in case any mischance should befall.\n\nThey passed through the cold forest, where green there was none, unless\nit were the patches of moss and the lichens on the rugged tree-trunks\nand tufts of last year's grass, but here and there the white blossoms\nof the snowdrops peered out.  The dead grey leaves and dry twigs\ncrackled and snapped under their feet with such a noise as a wood fire\nmakes when it is newly lighted; and that was all the warmth they had on\ntheir wayfaring.\n\nThe short February day was closing in as they climbed among the\nboulders and withered bracken on the mountainside, and at last reached\nthe entrance of a cavern hollowed in the rock and fringed with ivy.\nThis was the hermitage.  The Abbot hung his bell on a thick ivy-bough\nin the mouth of the cave; and they knelt and recited vespers and\ncompline; and thrice the Abbot struck the bell to scare away the evil\nspirits of the night; and they entered and lay down to rest.\n\nHard was the way of their sleeping; for they lay not on wool or on\ndown, neither on heather or bracken, nor yet on dry leaves, but their\nsides came against the cold stone, and under the head of each there was\na stone for pillow.  But being weary with the long journey they slept\nsound, and felt nothing of the icy mouth of the wind blowing down the\nmountain-side.\n\nWithin an hour of daybreak, when the moon was setting, they were\nawakened by the wonderful singing of a bird, and they rose for matins\nand strove not to listen, but so strangely sweet was the sound in the\nkeen moonlight morning that they could not forbear.  The moon set, and\nstill in the dark sang the bird, and the grey light came, and the bird\nceased; and when it was white day they saw that all the ground and\nevery stalk of bracken was hoary with frost, and every ivy-leaf was\ncrusted white round the edge, but within the edge it was all glossy\ngreen.\n\n\"What bird is this that sings so sweet before day in the bitter cold?\"\nsaid the Abbot.  \"Surely no bird at all, but an Angel from heaven\nwaking us from the death of sleep.\"\n\n\"It is the blackbird, Domine Abbas,\" said the young monk; \"often they\nsing thus in February, however cold it may be.\"\n\n\"O soul, O Diarmait, is it not wonderful that the senseless small\ncreatures should praise God so sweetly in the dark, and in the light\nbefore the dark, while we are fain to lie warm and forget His praise?\"\nAnd afterwards he said, \"Gladly could I have listened to that singing,\neven till to-morrow was a day; and yet it was but the singing of a\nlittle earth wrapped in a handful of feathers.  O soul, tell me what it\nmust be to listen to the singing of an Angel, a portion of heaven\nwrapped in the glory of God's love!\"\n\nOf the forty days thirty went by, and oftentimes now, when no wind\nblew, it was bright and delightsome among the rocks, for the sun was\ngaining strength, and the days were growing longer, and the brown trees\nwere being speckled with numberless tiny buds of white and pale green,\nand wild flowers were springing between the boulders and through the\nmountain turf.\n\nHard by the cave there was a low wall of rock covered with ivy, and as\nDiarmait chanced to walk near it, a brown bird darted out from among\nthe leaves.  The young monk looked at the place from which it had\nflown, and behold! among the leaves and the hairy sinews of the ivy\nthere was a nest lined with grass, and in the nest there were three\neggs--pale-green with reddish spots.  And Diarmait knew the bird and\nknew the eggs, and he told the Abbot, who came noiselessly, and looked\nwith a great love at the open house and the three eggs of the mother\nblackbird.\n\n\"Let us not walk too near, my son,\" he said, \"lest we scare the mother\nfrom her brood, and so silence beforehand some of the music of the cold\nhours before the day.\"  And he lifted his hand and blessed the nest and\nthe bird, saying, \"And He shall bless thy bread and thy water.\"  After\nthat it was very seldom they went near the ivy.\n\nNow after days of clear and benign weather a shrill wind broke out from\nbeneath the North Star, and brought with it snow and sleet and piercing\ncold.  And the woods howled for distress of the storm, and the grey\nstones of the mountain chattered with discomfort.  Harsh cold and\nsleeplessness were their lot in the cave, and as he shivered, the Abbot\nbethought him of the blackbird in her nest, and of the wet flakes\ndriving in between the leaves of the ivy and stinging her brown wings\nand patient bosom.  And lifting his head from his pillow of stone he\nprayed the Lord of the elements to have the bird in His gentle care,\nsaying, \"How excellent is Thy loving-kindness, O God! therefore the\nchildren of men put their trust under the shadow of Thy wings.\"\n\nThen after a little while he said, \"Look out into the night, O son, and\ntell me if yet the storm be abated.\"\n\nAnd Diarmait, shuddering, went to the mouth of the cavern, and stood\nthere gazing and calling in a low voice, \"Domine Abbas!  My Lord Abbot!\nMy Lord Abbot!\"\n\nKenach rose quickly and went to him, and as they looked out the sleet\nbeat on their faces, but in the midst of the storm there was a space of\nlight, as though it were moonshine, and the light streamed from an\nAngel, who stood near the wall of rock with outspread wings, and\nsheltered the blackbird's nest from the wintry blast.\n\nAnd the monks gazed at the shining loveliness of the Angel, till the\nwind fell and the snow ceased and the light faded away and the sharp\nstars came out and the night was still.\n\nNow at sundown of the day that followed, when the Abbot was in the\ncave, the young monk, standing among the rocks, saw approaching a woman\nwho carried a child in her arms; and crossing himself he cried aloud to\nher, \"Come not any nearer; turn thy face to the forest, and go down.\"\n\n[Illustration: _Come not any nearer; turn thy face to the forest, and\ngo down_]\n\n\"Nay,\" replied the woman, \"for we seek shelter for the night, and food\nand the solace of fire for the little one.\"\n\n\"Go down, go down,\" cried Diarmait; \"no woman may come to this\nhermitage.\"\n\n\"How canst thou say that, O monk?\" said the woman.  \"Was the Lord\nChrist any worse than thou?  Christ came to redeem woman no less than\nto redeem man.  Not less did He suffer for the sake of woman than for\nthe sake of man.  Women gave service and tendance to Him and His\nApostles.  A woman it was who bore Him, else had men been left forlorn.\nIt was a man who betrayed Him with a kiss; a woman it was who washed\nHis feet with tears.  It was a man who smote Him with a reed, but a\nwoman who broke the alabaster box of precious ointment.  It was a man\nwho thrice denied Him; a woman stood by His cross.  It was a woman to\nwhom He first spoke on Easter morn, but a man thrust his hand into His\nside and put his finger in the prints of the nails before he would\nbelieve.  And not less than men do women enter the heavenly kingdom.\nWhy then shouldst thou drive my little child and me from thy hermitage?\"\n\nThen Kenach, who had heard all that was said, came forth from the cave,\nand blessed the woman.  \"Well hast thou spoken, O daughter; come, and\nbring the small child with thee.\"  And, turning to the young monk, he\nsaid, \"O soul, O son, O Diarmait, did not God send His Angel out of\nhigh heaven to shelter the mother bird?  And was not that, too, a\nlittle woman in feathers?  But now hasten, and gather wood and leaves,\nand strike fire from the flint, and make a hearth before the cave, that\nthe woman may rest and the boy have the comfort of the bright flame.\"\n\nThis was soon done, and by the fire sat the woman eating a little\nbarley bread; but the child, who had no will to eat came round to the\nold man, and held out two soft hands to him.  And the Abbot caught him\nup from the ground to his breast, and kissed his golden head, saying,\n\"God bless thee sweet little son, and give thee a good life and a\nhappy, and strength of thy small body, and, if it be His holy will,\nlength of glad days; and ever mayest thou be a gladness and deep joy to\nthy mother.\"\n\nThen, seeing that the woman was strangely clad in an outland garb of\nred and blue, and that she was tall, with a golden-hued skin and olive\neyes, arched eyebrows very black, aquiline nose, and a rosy mouth, he\nsaid, \"Surely, O daughter, thou art not of this land of Erinn in the\nsea, but art come out of the great world beyond?\"\n\n\"Indeed, then, we have travelled far,\" replied the woman; \"as thou\nsayest, out of the great world beyond.  And now the twilight deepens\nupon us.\"\n\n\"Thou shalt sleep safe in the cave, O daughter, but we will rest here\nby the embers.  My cloak of goats' hair shalt thou have, and such dry\nbracken and soft bushes as may be found.\"\n\n\"There is no need,\" said the woman, \"mere shelter is enough;\" and she\nadded in a low voice, \"Often has my little son had no bed wherein he\nmight lie.\"\n\nThen she stretched out her arms to the boy, and once more the little\none kissed the Abbot, and as he passed by Diarmait he put the palms of\nhis hands against the face of the young monk, and said laughingly, \"I\ndo not think thou hadst any ill-will to us, though thou wert rough and\ndidst threaten to drive us away into the woods.\"\n\nAnd the woman lifted the boy on her arm, and rose and went towards the\ncavern; and when she was in the shadow of the rocks she turned towards\nthe monks beside the fire, and said, \"My son bids me thank you.\"\n\nThey looked up, and what was their astonishment to see a heavenly glory\nshining about the woman and her child in the gloom of the cave.  And in\nhis left hand the child carried a little golden image of the world, and\nround his head was a starry radiance, and his right hand was raised in\nblessing.\n\nFor such a while as it takes the shadow of a cloud to run across a\nrippling field of corn, for so long the vision remained; and then it\nmelted into the darkness, even as a rainbow melts away into the rain.\n\nOn his face fell the Abbot, weeping for joy beyond words; but Diarmait\nwas seized with fear and trembling till he remembered the way in which\nthe child had pressed warm palms against his face and forgiven him.\n\nThe story of these things was whispered abroad, and ever since, in that\npart of Erinn in the sea, the mother blackbird is called Kenach's\nLittle Woman.\n\nAnd as for the stone on which the fire was lighted in front of the\ncave, rain rises quickly from it in mist and leaves it dry, and snow\nmay not lie upon it, and even in the dead of winter it is warm to\ntouch.  And to this day it is called the Stone of Holy Companionship.\n\n\n\n\nGolden Apples and Roses Red\n\nIn the cruel days of old, when Diocletian was the Master of the World,\nand the believers in the Cross were maimed, and tortured with fire, and\ntorn with iron hooks, and cast to the lions, and beheaded with the\nsword, Dorothea, a beautiful maiden of Caesarea, was brought before\nSapricius, the Governor of Cappadocia, and commanded to forsake the\nLord Christ and offer incense to the images of the false gods.\n\nThough she was so young and so fair and tender, she stood unmoved by\nthreats and entreaties, and when, with little pity on her youth and\nloveliness, Sapricius menaced her with the torment of the iron bed over\na slow fire, she replied: \"Do with me as you will.  No pain shall I\nfear, so firm is my trust in Him for whom I am ready to die.\"\n\n\"Who, then, is this that has won thy love?\" asked the Governor.\n\n\"It is Christ Jesus, the Son of God.  Slay me, and I shall but the\nsooner be with Him in His Paradise, where there is no more pain,\nneither sorrow, but the tears are wiped from all eyes, and the roses\nare in bloom alway, and for ever the fruit of joy is on the trees.\"\n\n\"Thy words are but the babbling of madness,\" said the Governor angrily.\n\n\"I am not mad, most noble Sapricius.\"\n\n[Illustration: \"_I am not mad, most noble Sapricius_\"]\n\n\"Here, then, is the incense, sacrifice, and save thy life.\"\n\n\"I will not sacrifice,\" replied Dorothea.\n\n\"Then shalt thou die,\" said Sapricius; and he bade the doomsman take\nher to the place of execution and strike off her head.\n\nNow as she was being led away from the judgment-seat, a gay young\nadvocate named Theophilus said to her jestingly: \"Farewell, sweet\nDorothea: when thou hast joined thy lover, wilt thou not send me some\nof the fruit and roses of his Paradise?\"\n\nLooking gravely and gently at him, Dorothea answered: \"I will send\nsome.\"\n\nWhereupon Theophilus laughed merrily, and went his way homeward.\n\nAt the place of execution, Dorothea begged the doomsman to tarry a\nlittle, and kneeling by the block, she raised her hands to heaven and\nprayed earnestly.  At that moment a fair child stood beside her,\nholding in his hand a basket containing three golden apples and three\nred roses.\n\n\"Take these to Theophilus, I pray thee,\" she said to the child, \"and\ntell him Dorothea awaits him in the Paradise whence they came.\"\n\nThen she bowed her head, and the sword of the doomsman fell.\n\nMark now what follows.\n\nTheophilus, who had reached home, was still telling of what had\nhappened and merrily repeating his jest about the fruit and flowers of\nParadise, when suddenly, while he was speaking, the child appeared\nbefore him with the apples and the roses.  \"Dorothea,\" he said, \"has\nsent me to thee with these, and she awaits thee in the garden.\"  And\nstraightway the child vanished.\n\nThe fragrance of those heavenly roses filled Theophilus with a strange\npity and gladness; and, eating of the fruit of the Angels, he felt his\nheart made new within him, so that he, also, became a servant of the\nLord Jesus, and suffered death for His name, and thus attained to the\ncelestial garden.\n\nCenturies after her martyrdom, the body of Dorothea was laid in a\nbronze shrine richly inlaid with gold and jewels in the church built in\nher honour beyond Tiber, in the seven-hilled city of Rome.\n\nThere it lay in the days when Waldo was a brother at the Priory of\nThree Fountains, among the wooded folds of the Taunus Hills; and every\nseven years the shrine was opened that the faithful might gaze on the\nmaiden martyr of Caesarea.\n\n\nAn exceeding great love and devotion did Waldo bear this holy virgin,\nwhom he had chosen for his patroness, and one of his most ardent wishes\nwas that he might some day visit the church beyond Tiber, and kneel by\nthe shrine which contained her precious relics.  In summer the red\nroses, in autumn the bright apples on the tree, reminded him of her; in\nthe spring he thought of her youth and beauty joyously surrendered to\nChrist, and the snow in winter spoke to him of her spotless innocence.\nThus through the round of the year the remembrance of her was present\nabout him in fair suggestions; and indeed had there been any lack of\nthese every gift of God would have recalled her to his mind, for was\nnot that--\"the gift of God\"--her name?\n\nNotwithstanding his youth, Waldo was ripe in learning, well skilled in\nLatin and Greek, and so gifted beyond measure in poetry and music that\npeople said he had heard the singing of Angels and had brought the echo\nof it to the earth.  His hymns and sacred songs were known and loved\nall through the German land, and far beyond.  The children sang them in\nthe processions on the high feast days, the peasants sang them at their\nwork in house or field, travellers sang them as they journeyed over the\nlong heaths and through the mountain-forests, fishers and raftsmen sang\nthem on the rivers.  He composed the Song of the Sickle which cuts at a\nstroke the corn in its ripeness and the wild flower in its bloom, and\nthe Song of the Mill-wheel, with its long creak and quick clap, and the\nmelodious rush of water from the buckets of the wheel, and many another\nwhich it would take long to tell of; but that which to himself was\nsweetest and dearest was Golden Apples and Roses Red, the song in which\nhe told the legend of St. Dorothea his patroness.\n\n\nNow when Waldo was in the six-and-thirtieth year of his age he was\nsmitten with leprosy; and when it was found that neither the relics of\nthe saints, nor the prayers of holy men, nor the skill of the physician\navailed to cure him, but that it was God's will he should endure to the\nend, the Prior entreated him to surrender himself to that blessed will,\nand to go forth courageously to the new life of isolation which awaited\nhim.  For in those days it was not lawful that a leper should abide in\nthe companionship of men, and he was set apart lest his malady should\nbring others to a misery like his own.\n\nDeep was the grief of the brethren of Three Fountains when they were\nsummoned to attend the sacred office of demission which was to shut out\nWaldo for ever from intercourse with his fellows.  And well might any\ngood heart sorrow, for this was the order of that office.\n\nThe altar was draped in black, and Mass for the Dead was sung; and all\nthe things that Waldo would need in the house of his exile, from the\nflint and iron which gave fire to the harp which should give solace,\nwere solemnly blessed and delivered to him.  Next he was warned not to\napproach the dwellings of men, or to wash in running streams, or to\nhandle the ropes of draw-wells, or to drink from the cups of wayside\nsprings.  He was forbidden the highways, and when he went abroad a\nclapper must give token of his coming and going.  Nothing that might be\nused by others should he touch except with covered hands.\n\nWhen after these warnings he had been exhorted to patience and trust in\nGod's mercy and love, the brethren formed a procession, with the cross\ngoing before, and led him away to his hermitage among the wooded hills.\nOn a little wood-lawn, beyond a brook crossed by stepping-stones, a hut\nof boughs had been prepared for him, and the Prior bade him mark the\ngrey boulder on the further side of the brook, for there he would find\nleft for him, week by week, such provisions as he needed.\n\nLast rite of all, the Prior entering the hut strewed over his bed of\nbracken a handful of mould from the churchyard saying, \"Sis mortuus\nmundo--Dead be thou to the world, but living anew to God,\" and turfs\nfrom the churchyard were laid on the roof of the hut.  Thus in his grey\ngown and hood was Waldo committed alive to his grave, and the brethren,\nchanting a requiem, returned to the Priory.\n\nThe tidings of Waldo's grievous lot travelled far and wide through the\nGerman land, and thenceforth when his songs were sung many a true man's\nheart was heavy and many a good woman's eyes were filled with tears as\nthey bethought them of the poor singer in his hut among the hills.\nKindly souls brought alms and provisions and laid them on his boulder\nby the brook, and oftentimes as they came and went they sang some hymn\nor song he had composed, for they said, \"So best can we let him know\nthat we remember him and love him.\"  Indeed, to his gentle heart the\nsound of their human voices in that solitude was as the warm clasp of a\nbeloved hand.\n\n\nWhen Waldo had lived there alone among the hills for the space of two\nyears and more, and his malady had grown exceeding hard to bear, he was\nseized with a woeful longing--such a longing as comes upon a little\nchild for its mother when it has been left all alone in the house, and\nhas gone seeking her in all the chambers, and finds she is not there.\nAnd as on a day he went slowly down to the boulder by the stream in the\nfailing light, thinking of her who had cherished his childhood--how he\nhad clung to her gown, how with his little hand in hers he had run by\nher side, how she had taken him on her lap and made his hurts all well\nwith kisses, his heart failed him, and crying aloud \"Mother, O mother!\"\nhe knelt by the boulder, and laid his head on his arms, weeping.\n\nThen from among the trees on the further side of the brook came a\nmaiden running, but she paused at the stepping-stones when she saw\nWaldo, and said, \"Was it thy voice I heard calling 'Mother'?\"\n\nThe monk did not answer or move.\n\n\"Art thou Brother Waldo?\" she asked.\n\nRaising his head, he looked at her and replied, \"I am Brother Waldo.\"\n\n\"Poor brother, I pity thee,\" said the maiden; \"there is no man or maid\nbut pities thee.  If thou wilt tell me of thy mother, I will find her,\neven were I to travel far, and bid her come to thee.  Well I wot she\nwill come to thee if she may.\"\n\nFor all his manhood and learning and holiness, Waldo could not still\nthe crying of the little child within him, and he told the maiden of\nhis mother, and blessed her, and asked her name.  When she answered\nthat it was Dorothy, \"Truly,\" said he, \"it is a fair name and gracious,\nand in thy coming thou hast been a gift of God to me.\"\n\nThereupon the maiden left him, and Waldo returned to his hut, comforted\nand full of hope.\n\nAfter a month had gone Dorothy returned.  Crossing the stepping-stones\nin the clear light of the early morning, she found Waldo meditating by\nthe door of his hut.\n\n\"I have done thy bidding, brother,\" she said in a gentle voice, \"but\nalas! thy mother cannot come to thee.  Grieve not too much at this, for\nshe is with God.  She must have died about the time thou didst call for\nher; and well may I believe that it was she who sent me to thee in her\nstead.\"\n\n\"The will of God be done,\" said Waldo, and he bowed his head, and spoke\nno more for a long while; but the maiden stood patiently awaiting till\nhe had mastered his grief.\n\nAt length he raised his head and saw her.  \"Art thou not gone?\" he\nasked.  \"I thought thou hadst gone.  Thou art good and gentle, and I\nthank thee.  Go now, for here thou mayst not stay.\"\n\n\"Nay, brother,\" replied Dorothy, \"thou hast no mother to come to thee\nnow, no companion or friend to minister to thee.  This is my place.  Do\nnot fear that I shall annoy or weary thee.  I shall but serve and obey\nthee, coming and going at thy bidding.  Truly thou art too weak and\nafflicted to be left any more alone.\"\n\n\"It may not be, dear child.  Thy father and mother or others of thy\nkinsfolk need thee at home.\"\n\n\"All these have been long dead,\" said Dorothy, \"and I am alone.  Here\nin the wood I will find me a hollow tree, and thou shalt but call to\nhave me by thee, and but lift a finger to see me no more.\"\n\n\"Why wouldst thou do this for me?\" asked Waldo, wondering at her\npersistency.\n\n\"Ah, brother, I know thy suffering and I love thy songs.\"\n\n\"And dost thou not shudder at this horror that is upon me, and dread\nlest the like befall thee too?\"\n\nThen Dorothy laughed low and softly to herself, and answered only so.\n\n\nIn this wise the maiden came to minister to the poor recluse, and so\ngracious was she and humble, so prudent and yet so tender, that in his\nsuffering she was great solace to him, bringing his food from the\nboulder and his drink from the brook, cleaning his cell and freshening\nit with fragrant herbs; and about the cell she made a garden of\nwholesome plants and wild flowers, and all kindly service that was\nwithin her power she did for him.\n\nSo beautiful was she and of such exceeding sweetness, that when his\neyes rested upon her, he questioned in his mind whether she was a true\nwoman and not an Angel sent down to console him in his dereliction.\nAnd that doubt perplexed and troubled him, for so little are we Angels\nyet that in our aches and sorrows of the flesh it is not the comfort of\nAngels but the poor human pitiful touch of the fellow-creature that we\nmost yearn for.  Once, indeed, he asked her fretfully, \"Tell me truly\nin the name of God, art thou a very woman of flesh and blood?\"\n\n\"Truly then, brother,\" she answered, smiling, \"I am of mortal flesh and\nblood even as thou art, and time shall be when this body that thou\nseest will be mingled with the dust of the earth.\"\n\n\"Is it then the way of women to sacrifice so much for men as thou hast\ndone for me?\"\n\n\"It is the way of women who love well,\" said Dorothy.\n\n\"Then needs must I thank thy namesake and my patroness in heaven,\"\nrejoined Waldo.\n\n\"Yea, and is St. Dorothea thy patroness?\" asked the maiden.\n\nWaldo told her that so it was, and rapturously he spoke of the young\nand beautiful saint done to death in Caesarea, and of the fruit and\nflowers of Paradise which she sent to Theophilus.  \"And I would,\" he\nsighed under his breath, \"that she would send such a gift to me.\"\n\n\"All this I know,\" said Dorothy, \"for I have learnt thy song of Golden\nApples and Roses Red, and I love it most of all thy songs, though these\nbe many and sung all about the world, I think.  And this I will tell\nthee of thy songs, that I saw in a dream once how they were not mere\nwords and melody, but living things.  Like the bright heads of baby\nAngels were they, and they were carried on wings as it were of\nrose-leaves, and they fluttered about the people who loved them and\nsang them, leading them into blessed paths and whispering to them holy\nand happy thoughts.\"\n\n\"God be blessed and praised for ever, if it be so,\" said Waldo; \"but\nthis was no more than a maiden's dream.\"\n\n\nFor two winters Dorothy ministered to the poor leper, and during this\nwhile no one save Waldo knew of her being in the woods, and no other\nman set eyes on her.  The fourth year of his exile was now drawing to a\nclose, and Waldo had fallen into extreme weakness by reason of his\nmalady, and over his face he wore a mask of grey cloth, with two holes\nfor his great piteous eyes.  It was in the springtide, and one night as\nhe lay sleepless in the dark, listening to the long murmur of the wind\nin the swaying pines, he heard overhead sharp cries and trumpetings,\nand the creaking and winnowing of wings innumerable.\n\nRising from his bed, he went out of doors, and looked up into the dark\nheavens; and high and spectral among the clouded stars he saw the\nhome-coming of the cranes.  He sat on the bench beside his door, and\nwatched them sail past in thousands, filling the night with a fleeting\nclamour and eerie sounds.  As he sat he mused on the strange longing\nwhich brought these birds over land and sea back home, year by year,\nwith the returning spring, and he marvelled that the souls of men,\nwhich are but birds of passage in these earthly fields, should be so\nslow to feel that longing for their true home-land.\n\nThat day when Dorothy came to the hut, he said to her: \"It is well to\nbe glad, for, though the air is still keen, the spring is here.  I\nheard the cranes returning in the night.\"\n\n\"And I too heard them; and I heard thee rejoicing, playing on thy harp\nand singing.\"\n\n\"That could not be, sister,\" said Waldo, \"unless in a dream.  No longer\ncan I touch harp-string, as thou knowest.\"\n\n\"In truth I was awake and heard,\" said Dorothy; \"and the song thou wast\nsinging was of birds of passage, and of the longing of exiles to go\nhome, and of the dark wherethrough we must pass, with cries and beating\nwings, ere we can find our way back to our true home-land.'\"\n\n\"Nay, it must have been a dream,\" said Waldo, \"for as I sat with my\nhands hidden in my gown I did but play an imaginary harp, making still\nmusic in my heart, and no song came from my lips.\"\n\n\"The more strange that I should hear!\" replied Dorothy, smiling as she\nwent her way.\n\n\nIn a little while from this the poor brother felt that the end of his\nmartyrdom drew nigh; and as he lay feeble and faint in the shadow of\nthe hut (for the day was clement), sighing for the hour of his\ndeliverance, Dorothy came from the woods.  In her hand she carried a\nbasket, and as she stood over him she said, \"See what I have brought\nfor thee.\"\n\nLifting his head weakly, and looking through the eyelets of his grey\nmask, Waldo saw that the basket contained three golden apples and three\nred roses, though still it was but early days in spring.  At sight of\nthem he uttered a cry of gladness (for all it was a cry hollow and\nhoarse), and strove to rise and throw himself at her feet.\n\n\"Nay, brother,\" she said, \"refrain; lie still and breathe the sweetness\nof the roses and taste of the fruit.\"\n\nShe gave him one of the apples, and putting it to his mouth he tasted\nit and sighed deeply.  In a moment all pain and suffering had left him,\nand his spirit was light and gladsome.  His eyes too were opened, so\nthat he knew that Dorothy had no way deceived him, but was truly a\nliving woman of flesh and blood like himself.  Then a heavenly peace\ndescended upon him like a refreshing dew, and he closed his eyes for\nthe great ease he felt.\n\nWhile these things were happening, came from Three Fountains the\nlay-brother who brought Waldo his provisions.  Crossing the brook to\nset his budget on the boulder, he saw the poor recluse lying in the lee\nof the hut, and Dorothy leaning over him.  Wherefore he hastened across\nthe wood-lawn, but in an instant the fair woman vanished before his\neyes, and when he came to the hut he saw that Waldo was dead.  He\ncarried the basket of flowers and fruit to the Priory, and told what he\nhad seen; and the Prior, marvelling greatly, came to the place and gave\nthe poor leper brother a blessed burial.\n\n\nNow at this time a wondrous strange occurrence was the talk of Rome.\n\nThe year wherein Waldo died was that seventh year in which the shrine\nof St. Dorothea is opened in her church beyond Tiber; and the day on\nwhich it is opened fell a little while before the death of Waldo.\n\nBehold, then, when on the vigil of that feast the priests unlocked the\nshrine, the place where aforetime the holy body of the martyr had lain\nwas empty.  Great was the dismay, loud the lamentation, grievous the\nsuspicion.  The custodians of the church and the shrine were seized and\ncast into prison, where they lay till the day of their trial.  On the\nmorning of that day the church of St. Dorothea was filled with a divine\nfragrance, which seemed to transpire from the empty shrine as from a\ncelestial flower.  Wherefore once again the shrine was opened, and\nthere, even such as they had been seen by many of the faithful seven\nyears before, lay the relics of the Saint in their old resting-place.\n\n\nNow to all poor souls God grant a no less happy end of days than this\nwhich He vouchsafed to the poor leper-singer Waldo of the Priory of\nThree Fountains.\n\n\n\n\nThe Seven Years of Seeking\n\nHere begins the chapter of the Seven Years of Seeking.\n\nFor, trying greatly to win sight of that blessed isle, the Earthly\nParadise, the monk Serapion and his eleven companions hoisted sail; and\nfor seven years they continued in that seeking, wandering with little\nrespite under cloud and star, in all the ways of the sea of ocean which\ngoeth round the world.\n\n\n[Now this chapter was read of evenings in the refectory at supper, in\nthe winter of the Great Snow.  While the drifts without lay fathom-deep\nin sheltered places, and the snow was settling on the weather-side of\nthings in long slopes like white pent-houses, the community listened\nwith rapt attention, picturing to themselves the slanting ship, and the\nred sail of skins with its yellow cross in the midst, and the\nmarvellous vision of vast waters, and the strange islands.  Then\nsuddenly the Prior would strike the table, and according to the custom\nthe reader would close his book with the words, \"Tu autem, Domine--But\ndo Thou, O Lord, have mercy upon us!\" and the monks would rise, with\ninterest still keen in the wanderings of the Sea-farers.\n\nSeeing that it would be of little profit to break up the reading as the\nPrior was wont to break it up, I will give the story here without pause\nor hindrance, as though it had all been read in a single evening at\nsupper, and keep my \"Tu autem\" for the end of all.  And truly it is at\nthe end of all that most there is need of that prayer.  So without more\nado.]\n\n\nSerapion and his companions were, all save one, monks of the Abbey of\nthe Holy Face.  Not the first Abbey of that name, in the warm green\nwoods in the western creek of Broce-Liande, but the second, which is\nnearer to the sunrise.  For the site of the first Abbey was most\ndelightful, and so sheltered from the weary wind of the west, and so\nopen to the radiance of the morning, that, save it were Paradise, no\nman could come at a place so gracious and delectable.  There earliest\nbroke the land into leaf and blossom; and there the leaf was last to\nfall; and there one could not die, not even the very aged.  Wherefore,\nin order that the long years of their pilgrimage might be shortened,\nthe brethren prevailed on the Abbot to remove to another site, nearer\nthe spring of the day; and in this new house, one by one in due season,\nthey were caught up to the repose of the heavens, the aged fathers\ndying first, as is seemly.\n\nThis then was the second Abbey of the Holy Face, and its pleasant woods\nran down to the shore of the sea.  And going east or going west, where\nthe green billow shades into blue water, the ships of the mariners kept\npassing and repassing day after day; and their sails seemed to cast an\nenchanted shadow across the cloister; and the monks, as they watched\nthem leaning over to the breeze, dreamed of the wondrous Garden of\nEden, which had not been swallowed up by the Deluge, but had been saved\nas an isle inviolate amid the fountains of the great deep; and they\nasked each other whether not one of all these sea-farers would ever\nbring back a fruit or a flower or a leaf from the arbours of delight in\nwhich our first parents had dwelt.  They spoke of the voyage of Brendan\nthe Saint, and of the exceeding loveliness of the Earthly Paradise, and\nof the deep bliss of breathing its air celestial, till it needed little\nto set many of them off on a like perilous adventure.\n\nOf all the brethren Serapion was the most eager to begin that seeking.\nAnd this was what brought him to it at last.\n\n\nThere came to the Abbey on a day in spring that youthful Bishop of\nArimathea who in after time made such great fame in the world.  Tall\nand stately was he, and black-bearded; a guest pleasant and wise, and\nripe with the experience of distant travel and converse with many chief\nmen.  Now he was on his way to the great house of Glastonbury oversea,\nto bring back with him, if he might be so fortunate, the body of the\nsaint of his city who had helped our Lord to bear His cross on the Way\nDolorous; or, if that were an issue beyond his skill, at least some\nprecious memorial of that saint.\n\nMany things worthy of remembrance he told of what he had seen and\nheard; and no small marvel did it seem to speak with one who had stood\non Mount Sinai in the wilderness.  From the top of that mountain, he\nsaid, one looked down on a region stretching to the Red Sea, and in the\nmidst of the plain there is a monastery of saintly recluses, but no man\ncan discover any track that leads to it.  Faint and far away the bells\nare heard tolling for prime, it may be, or vespers, and it is believed\nthat now and again some weary traveller has reached it, but no one has\never returned.  The Ishmaelites, who dwell in the wilderness, have\nridden long in search of it, guided by the sound of the bells, but\nnever have they succeeded in catching a gleam of its white walls among\nthe palm-trees, nor yet of the green palms.  The Abbot of that house,\nit is said, is none other than the little child whom our Lord set in\nthe midst of His Disciples, saying, \"Except ye become as little\nchildren,\" and he will abide on the earth till our Lord's return, and\nthen shall he enter into the kingdom with Him, without tasting death.\n\nSpeaking of the holy places, Calvary, it might be, or the Garden of\nOlives and the sepulchre of the Lord, and of the pilgrims who visited\nthese, he repeated to us the saying of the saintly Father Hieronymus:\n\"To live in Jerusalem is not a very holy thing, but to live a holy life\nin Jerusalem.\"  And walking with many of our brethren on the shore of\nthe sea and seeing the sails of the ships as they went by, he\nquestioned us of the wonders of the great waters, and of sea-faring,\nand of the last edge of the living earth, and he said: \"Tell me, you\nwho abide within sight of so many ships, and who hear continually the\nsong of the great creature Sea, how would it fare with one who should\nsail westward and keep that one course constantly?\"\n\nWe said that we knew not; it were like he would perish of famine or\nthirst, or be whelmed in the deep.\n\n\"Ay,\" he said, \"but if he were well provisioned, with no lack of food\nand water, and the weather held fair?\"\n\nThat we could not answer, for it seemed to us that such a one would\nlose heart and hope in the roofless waste, with never a stone or tree,\nnor any shadow save a cloud's, and turn back dismayed; but Serapion\nreplied: \"To me it appears, your Discretion, that so bold a mariner, if\nyears failed him not, might win to the Earthly Paradise.\"\n\n\"So have I heard,\" said the Bishop.  \"Yet here would you be sailing\ninto the west, and for a certainty the Paradise of God was in the east.\nHow would you give a reasonable account of this?\"\n\nBut we could make no reply, for we knew not; nor Serapion more than we.\n\n\"Now, watching the sea,\" said the Bishop, \"you have marked the ships,\nhow they go.  When they come to you, they first show the mast-top, then\nthe sail, and last the body of the ship, and perchance the sweep of the\noars, reverse-wise when they depart from you, you first fail to see the\nbody of the ship, and then the sail, but longest you hold in sight the\nmast-top, or it may be a bright streamer flying therefrom, or a cross\nglittering in the light--though these be but small things compared with\nthe body of the ship.  Is it not so?\"\n\nWe answered, readily enough, that so it was.\n\n\"Is it not then even as though one were to watch a wayfarer on\nhorse-back, going or coming over the green bulge of a low hill?  Were\nhe coming to you, you would first see the head of the rider, and last\nthe legs of the horse, and were he riding away the horse would first go\ndown over the hill, but still, for a little, you would see the man\nwaving his hand in farewell as he sank lower and lower.\"\n\nSuch indeed, we said, was the fashion of a ship's coming and going.\n\n\"Does it not then seem a likely thing,\" said his Discretion, \"that the\nsea is in the nature of a long low hill, down which the ships go?  So\nhave I heard it surmised by wise men, sages and scholars of the lights\nof heaven, in the cities of Greece and Egypt.  For the earth and the\nocean-sea, they teach, is fashioned as a vast globe in the heights of\nheaven.  And truly, if indeed it be the shadow of the world which\ndarkens the face of the moon in time of eclipse, the earth may well be\nround, for that shadow is round.  Thus, then, one holding ever a\nwestward course might sail down the bulge of the sea, and under the\nworld, and round about even unto the east, if there be sea-way all\nalong that course.\"\n\nSilently we listened to so strange a matter, but the Bishop traced for\nus on the sand a figure of the earth.  \"And here,\" said he, \"is this\nland of ours, and here the sea, and here the bulge of ocean, and here a\nship sailing westward; and here in the east is the Earthly Paradise;\nand mark now how the ship fareth onward ever on the one course\nunchanged, till it cometh to that blessed place.\"\n\nTruly this was a wondrous teaching; and when we questioned how they who\nsailed could escape falling out and perishing, they and indeed their\nship, when they came so far down the round sea that they hung heads\nnethermost, his Discretion laughed: \"Nay, if the sea, which the wind\nbreaketh and lifteth and bloweth about in grey showers, fall not out,\nneither will the ship, nor yet the mariners; for the Lord God hath so\nordered it that wheresoever mariners be, there the sea shall seem to\nthem no less flat than a great grass-meadow when the wind swings the\ngrass; and if they hang head downward they know not of it; but rather,\nseeing over them the sun and the clouds, they might well pity our evil\ncase, deeming it was we who were hanging heads nethermost.\"\n\nNow this and suchlike converse with the Bishop so moved Serapion that\nhe lost the quietude of soul and the deep gladness of heart which are\nthe portion of the cloister.  Day and night his thought was flying\nunder sail across the sea towards the Earthly Paradise, and others\nthere were who were of one longing with him.  Wherefore at last they\nprayed leave of the Abbot to build a ship and to try the venture.\n\nThe Abbot consented, but when they besought him to go with them and to\nlead them, he shook his head smiling, and answered: \"Nay, children, I\nam an aged man, little fitted for such a labour.  Wiser is it for me to\nlean my staff against my fig-tree, and have in mind the eternal years.\nMoreover, as you know, many are the sons in this house who look to me\nfor fatherly care.  But if it be your wish, one shall go with you to be\nthe twelfth of your company.  In hours of peril and perplexity and\nneed, if such should befall you, you shall bid him pray earnestly, and\nafter he has prayed, heed what he shall say, even as you would heed the\nwords of your Abbot.  No better Abbot and counsellor could you have,\nfor he hath still preserved his baptismal innocence.  It is Ambrose,\nthe little chorister.\"\n\nSerapion and the others wondered at this, but readily they accepted the\nAbbot's choice of a companion.\n\nThink now of the ship as built--a goodly ship of stout timber frame\ncovered two-ply with hides seasoned and sea-worthy, well found in\nprovisions against a long voyage, fitted with sturdy mast of pine and\nbroad sail.  And think of the Mass as sung, with special prayer to Him\nwho is the confidence of them that are afar off upon the sea.  And\nthink of the leave-taking and blessing as over and done, and of the\nSea-farers as all aboard, eleven brethren and Ambrose the chorister, a\nlittle lad of nine summers.\n\nNow all is cast loose, and the red sail is drawn up the mast and set\npuffing, and the ship goes out, dipping and springing, into the deep.\nOn the shore the religious stand watching; and Serapion is at the\nrudder, steering and glancing back; and the others aboard are waving\nhands landward; and on a thwart beside the mast stands the little lad,\nand at a sign from Serapion he lifts up his clear sweet voice, singing\njoyfully the _Kyrie eleison_ of the Litany.  The eleven join in the\nglad song, and it is caught up by the voices of those on shore, as\nthough it were by an organ; and as he sings the lad Ambrose watches the\nwhite ruffled wake-water of the ship, how it streams between the\nunbroken green sea on either hand, and it seems to him most like the\nrunning of a shallow brook when it goes ruffling over the pebbles in\nthe greenwood.\n\nTo those on ship and to those on shore the song of each grew a fainter\nhearing as the distance widened; and the magnitude of the ship\nlessened; and first the hull went down the bulge of the ocean, and next\nthe sail; and long ere it was sunset all trace of the Sea-farers had\nvanished away.\n\n\nNow is this company of twelve gone forth into the great waters; far\nfrom the beloved house of the Holy Face are they gone, and far from the\nblithesome green aspect of the good earth; and no man of them knoweth\nwhat bane or blessing is in store for him, or whether he shall ever\nagain tread on grass or ground.  A little tearfully they think of their\ndear cloister-mates, but they are high of heart nothing the less.\nTheir ship is their garth, and cloister, and choir, wherein they praise\nGod with full voices through all the hours from matins to compline.\n\nOf the bright weather and fresh wind which carried them westward many\ndays it would be tedious to tell, and indeed little that was strange\ndid they see at that time, save it were a small bird flying high\nathwart their course, and a tree, with its branches and green leaves\nunlopped, which lay in the swing of the wave; but whither and whence\nthe bird was flying, or where that tree grew in soil, they could not\nguess.\n\nOf what happened to them in the course of their seeking, even of that\nthe telling must be brief, flitting from one event to another, even as\nthe small Peter-bird flits from the top of one wave to the top of\nanother, nor wets foot or feather in the marbled sea between; else\nwould the story of the seeking linger out the full seven years of the\nseeking.\n\n\nThe first trial that befell them was dense wintry fog, in the dusk of\nwhich they lay with lowered sail on a sullen sea for a day and a night.\nWhen the change came, it brought with it the blowing of a fierce gale\nwith a plague of sleet and hail-stones, and they were chased out of the\nfog, and driven far into the south.\n\nGreat billows followed them as they ran, and broke about the stern of\nthe ship in fountains of freezing spray which drenched them to the\nskin.  Little ease had they in their sea-faring in that long race with\nthe north wind, for every moment they looked to have the mast torn up\nby the root and the frame-work of the ship broken asunder.  The salt\nsurf quenched their fire and mingled their bread with bitterness.\n\nAching they were and weary, and sorrowful enough to sleep, when the\ntempest abated, and the sun returned, and the sea rolled in long glassy\nswells.\n\nAs the sun blazed out, and the sea glittered over all his trackless\nways, Serapion said to the chorister: \"Ha, little brother, 'tis good,\nis it not? to see the bright sun once more.  His face is as the face of\nan Angel to us.\"\n\nThe lad looked at him curiously, but made no answer.\n\n\"Art thou ailing, or sad, or home-sick, little one, that thou hast\nnought to say?\" asked Serapion.\n\n\"Nay, father, I was but thinking of thy words, that the face of the sun\nis as the face of an Angel.\"\n\n\"Ay!  And is it not so?\"\n\n\"Nay, father.  When I have seen the sun at sunrise and at sunset I have\never seen a ring of splendid Angels, and in the midst of the ring the\nsnow-white Lamb with his red cross, and the Angels were moving\nconstantly around the Lamb, joyfully glittering; and that was the sun.\nBut as it rose into the heavens the Angels dazzled mine eyes so that I\ncould see them no more, nor yet the Lamb, for very brightness.  Is the\nsun then otherwise than what I see?\"\n\nThen was it Serapion's turn to muse, and he answered:\n\n\"To thy young eyes which be clear and strong--yet try them not\novermuch--it is doubtless as thou sayest; but we who are older have\nlost the piercing sight, and to us the sun is but a great and wonderful\nsplendour which dazzles us before we can descry either the Angels or\nthe Lamb.\"\n\nMeanwhile the Sea-farers ate and drank and spread their raiment to dry,\nand some were oppressed by the memory of the hardships they had\nendured; but Serapion, going among them, cheered them with talk of the\nEarthly Paradise, and of the joy it would be, when they had won\nthither, to think of the evil chances through which they had passed.\nIn a low tone he also spoke to them of their small companion and his\nvision of the sun.\n\n\"Truly,\" he said, \"it is as our Father Abbot told us--he has not lost\nhis baptismal innocence, nor hath he lost all knowledge of the heaven\nfrom which he came.\"\n\nAs he was speaking thus, one of the brethren rose up with a cry, and,\nshading his eyes with his hand, pointed into the west.  Far away in the\nshimmer of the sea and the clouds they perceived an outline of land,\nand they changed their course a little to come to it.  The wind carried\nthem bravely on, and they began to distinguish blue rounded hills and\nridges, and a little later green woodland, and still later, on the edge\nof twilight, the white gleam of waters, and glimpses of open lawns\ntinged with the colour of grasses in flower.\n\nWith beating hearts they leaned on the low bulwark of the ship,\ndrinking in the beauty of the island.\n\nThen out of a leafy creek shot a boat of white and gold; and though it\nwas far off, the air was so crystalline that they saw it was garlanded\nwith fresh leaves, and red and yellow and blue blossoms; and in it\nthere were many lovely forms, clothed in white and crowned with wreaths\nrose-coloured and golden.\n\nWhen the Sea-farers perceived that the boat glided towards them without\nsail or oar, they said among themselves, \"These are assuredly the\nspirits of the Blessed;\" and when suddenly the boat paused in its\ncourse, and the islanders began a sweet song, and the brethren caught\nthe words and knew them for Latin, they were fain to believe that they\nhad, by special grace and after brief tribulations, got within sight of\nthe shore they sought.\n\nThe song was one of a longing for peace and deep sleep and dreamful joy\nand love in the valleys of the isle; and it bade the Sea-farers come to\nthem, and take repose after cold and hunger and toil on the sea.  Tears\nof gladness ran down the cheeks of several of the Seekers as they\nlistened, and one of them cried aloud: \"O brothers, we have come far,\nbut it is worth the danger and the suffering to hear this welcome of\nthe Blessed.\"\n\nNow the small chorister, who was standing by Serapion at the helm,\ntouched the father's sleeve, and asked in a low voice: \"Have I leave to\nsing in answer?\"\n\n\"Sing, little son,\" Serapion replied.\n\nThen, ringing the blessed bell of the Sea-farers, the child intoned the\nevening hymn:\n\n    _Te lucis ante terminum--_\n  _Before the waning of the light._\n\nThe instant his fresh young voice was heard singing that holy hymn, the\nflower-garlands about the boat broke into ghastly flames, and wreathed\nit with a dreadful burning; and the radiant figures were changed into\ndark shapes crowned with fire; and the song of longing and love became\na wailing and gnashing of teeth.  The island vanished away in rolling\nsmoke; and the boat burned down like a darkening ember; and the\nSea-farers in their ship were once more alone in the wilderness of\nwaters.\n\nLong they prayed that night, praising God that they had escaped the\nsnares and enchantments of the fiends.  And Serapion, drawing the lad\nto him, kissed him, saying: \"God be with thee, little brother, in thy\nuprising and thy down-lying!  God be with thee, little son!\"\n\n\nAfter this they were again driven into the south for many a day, and\nsaw no earthly shore, but everywhere unending waters.  A great\nwonderment to them was this immensity of the sea of ocean, wherein the\nland seemed a little thing lost for ever.  And ever as they drove\nonward, the pilot star of the north was steadfast no longer, but sank\nlower and still lower in the heavens, and many of the everlasting\nlights, which at home they had seen swing round it through the livelong\nnight, were now sunken, as it were, in the billows.\n\n\"Truly,\" said Serapion, \"it is even as his Discretion the Bishop told\nus; whether east we sail or west, or cross-wise north and south, the\nearth is of the figure of a ball.  In a little while it may be that we\nshall see the pilot star no more;\" and he was sorely troubled in his\nmind as to how they should steer thereafter with no beacon in heaven to\nguide them, and how they would make their way back to the Abbey of the\nHoly Face.\n\nIn their wandering they set eyes on a thing well-nigh\nincredible--nothing less than fishes rising from the depths of the sea,\nand flying like birds over the ship, and diving into the sea again, and\nyet again rising into the air and disporting themselves in the sun.  At\nnight, too, they beheld about the ship trails of fire in the sea,\ncrossing and re-crossing each other, and the fire marked the ways of\nhuge blue fishes, swift and terrible; and the Sea-farers prayed that\nthese malignant searchers of the deep might not rise into the air and\nfall ravening upon them while they slept.  In the darkness strange\npatches and tangles of light, blue and golden and emerald, floated past\nthem, and these they discovered were living creatures to which they\ncould give no names.  Often also the sea was alive with fire, which\nflashed and ran along the ridges of the waves when they curled and\nbroke, and many a night the sides of the ship were washed with flame,\nbut this fire was wet and cold, and nowise hurt a hand of those who\ntouched it.\n\n\nAt last on a clear morning the little chorister came hastily to\nSerapion and said: \"Look, father, is not yon a glimmer of the heavenly\nland we seek?\"\n\n\"Nay, little son, it is but grey cloud that has not yet caught the\nsun,\" replied Serapion.\n\n\"That, indeed, is cloud; but look higher, father.  See how white and\nsharp it shines!\"\n\nThen Serapion lifted up his eyes above the cloud, and in mid heaven\nthere floated as it were a great rock of pointed crystal, white and\nunearthly.  Serapion's eyes brightened with eagerness, and the\nSea-farers gazed long at the peak, which rather seemed a star, or a\nheadland on some celestial shore, so bright and dreamlike was it and so\nmagically poised in the high air.\n\nAll day they sailed towards it, and sometimes it vanished from their\nview, but it returned constantly.  On the third day they came to that\nland.  Bright and beautiful it was to their sea-wearied eyes; and of a\nsurety no land is there that goes so nearly to heaven.  For it rose in\ngreen and flowery heights till it was lost in a ring of dusky\nsea-cloud; and through this vast ring of cloud it pierced its way, and\nthe Sea-farers saw it emerge and stand clear above the cloud, bluish\nwith the distance.  And higher still it rose, and entered a second\ngreat cloud-ring, but this ring was white; and once more it emerged\nfrom the cloud-ring, and high over all towered the pyramid of shining\nstone.\n\n\"Well might it be that Angels often alight on this soaring mountain,\"\nsaid Serapion, \"and leave it glittering with their footprints.  If life\nand strength be given us, thither we also shall climb, and praise God\nin the lofty places of the earth which He has made.\"\n\nThey steered the ship into a sunny bay, and Serapion having blessed the\nsea and the shore, they landed right joyfully.  Drawing the ship high\non the beach, they chose a little grove of palm-trees beside a shallow\nstream for their church and cloister; but they had not been long in\nthat spot before they saw the islanders gliding through the wood and\npeering out at them in great amaze.  Serapion went forth to them,\nsmiling and beckoning them to approach, but they fled and would not\nabide his coming.  So Serapion returned, and the Sea-farers made\nthemselves such a home as they might, and rested a little from their\ntoiling.\n\nWhen the day had come to evening, and the brethren were chanting\nvespers, the islanders returned, many hundreds of them, men and women,\ndusky of skin but comely and bright-eyed, and for all their raiment\nthey wore garlands of blossoms and girdles of woven leaves.  Close they\ncame to the Sea-farers, and gazed at them, and the boldest touched\nthem, as though to assure themselves that these were living mortals\nlike unto themselves.  But when they saw the little chorister, with his\nfair white face and childish blue eyes and sunny hair, they turned to\neach other with exclamations and uncouth gestures of pleasure and\nwonderment.  Then they hurried away and brought strange and delightful\nfruit--berries, and fruit in a skin yellow and curved like a sickle\nmoon, and big nuts full of water sweet and cool, and these they laid\nbefore the lad.  Wreaths of flowers, too, they wove for him, and put\nthem on his head and about his neck, as though they were rejoiced to\nsee him and could not make too much of him.  The brethren were light of\nheart that they had come to an isle so gracious and a folk so simple\nand loving.\n\nSleep, sweet as dews of Paradise, fell upon their weariness that night,\nand they rose refreshed and glad for matins, which they chanted by the\nlight of large and radiant stars flashing down through the palms.  What\nhappened that day, however, the Sea-farers did not wholly understand\ntill long afterwards, when they had learned the speech of the people;\nbut out of their later knowledge I shall here make it plain.\n\nNow in the olden time the mighty mountain of this island had been a\nburning mountain, and even now, in a huge craggy cup beneath the\nglittering peak, there was a vast well of fire and molten rock; and the\npeak and well were the lair of an evil spirit so strong and terrible\nthat each year the island folk gave him a child to appease him, lest in\nhis malignant mood he should let the well overflow and consume them\nwith its waters of fire.\n\nWherefore, as this was the season of the sacrifice, the islanders\nseeing the little chorister, how fair and beautiful he was, deemed he\nwould be a more acceptable offering to the spirit of evil than one of\ntheir children, whom they were heart-sick of slaying.  On this day,\ntherefore, they came at dawn, and with many gestures and much strange\nspeech led away the lad, and with gentle force kept the brethren apart\nfrom him, though they suffered them to follow.\n\nIn a little while the child was clothed with flowers and leaves like\none of themselves, and in the midst of a great crowd singing a\nbarbarous strain, he was borne on a litter of boughs up the ascent of\nthe mountain.  Many times they paused and rested in the heat, and the\nday was far spent when they reached the foot of the lofty peak.  There\nthey passed the night, but though the brethren strove to force their\nway to the lad, they were restrained by the strength of the multitude,\nand they knew that violence was useless.  Again in the twilight before\ndawn the islanders resumed the journey and came to the edge of the\ncraggy cup, in the depths of which bubbled the well of fire.\n\nSilently they stood on the brink, looking towards the east; but the\nSea-farers, who now deemed only too well that their little brother was\nabout to be sacrificed to Moloch, cast themselves on their knees, and\nwith tears running down their faces, raised their hands in supplication\nto heaven.  But with a loud voice Serapion cried: \"Fear not, dear son;\nfor the Lord can save thee from the mouth of the lion, and hear thee\nfrom the horns of the unicorns.\"  The little chorister answered: \"Pray\nfor my soul, Father Serapion; for my body I have no fear, even though\nthey cast me into the pit.\"\n\nIn the streaming east the rays of light were springing ever more\nbrilliantly over the clear sea; two strong men held the lad and lifted\nhim from the ground; an aged islander--a priest, it seemed, of that\nevil spirit--white-haired and crowned with flowers, watched the sky\nwith dull eyes; and as the sun came up with a rush of splendour, he\ncalled aloud: \"God of the mountain-fire, take this life we give thee,\nand be good and friendly to us.\"\n\nThen was little Ambrose the chorister swung twice to and fro, and\nhurled far out into the rocky cup of the well of fire.  And a wild cry\narose from the crowd: \"Take this life, take this life!\"--but even as\nthat cry was being uttered the lad was stayed in his fall, and he stood\non the air over the fiery well, as though the air had been turned to\nsolid crystal, and he ran on the air across the abyss to the brethren,\nand Serapion caught him in his arms and folded him to his breast.\n\nThen fell a deep stillness and dread upon the people, and what to do\nthey knew not; but the aged priest and the strong men who had flung the\nboy into the gulf came to the brethren, and casting themselves on their\nfaces before the chorister, placed his foot on their heads.  Wherefore\nSerapion surmised that they now took him for a youthful god or spirit\nmore powerful than the evil spirit of the fire.  Touching them, he\nsigned to them to arise, and when they stood erect he pointed to the\nabyss, and gathering a handful of dust he threw it despitefully into\nthe well of fire, and afterwards spat into the depths.  This show of\nscorn and contumely greatly overawed the people, and (as was made known\nafterwards) they looked on the Sea-farers as strong gods, merciful and\nmuch to be loved.\n\nThrice did the Sea-farers hold Easter in that island, for there they\nresolved to stay till they had learned the island speech, and freed the\npeople from the bondage of demons, and taught them the worship of the\none God who is in the heavens.\n\nNow though the wind blew with an icy mouth on that high peak, in the\nrocks of the crater it was sheltered, and warm because of the inner\nfires of the mountain.  So it was ordered that in turn one brother\nshould abide on the peak, and one in a cave midway down the mountain,\nand one on the slopes where the palms and orange-trees are rooted among\nthe white-flowered sweet-scented broom.  And each of these had a great\ntrumpet of bark, and when the first ray of light streamed out of the\neast in the new day, the brother of the peak cried through his trumpet\nwith a mighty voice:\n\n  _Laudetur Jesus Christus,_\n  _May Christ Jesus be praised,_\n\nand the brother of the cave, having responded,\n\n  _In saecula saeculorum,_\n  _World without end,_\n\ncried mightily to the brother of the palms, \"May Christ Jesus be\npraised!\"--and thus from the heights in the heavens to the shore of the\nsea.  So, too, when the last light of the setting sun burned out on the\nwestern billows.\n\nThus was the reign of the spirit of evil abolished, and the mountain\nconsecrated to the praise of Him who made the hills and the isles of\nthe sea.\n\nIn the strong light of the morning sun the shadow of that mountain is\ncast over the great sea of ocean further than a swift ship may sail\nwith a fair wind in two days and two nights; and a man placed on the\npeak shall see that shadow suddenly rise up from the sea and stand over\nagainst the mountain, dark and menaceful, like the lost soul of a\nmountain bearing testimony against its body before the judgment-seat of\nGod; and this is a very awful sight.\n\nNow, having preached the Gospel, the Sea-farers strengthened their ship\nand launched into the deep after the third Eastertide, and having\ncomforted the people, because they were grieved and mournful at their\ndeparture, they left them in the keeping of the risen Lord, and\ncontinued their seeking.\n\n\nAfter this Brother Benedict, the oldest monk of their company, fell ill\nwith grievous sickness, and sorely the Sea-farers longed for some shore\nwhere he might feel the good earth solid and at rest beneath him, and\nsee the green of growing things, and have the comfort of stillness and\nsilence.\n\nWith astonishing patience he bore his malady, at no time repining, and\nspeaking never a word of complaint.  When he was asked if he repented\nhim of the adventure, he smiled gently.  \"Fain, indeed,\" he said,\n\"would I be laid to rest beneath the grass of our own garth, where the\ndear brethren, passing and repassing in the cloister, might look where\nI lay and say an 'Our Father' for my soul.  Yet in no way do I repent\nof our sailing, for we have seen the marvellous works of God; and if\nthe Lord vouchsafe to be merciful to me, it may be that I shall see the\nHeavenly Paradise before you find the Earthly.\"  \"God grant it, dear\nbrother,\" said Serapion.\n\nOn an afternoon they came to a small island walled about with high\ncliffs, red and brown, and at the foot of the cliffs a narrow beach of\nruddy sand; but on the rocks grew no green thing, lichen or moss or\ngrass or shrub, and no sweet water came bickering down into the sea.\n\nOn landing they discovered a gully in the cliffs which led inland, and\nstraightway explorers were sent to spy what manner of land it was\nwhereon they had fallen.  Within the very mouth of the narrow pass they\ncame upon a small ship hollowed out of a tree gigantic, but it was\nrotten and dry as touchwood, and wasting into dust.  Within the ship\nlay the bones of a man, stretched out as though he had died in sleep.\nOutside the ship lay the bones of two others.  The faces of these were\nturned downward to the stones whereon they lay, but the man in the ship\nhad perished with his eyes fixed on the heavens.  The oars and sails\nand ropes were all dry and crumbling, and the raiment of the men had\nmouldered away.\n\nIn the length of that narrow pass between the lofty cliff-walls the\nSea-farers found no vestige of grass or weed, either on the cliff-sides\nor on the stones and shingle.  Neither was there any water, save where\nin the hollows of some of the boulders rain had lodged and had not yet\nbeen drunk up by the sun.  No living creature, great or small, lived in\nthat ghyll.\n\nWithin the round of the sea-walls the island lay flat and low, and it\nwas one bleak waste of boulder and shingle, lifeless and waterless save\nfor the rain in the pitted surfaces of the stones; but in the midst of\nthe waste there stood, dead and leafless, a vast gaunt tree, which at\none time must have been a goodly show.  When the Sea-farers reached it,\nthey found lying on the dead turf about its roots the white bones of\nyet four other men.\n\nMuch they questioned and conjectured whence these ill-starred wanderers\nhad come to lay their bones on so uncharitable a soil, and whether they\nhad perished in seeking, like themselves, for the Earthly Paradise.\n\"What,\" sighed one, \"if this were the Earthly Paradise, and yon the\nTree of Life!\"  But the others murmured and would not have it so.\n\nYet to the sick man even this Isle of the Stones of Emptiness was a\nplace of rest and respite from the sea,--\"It is still mother-earth,\" he\nsaid, \"though the mother be grown very old and there be no flesh left\non her bones\"--and at first it seemed as though he was recovering in\nthe motionless stillness and in the great shadow of the cliffs.\nSomething of this Serapion said to the little chorister, but the lad\nanswered: \"Nay, father, do you not see how the man that used to look\nout of his eyes has become a very little child--and of such is the\nkingdom of heaven?\"\n\n\"Explain, little brother,\" said Serapion.\n\n\"Why,\" said the lad, \"is it not thus with men when they grow so old or\nsick that they be like to die--does one not see that the real selves\nwithin them look out of window with faces grown younger and smaller and\nmore joyous, till it may be that what was once a strong man, wise and\ngreat, is but a babbling babe which can scarce walk at all?\"\n\n\"Who told thee these things?\" asked Serapion.\n\n\"No one has told me,\" replied the lad, \"but seeing the little children\nthus gazing out, and knowing that all who would enter into heaven must\nbecome as they are, I thought it must needs be in this manner that\npeople change and pass away to God when the ending of life is come.\"\n\nOn this isle the Sea-farers kept a Christmas, and they made such cheer\nas they might at that blessed time, speaking of the stony fields\nwherein the Shepherds lay about their flocks, but no fields were ever\nso stony as these which were littered with stones fathom-deep, with\nnever a grain of earth or blade of grass between.  And in this isle it\nwas that Brother Benedict died, very peaceful, and without pain at the\nclose.  On the feast of the Three Kings that poor monk was privileged\neven more than those Kings had been, for not only was the Babe of\nHeaven made manifest to him, but his soul, a little child, went forth\nfrom him to be with that benign Babe for evermore.  Under the dead tree\nthe Sea-farers buried him, and on the trunk of the tree they fastened a\ncrucifix on the side on which he reposed.\n\nThe bones, too, of the dead men they gathered together and covered with\nstones in a hollow which they made.\n\nSo they left the island, marvelling whence all those stones had come,\nand how they had been rained many and deep on that one place.  Said\none, \"It may be that these are the stones wherewith our Lord and the\nprophets and the blessed martyrs were stoned, laid up as in a treasury\nto bear witness on the day of doom.\"  \"It may be,\" said another, \"that\nthese are the stones which Satan, tempting the Lord, bade Him turn into\nbread, and therefore are they kept for an evidence against the\ntempter.\"  \"Peradventure these be the stony places,\" said another,\n\"whereon the good seed fell and perished in its first upspringing, and\nso they be kept for the admonishment of rash Sea-farers and such as\nhave no long-continuance in well-doing.\"  But no man among them was\nsatisfied as to the mystery of that strange isle.\n\n\nOn many other shores they set foot.  Most were fruitful and friendly;\nand they rested from their seeking, and repaired the ship, and took in\nsuch stores as they might gather during their sojourn.  Though often it\nbefell that while they were still afar the wind wafted them the\nfragrance of rare spices so that their eyes brightened and their faces\nreddened with joyful anticipation, yet ever when they landed they found\nthat not yet, not yet had they reached the island garden of their\nquest.  Men, too, of the same fashion as themselves they met with on\nshores far apart, but strange were these of aspect and speech and\nmanner of life.  With them they tarried as long as they might, gaining\nsome knowledge of their tongue, and revealing to them the true God and\nthe Lord crucified.\n\n\nIn the latter time of their sea-faring they were blown far over the\nnorthern side of the great sea, in such wise that the pilot star burned\nwell-nigh overhead in the heavens.  Here they descried tall islands of\nglittering rock, white and blue, crowned with minsters and castles and\nabbeys of glass, but they heard no sound of bells or of men's voices or\nof the stir of life.\n\nOnce as they were swept along in near peril of wreck, through flying\nsea-smoke and plagues of hail, they heard a strange unearthly music\nrising and falling in the blast.  Some said it was Angels sent to\nstrengthen them; others said it was wild birds which they had seen\nflying past in flocks; but Serapion said, \"If it be Angels, blessed be\nGod; if it be birds, yet even they are God's Angels, lessoning us how\nwe shall praise Him, and sing Him a new song from the ends of the\nearth.\"  Then he raised his voice, singing the psalm\n\n      _Laudate Dominum de caelis,_\n  _Praise ye the Lord from the heavens: praise Him in the heights,_\n\nand the Sea-farers sang it with earnest voices and with hearts lifted\nup, and they were greatly encouraged.\n\n\nIt was in these latitudes stormy and cold that, to their thinking, the\nSea-farers won nearest to the Earthly Paradise.  For, far in the sides\nof the north as, in the red sunlight, they coasted a lofty land white\nwith snow-fields and blue with glacier ice, they entered a winding\nfjord, and found themselves in glassy water slumbering between green\nslopes of summer.\n\nDown to the water's edge the shores were wooded with copses of dwarf\nbirch and willow, and the slopes were radiant with wild\nflowers--harebell and yellow crowfoot, purple heath and pink azalea and\nstarry saxifrage.  A rosy light tinged the snow on the wintry heights;\nand over the edge of a cliff, far up the fjord, a glacier hung, and\nfrom beneath the ice a jet of water burst forth and fell foaming down\nthe precipice to the shore.  When they landed they found the ground\ncovered thick with berries dark and luscious, and while they gathered\nthese, a black and white snow-bunting flitted about them on its long\nwings.\n\nA miraculous thing was this garden of summer in the icy bosom of\nwinter, but a greater marvel still was the undying sunshine on sea and\nshore.\n\n\"In very truth,\" said Serapion, \"of all places we have yet seen is not\nthis most like to have been the blessed land, for is not even 'the\nnight light about us,' and is it not with us as it is written of the\nHeavenly Jerusalem, 'there shall be no night there'?\"\n\nThe Sea-farers took away with them many of the leaves and flowers of\nthis country, and afterwards the scribes in the Scriptorium copied them\nin beautiful colours in the Golden Missal of the Abbey.\n\n\nThis was the last of the unknown shores visited by the Sea-farers.\nSeven years had they pursued their seeking, and there now grew on them\nso strong a craving for home that they could gainsay it no longer.\nWherefore it fell out that in the autumn-tide, when the stubble is\nbrown in the fields and the apple red on the bough; on the last day of\nthe week, when toil comes to end; in the last light of the day, when\nthe smoke curls up from the roof, they won their long sea-way home.\n\n[Illustration: _They won their long sea-way home_]\n\nO beloved Abbey of the Holy Face, through tears they beheld thy walls,\nwith rapture they kissed thy threshold!\n\n\n\"In all the great sea of ocean,\" said Serapion, when he had told the\nstory of their wandering, \"no such Earthly Paradise have we seen as\nthis dear Abbey of our own!\"\n\n\"Dear brethren,\" said the Abbot, \"the seven years of your seeking have\nnot been wasted if you have truly learned so much.  Far from home have\nI never gone, but many things have come to me.  To be ever, and to be\ntranquilly, and to be joyously, and to be strenuously, and to be\nthankfully and humbly at one with the blessed will of God--that is the\nHeavenly Paradise; and each of us, by God's grace, may have that within\nhim.  And whoso hath within him the Heavenly Paradise, hath here and\nnow, and at all times and in every place, the true Earthly Paradise\nround about him.\"\n\nHere ends the chapter of the Seven Years of Seeking.\n\n\n[\"But do Thou, O Lord, have mercy upon us,\" chanted the Lector, as he\nclosed the book.  And the Prior struck the board, and the brethren\narose and returned God thanks for the creatures of food and drink, and\nfor that Earthly Paradise, ever at their door, of tranquil and joyous\nand strenuous and thankful and humble acceptance of God's will.]\n\n\n\n\nThe Guardians of the Door\n\nThere was once an orphan girl, far away in a little village on the edge\nof the moors.  She lived in a hovel thatched with reeds, and this was\nthe poorest and the last of all the houses, and stood quite by itself\namong broom and whins by the wayside.\n\nFrom the doorway the girl could look across the wild stretches of the\nmoorland; and that was pleasant enough on a summer day, for then the\nair is clear and golden, and the moor is purple with the bloom of the\nling, and there are red and yellow patches of bracken, and here and\nthere a rowan tree grows among the big grey boulders with clusters of\nreddening berries.  But at night, and especially on a winter night, the\ndarkness was so wide and so lonely that it was hard not to feel afraid\nsometimes.  The wind, when it blew in the dark, was full of strange and\nmournful voices; and when there was no wind, Mary could hear the cries\nand calls of the wild creatures on the moor.\n\nMary was fourteen when she lost her father.  He was a rough idle\ngood-for-nothing, and one stormy night on his way home from the tavern\nhe went astray and was found dead in the snow.  Her mother had died\nwhen she was so small a child that Mary could scarcely remember her\nface.  So it happened that she was left alone in the world, and all she\npossessed was a dog, some fowls, and her mother's spinning wheel.\n\nBut she was a bright, cheerful, courageous child, and soon she got from\nthe people of the village sufficient work to keep her wheel always\nbusy, for no one could look into her face without liking her.  People\noften wondered how so rude and worthless a fellow could have had such a\nchild; she was as sweet and unexpected as the white flowers on the bare\nand rugged branches of the blackthorn.\n\nHer hens laid well, and she sold all the eggs she could spare; and her\ndog, which had been trained in all sorts of cunning by her father,\noften brought her from the moors some wild thing in fur or feathers\nwhich Mary thought there was no harm in cooking.\n\nHer father had been too idle and careless to teach her anything, and\nall that she could recollect of her mother's instruction was a little\nrhyme which she used to repeat on her knees beside the bed every night\nbefore she went to sleep.\n\nAnd this was the rhyme:\n\n  _God bless this house from thatch to floor,_\n  _The twelve Apostles guard the door,_\n  _And four good Angels watch my bed,_\n  _Two at the foot and two the head._\n          _Amen._\n\n[Illustration: \"_And four good Angels watch my bed_\"]\n\nThough she was all alone in the world, and had no girl of her own age\nto make friends with, she was happy and contented, for she was busy\nfrom morning till night.\n\nAnd yet in spite of all this, strange stories began to be whispered\nabout the village.  People who happened to pass by the old hut late at\nnight declared that they had seen light shining through the chinks in\nthe window-shutter when all honest people should have been asleep.\nThere were others who said they had noticed strange men standing in the\nshadows of the eaves; they might have been highwaymen, they might have\nbeen smugglers--they could not tell, for no one had cared to run the\nrisk of going too near--but it was quite certain that there were\nstrange things going on at the hut, and that the girl who seemed so\nsimple and innocent was not quite so good as the neighbours had\nimagined.\n\nWhen the village gossip had reached the ears of the white-headed old\nVicar, he sent for the girl and questioned her closely.  Mary was\ngrieved to learn that such untrue and unkind stories were told about\nher.  She knew nothing, she said, of any lights or of any men.  As soon\nas it was too dusky to see to work she always fastened her door, and\nafter she had had her supper, she covered the fire and blew out the\nrushlight and went to bed.\n\n\"And you say your prayers, my daughter, I hope?\" said the Vicar kindly.\n\nMary hung down her head and answered in a low voice, \"I do not know any\nproper prayers, but I always say the words my mother taught me.\"\n\nAnd Mary repeated the rhyme:\n\n  _God bless this house from thatch to floor,_\n  _The twelve Apostles guard the door,_\n  _And four good Angels watch my bed,_\n  _Two at the foot and two the head._\n          _Amen._\n\n\n\"There could not be a better prayer, dear child!\" rejoined the Vicar,\nwith a smile.  \"Go home now, and do not be troubled by what idle\ntongues may say.  Every night repeat your little prayer, and God will\ntake care of you.\"\n\nLate that night, however, the Vicar lit his lantern and went out of\ndoors, without a word to any one.  All the village was still and dark\nas he walked slowly up the road towards the moor.\n\n\"She is a good girl,\" he said to himself, \"but people may have observed\nsomething which has given rise to these stories.  I will go and see\nwith my own eyes.\"\n\nThe stars were shining far away in the dark sky, and the green plovers\nwere crying mournfully on the dark moor.  As he passed along the\nlantern swung out a dim light across the road, which had neither walls\nnor hedges.\n\n\"It is a lonely place for a child to live in by herself,\" he thought.\n\nAt last he perceived the outline of the old hovel, among the gorse and\nbroom, and the next moment he stopped suddenly, for there, as he had\nbeen told, a thread of bright light came streaming through the shutters\nof the small window.  He drew his lantern under his cloak, and\napproached cautiously.  The road where he stood was now dim, but by the\nfaint glimmer of the stars he was able to make out that there were\nseveral persons standing under the eaves, and apparently whispering\ntogether.\n\nThe Vicar's good old heart was filled with surprise and sorrow.  Then\nit suddenly grew hot with anger, and throwing aside his cloak and\nlifting up the lantern he advanced boldly to confront the intruders.\nBut they were not at all alarmed, and they did not make any attempt to\nescape him.  Then, as the light fell upon their forms and faces, who\nbut the Vicar was struck with awe and amazement, and stood gazing as\nstill as a stone!\n\nThe people under the eaves were men of another age and another world,\nstrangely clothed in long garments, and majestic in appearance.  One\ncarried a lance, and another a pilgrim's staff, and a third a\nbattle-axe; but the most imposing stood near the door of the hut, and\nin his hand he held two large keys.\n\nIn an instant the Vicar had guessed who they were, and had uncovered\nhis head and fallen on his knees; but the strangers melted slowly away\ninto the darkness, as if they had been no more than the images of a\ndream.  And indeed the Vicar might have thought that he really had been\ndreaming but for the light which continued to stream through the chink\nin the shutter.\n\nHe arose from his knees and moved towards the window to peep into the\nhut.  Instantly an invisible hand stretched a naked sword across his\npath, and a low deep voice spoke to him in solemn warning:\n\n\"It is the light of Angels.  Do not look, or blindness will fall upon\nyou, even as it fell upon me on the Damascus road.\"\n\nBut the aged Vicar laid his hand on the sword, and tried to move it\naway.\n\n\"Let me look, let me look!\" he said; \"better one glimpse of the Angels\nthan a thousand years of earthly sight.\"\n\nThen the sword yielded to his touch and vanished into air, and the old\npriest leaned forward on the window-sill and gazed through the chink.\nAnd with a cry of joy he saw a corner of the rude bed, and beside the\ncorner, one above the other, three great dazzling wings; they were the\nleft-hand side wings of one of the Angels at the foot of the bed.\n\nThen all was deep darkness.\n\nThe Vicar thought that it was the blindness that had fallen upon him,\nbut the only regret he felt was that the vision had vanished so\nquickly.  Then, as he turned away, he found that not only had he not\nlost his sight, but that he could now see with a marvellous clearness.\nHe saw the road, and even the foot-prints and grains of sand on the\nroad; the hut, and the reeds on the hut; the moor, and the boulders and\nthe rowan-trees on the moor.  Everything was as distinct as if it had\nbeen--not daylight, but as if the air were of the clear colour of a\nnut-brown brook in summer.\n\nPraising God for all His goodness he returned home, and as he went he\nlooked back once and again and yet again, and each time he saw the\ntwelve awful figures in strange clothing, guarding the lonely thatched\nhovel on the edge of the moor.\n\nAfter this there were no more stories told of Mary, and no one even\ndared speak to her of the wonderful manner in which her prayer was\nanswered, so that she never knew what the old Vicar had seen.  But late\nat night people would rather go a great way round than take the road\nwhich passed by her poor hut.\n\n\n\n\nOn the Shores of Longing\n\nIt was in the old forgotten days when all the western coast of Spain\nwas sprinkled with lonely hermitages among the rocks, and with holy\nhouses and towers of prayer; and this west coast was thought to be the\nlast and outermost edge of all land, for beyond there lay nothing but\nthe vast ocean stream and the sunset.  There, in the west of the world,\non the brink of the sea and the lights of the day that is done, lived\nthe men of God, looking for ever towards the east for the coming of the\nLord.  Even the dead were laid in the place of their resurrection with\ntheir feet pointing to the morning, so that when they should arise\ntheir faces would be turned towards His coming.  Thus it came to pass\nthat the keen white wind out of the east was named the wind of the dead\nmen's feet.\n\nNow in one or these holy houses lived the monk Bresal of the Songs, who\nhad followed Sedulius the Bishop into Spain.\n\nBresal had been sent thither to teach the brethren the music of the\nchoirs of the Isle of the Gael and to train the novices in chant and\npsalmody, for of all singers the sweetest was he, and he could play on\nevery instrument of wind or string, and was skilled in all the modes of\nminstrelsy.  Thereto he knew by heart numberless hymns and songs and\npoems, and God had given him the gift to make songs and hymns, and\nbeautiful airs for the singing of them.  And for these things, so sweet\nand gentle was the nature of the man, he was greatly beloved\nwhithersoever he fared.\n\nA happy and holy life had he lived, but now he was growing old; and as\nhe looked from the convent on the cliffs far over the western waters,\nhe thought daily more and more of Erinn, and a great longing grew upon\nhim to see once more that green isle in which he had been born.  And\nwhen he saw, far below, the ships of the sea-farers dragging slowly\naway into the north in the breezy sunshine or in the blue twilight, his\neyes became dim with the thought that perchance these wind-reddened\nmariners might be steering for the shores of his longing.\n\nThe Prior of the convent noticed his sadness and questioned him of the\ncause, and when Bresal told him, \"Why should you go?\" he asked.  \"Do\nyou not love us any longer?\"\n\n\"Dearly do I love you, father,\" replied Bresal, \"and dearly this house,\nand every rock and tree and flower; but no son of the Isle of the Gael\nforgets the little mother-lap of earth whereon he was nursed, or the\nsmell of the burning peat, or the song of the robin, or the drone of\nthe big mottled wild bee, or the cry of the wild geese when the winter\nis nigh.  Even Columba the holy pined for the lack of these things.\nThis is what he says in one of the songs which he has left us:\n\n  _There's an eye of grey_\n  _Looks back to Erinn far away;_\n  _Big tears wet that eye of grey_\n  _Seeking Erinn far away.\"_\n\nNow the Prior loved Bresal as Jonathan loved David; and though it\ngrieved him to part with him, he resolved that if it could be compassed\nBresal should go back to his own country.  \"But you must never forget\nus, and when you are happy, far away from us, you must think of us and\ngive us your heart in prayer.\"\n\n\"Never shall I forget you, father,\" the Singer replied.  \"Indeed, it\nwill not be a strange thing if I shall long for you then even as I am\nlonging for my home now; for in truth, next to my home, most do I love\nthe brethren of this house, and the very house itself, and the hills\nand the sea and the dying lights of the evening.  But I know that it\nwill not be permitted me ever to return.  The place of my birth will be\nthe place of my resurrection.\"\n\nThe Prior smiled, and laid his hand gently on the monk's shoulder: \"O\nBresal, if it be within my power you shall have your will.\"\n\nSo he sent messengers to Sedulius the Bishop; and Sedulius, who also\nhad the Irish heart with its tears of longing, consented; and not many\ndays after the swallows and martins had gone flashing by into the\nnorth, Bresal of the Songs was free to follow as speedily as he might.\n\nLong was the way and weary the pilgrimage, but at last he reached the\nbeloved green Isle of the Gael, and fared into the south-west--and this\nis the land in which it is told that Patrick the Saint celebrated Mass\non every seventh ridge he passed over.  He came at sunset on the last\nday of the week to the place of bells and cells among the rocks of the\ncoast of Kerry.  In that blessed spot there is ever a service of Angels\nascending and descending.  And when he saw once more the turf dyke and\nthe wattled cells and the rude stone church of the brotherhood where he\nhad been a son of reading in his boyhood, and the land all quiet with\nthe labour of the week done, and the woods red with the last light of\nthe finished day, the tears ran down his face, and he fell on the earth\nand kissed it for joy at his return.  It was a glad thing for him to be\nthere once more; to recognise each spot he had loved, to look on the\nold stones and trees, the hills and sparkling sea, the rocky isle and\nthe curraghs of the fisher-folk; to smell the reek of the peat curling\nup blue in the sweet air; for all these things had haunted him in\ndreams when he was in a distant land.\n\nNow when the first hunger of longing had been appeased, and the year\nwore round, and the swallows gathered in the autumn, and every bush and\ntree was crowded with them while they waited restlessly for a moonlight\nnight and a fair wind to take their flight over sea, Bresal began to\nthink tenderly of the home on the Spanish cliffs overhanging the brink\nof the sunset.\n\nThen in the brown days of the autumn rains; and again in the keen\nNovember when the leaves were falling in sudden showers--but the\nhighest leaves clung the longest--and puffs of whirling wind set the\nfallen leaves flying, and these were full of sharp sounds and pattering\nvoices; and sixes of sparrows went flying with the leaves so that one\ncould not well say which were leaves and which were birds; and yet\nagain through the bitter time when the eaves were hung with icicles and\nthe peaks of the blue slieves were white with snow, and the low hills\nand fields were hoary--the memory of the Prior and of the beloved house\nprevailed with him and he felt the dull ache of separation.\n\n[Illustration: _And again in the keen November_]\n\nAs the days passed by his trouble grew the greater, for he began to\nfear that his love of the creature was attaching him too closely to the\nearth and to the things of this fleeting life of our exile.  In vain he\nfasted and prayed and strove to subdue his affections; the human heart\nwithin him would not suffer him to rest.\n\n\nNow it happened on a day when the year had turned, and a soft wind was\ntossing the little new leaves and the shadows of the leaves and the new\ngrass and the shadows of the grass, Bresal was sitting on a rock in the\nsun on the hillside.\n\nSuddenly there flashed by him, in a long swift joyous swing of flight,\ntwo beautiful birds with long wings and forked tails and a sheen of red\nand green.  It was the swallows that had returned.\n\nFor a moment he felt an ascension of the heart, and then he recollected\nthat nearly a year had elapsed since he had seen the face of his friend\nthe Prior for the last time in this world.  And he wondered to himself\nhow they all fared, whether any one had died, what this one or that was\nnow doing, whether they still spoke at times of him, but chiefly he\nthought of the Prior, and he prayed for him with a great love.  And\nthinking thus as he sat on the rock, Bresal seemed to see once more the\ndear house in Spain and the cliffs overlooking the vast ocean stream,\nand it appeared to him as though he were once again in a favourite nook\namong the rocks beside the priory.\n\nIn that nook a thread of water trickled down into a hollow stone and\nmade a little pool, and around the pool grew an ice-plant with thick\nround green leaves set close and notched on the edge, and a thin russet\nstalk, and little stars of white flowers sprinkled with red.  And hard\nby the pool stood a small rounded evergreen tree from which he had\noften gathered the orange-scarlet berries.  At the sight of these\nsimple and familiar things the tears ran down Bresal's cheeks, half for\njoy and half for sorrow.\n\n\nNow at this selfsame moment the Prior was taking the air and saying his\noffice near that very spot, and when he had closed his breviary, he\nremembered his friend in Erinn far away, and murmured, \"How is it,\nLord, with Bresal my brother?  Have him, I pray Thee, ever in Thy holy\nkeeping.\"\n\nAs he spoke the gift of heavenly vision descended on the Prior, and he\nsaw where Bresal sat on a rock in the sun gazing at the evergreen tree\nand the ice-plant about the little pool, and he perceived that Bresal\nfancied he was looking at these things.\n\nA great tenderness for Bresal filled the Prior's heart, and he prayed:\n\"Lord, if it be Thy holy will, let Bresal my brother have near him\nthese things of which he is dreaming, as a remembrance of what his soul\nloveth.\"  Then, turning to the tree and the plant and the pool, he\nblessed them and said: \"O little tree and starry plant and cool well\nand transparent fern, and whatsoever else Bresal now sees, arise in the\nname of the Lord of the four winds and of earth and water and fire,\narise and go and make real the dream that he is dreaming.\"\n\nAs he spoke the trickling water and the tree and the saxifrage, and\nwith them parcels of soil and rock, and with the pool the blue light of\nthe sky reflected in it, rose like a cloud and vanished, and the Prior\nbeheld them no more.\n\n\nAt last Bresal brushed away his tears, blaming his weakness and his\nenslavement to earthly affections, but the things he had seen in his\nhappy day-dream did not vanish.  To his great amazement, there at his\nfeet were the little pool and the ice-plant, and hard by grew the\nevergreen tree.  He rose with a cry of joy, \"O Father Prior, 'tis thy\nprayer hath done this!\"\n\nAnd care was lifted from him, for now he knew that in his human love he\nhad in nowise sinned against the love of God, but contrariwise the love\nof his friend had drawn him closer to the love of his Maker.  During\nall the days of the years of his exile this little parcel of Spain was\na solace and a strength to him.\n\n\nMany a hundred years has gone by since this happened, but still if you\ntravel in that land you may see the ice-plant and the evergreen tree.\nAnd the name of the evergreen is the Strawberry Tree.  The ice-plant,\nwhich is also called a saxifrage, may now be seen in many a garden to\nwhich it has been brought from the Kerry mountains, and it is known as\nLondon Pride.  Botanists who do not know the story of Bresal of the\nSongs have been puzzled to explain how a Spanish tree and a Spanish\nflower happen to grow in one little nook of Erinn.\n\n\n\n\nThe Children of Spinalunga\n\nThe piazza or square in front of the Cathedral was the only open space\nin which the children of Spinalunga had room to play.  Spinalunga means\na Long Spine or Ridge of rock, and the castello or little walled town\nwhich bore that name was built on the highest peak of the ridge, inside\nstrong brown stone walls with square towers.  So rough and steep was\nthis portion of the ridge that the crowded houses, with their red roofs\nand white gables, were piled up one behind another, and many of the\nstreets were narrow staircases, climbing up between the houses to the\nblue sky.\n\nOn the top the hill was flat, and there the Cathedral stood, and from\nher niche above the great west entrance the beautiful statue of the\nMadonna with the Babe in her arms looked across the square, and over\nthe huddled red roofs, and far away out to the hills and valleys with\ntheir evergreen oaks and plantations of grey olives, and bright\ncornfields and vineyards.\n\nOn three sides the town was sheltered by hills, but a very deep ravine\nseparated them from the ridge, so that on those three sides it was\nimpossible for an enemy to attack the town.  On the nearest hills great\npine woods grew far up the slopes, and sheltered it from the east winds\nwhich blew over the snowy peaks.\n\nNow on the southern side of the square stood the houses of the Syndic\nand other wealthy citizens, with open colonnades of carved yellow\nstone; and all about the piazza at intervals there were orange-trees\nand pomegranates, growing in huge jars of red earthenware.\n\nThis had been the children's playground as long as any one could\nremember, but in the days of the blessed Frate Agnolo the Syndic was a\ngrim, childless, irascible old man, terribly plagued with gout, which\nmade him so choleric that he could not endure the joyous cries and\nclatter of the children at their play.  So at last in his irritation he\ngave orders that, if the children must play at all, it would have to be\nin their own dull narrow alleys paved with hard rock, or outside beyond\nthe walls of the castello.  For their part the youngsters would have\nbeen glad enough to escape into the green country among the broom and\ncypress, the red snapdragon and golden asters and blue pimpernels, but\nthese were wild and dangerous times, and at any moment a troop of\nFree-lances from Pisa or a band of Lucchese raiders might have swept\ndown and carried them off into captivity.\n\nThey had therefore to sit about their own doors, and the piazza of the\nCathedral became strangely silent in the summer evenings, and there was\na feeling of dulness and discontent in the little town.  Never a whit\nbetter off was the Syndic, for he was now angry with the stillness and\nthe deserted look of the square.\n\nIn the midst of this trouble the blessed Brother Agnolo came down from\nhis hermitage among the pine woods, and when he heard of what had taken\nplace, he went straightway to the Syndic and took him to task, with\nsoft and gracious words.\n\n\"Messer Gianni, pain I know will often take all sweetness out of the\ntemper of a man, but in this you are not doing well.  There is no child\nin Spinalunga but would readily forego all his happy play to give you\nease and solace, but in this way they cannot help you.  By sending them\naway you do but cloud their innocent lives, and you are yourself none\nthe better for their absence.  Were it not wiser for you to seek to\ndistract yourself in their harmless merry-making?  I may well think\nthat you have never watched them at their sports; but if you will bid\nthem come back to-day, and will but walk a little way with me, you\nshall see that which shall give you content and delight so great, that\nnever again will you wish to banish them, but will rather pray to have\ntheir companionship at all times.\"\n\nNow the Frate so prevailed on the Syndic that he gave consent, and bade\nall the children, lass and lad, babe and prattler, come to the square\nfor their games as they used to do.  And leaning with one hand on his\nstaff, and with the other on the shoulder of Brother Agnolo, he moved\nslowly through the fruit-trees in the great jars to the steps of the\nCathedral.\n\nSuddenly the joy-bells began to ring, and the little people came\nlaughing and singing and shouting from the steep streets and staircases\nand alleys, and they raced and danced into the piazza like Springtime\nlet loose, and they chased each other, and caught hands and played in\nrings, and swarmed among the jars, as many and noisy as swallows when\nthey gather for their flight over sea in the autumn-tide.\n\n\"Look well, Messer Gianni,\" said the Frate, \"and perceive who it is\nthat shares their frolics.\"\n\nAs the Brother spoke the eyes of the Syndic were opened; and there,\nwith each little child, was his Angel, clothed in white, and\nwhite-winged; and as the little folk contended together, their Angels\ncontended with each other; and as they ran and danced and sang, so ran\nand danced and sang their Angels.  Which was the laughter of the\nchildren, and which that of the Angels, the Syndic could not tell; and\nwhen the plump two-year-olds tottered and tumbled, their Angels caught\nthem and saved them from hurt; and even if they did weep and make a\ngreat outcry, it was because they were frightened, not because they\nwere injured, and straightway they had forgotten what ailed them and\nwere again merrily trudging about.\n\nIn the midst of this wonderful vision of young Angels and bright-eyed\nchildren mingling so riotously together, the Syndic heard an\ninexpressibly joyous laugh behind him.  Turning his head, he saw that\nit was the little marble Babe in the arms of the Madonna.  He was\nclapping his hands, and had thrown back his head against his mother's\nbosom in sudden delight.\n\nDid the Syndic truly see this?  He was certain he did--for a moment;\nand yet in that same moment he knew that the divine Babe was once more\na babe of stone, with its sweet grave face and unconscious eyes; and\nwhen the Syndic turned again to watch the children, it was only the\nchildren he saw; the Angels were no longer visible.\n\n\"It is not always given to our sinful eyes to see them,\" said Brother\nAgnolo, answering the Syndic's thought, \"but whether we see them or see\nthem not, always they are there.\"\n\n\nNow it was in the autumn of the same year that the fierce captain of\nFree-lances, the Condottiere Ghino, appeared one moonlight night before\nthe gates of Spinalunga, and bade the guard open in the name of Pisa.\n\nAs I have said, the little hill-town could only be attacked on the\nwestern side, on account of the precipitous ravine which divided it\nfrom the hills; but the ridge before the gate was crowded with eight\nhundred horsemen and two thousand men-at-arms clamouring to be\nadmitted.  Nothing daunted, the garrison on the square towers cried\nback a defiance; the war-bell was sounded; and the townspeople, men and\nwomen, hurried down to defend the walls.\n\nAfter the first flight of arrows and quarrels the Free-lances fell back\nout of bowshot, and encamped for the night, but the hill-men remained\non the watch till daybreak.  Early in the morning Ghino himself rode up\nthe ascent with a white flag, and asked for a parley with the Syndic.\n\n\"We are from Pisa,\" said the Condottiere; \"Florence is against us; this\ncastello we must hold for our safety.  If with your good-will, well and\ngood!\"\n\n\"We are bound by our loyalty to Florence,\" replied the Syndic briefly.\n\n\"The sword cuts all bonds,\" said the Free-lance, with a laugh; \"but we\nwould gladly avoid strife.  Throw in your lot with us.  All we ask is a\npledge that in the hour of need you will not join Florence against us.\"\n\n\"What pledge do you ask?\" inquired the Syndic.\n\n\"Let twenty of your children ride back with us to Pisa,\" said the\nFree-lance.  \"These shall answer for your fidelity.  They shall be\ncherished and well cared for during their sojourn.\"\n\nWho but Messer Gianni was the angry man on hearing this?\n\n\"Our children!\" he cried; \"are we, then, slaves, that we must needs\nsend you our little ones as hostages?  Guards, here!  Shoot me down\nthis brigand who bids me surrender your children to him!\"\n\nBolts flew whizzing from the cross-bows; the Free-lance shook his iron\ngauntlet at the Syndic, and galloped down the ridge unharmed.  The\nSyndic forgot his gout in his wrath, and bade the hill-men hold their\nown till their roofs crumbled about their ears.\n\nThen began a close siege of the castello; but on the fourth day Frate\nAgnolo passed boldly through the lines of the enemy, and was admitted\nthrough the massive stone gateway which was too narrow for the entrance\nof either cart or waggon.  Great was the joy of the hill-men as the\nBrother appeared among them.  He, they knew, would give them wise\ncounsel and stout aid in the moment of danger.\n\nWhen they told him of the pledge for which the besiegers asked, he only\nsmiled and shook his head.  \"Be of good cheer,\" he said, \"God and His\nAngels have us in their keeping.\"\n\nThoughtfully he ascended the steep streets to the piazza, and, entering\nthe Cathedral, he remained there for a long while absorbed in prayer.\nAnd as he prayed his face brightened with the look of one who hears\njoyful news, and when he rose from his knees he went to the house of\nthe Syndic, and spoke with him long and seriously.\n\n\nAt sunset that day a man-at-arms went forth from the gates of the\ncastello with a white flag to the beleaguering lines, and demanded to\nbe taken into the presence of the captain.  To him he delivered this\nmessage from the Syndic: \"To-morrow in the morning the gate of\nSpinalunga will be thrown open, and all the children of our town who\nare not halt or blind or ailing shall be sent forth.  Come and choose\nthe twenty you would have as hostages.\"\n\nBy the camp-fires that night the Free-lances caroused loud and long;\nbut in the little hill-town the children slept sound while the men and\nwomen prayed with pale stern faces.  An hour after midnight all the\ngarrison from the towers and all the strong young men assembled in the\nsquare.  They were divided into two bands, and were instructed to\ndescend cautiously by rope-ladders into the ravine on the eastern side\nof the town.  Thence without sound of tongue or foot they were to steal\nthrough the darkness till they had reached certain positions on the\nflanks of the besiegers, where they were to wait for the signal of\nonset.  Frate Agnolo gave each of them his blessing, as one by one they\nslid over the wall on to the rope-ladders and disappeared in the\nblackness of the ravine.  Noiselessly they marched under the walls of\nthe town till they reached their appointed posts, and there they lay\nhidden in the woods till morning.\n\nThe Free-lances were early astir.  As the first ray of golden light\nstreamed over the pine woods on to the ridge and the valley, the bells\nof the Cathedral began to ring; the heavy gate of the castello was\nflung open, and the children trooped out laughing and gay, just as they\nhad burst into the square a few months ago, for this, they were told,\nwas to be a great feast and holiday.  As they issued through the deep\nstone archway they filed to right or left, and drew up in long lines\nacross the width of the ridge.  Then raising their childish voices in a\nsimple hymn, they all moved together down the rough slope to the lines\nof the besiegers.  Brother Agnolo, holding a plain wooden cross high\nabove his head, led the way, singing joyously.\n\nIt was a wonderful sight in the clear shining air of the hills, and\nhundreds of women weeping silently on the walls crowded together to\nwatch it; and as they watched they held their breath, for suddenly in\nthe golden light of the morning they saw that behind each child there\nwas a great white-winged Angel with a fiery spear.\n\nThen, as that throng of singing children and shining spirits swept down\nupon the Free-lances, a wild cry of panic arose from the camp.  The\neight hundred horsemen turned in dismay, and plunged through the ranks\nof the men-at-arms, and the mercenaries fell back in terror and\nconfusion, striking each other down and trampling the wounded underfoot\nin their frantic efforts to escape.  At that moment the hill-men who\nwere lying in ambush on each flank bore down on the bewildered\nmultitude, and hacked and hewed right and left till the boldest and\nhardiest of the horsemen broke and fled, leaving their dead and dying\non the field.\n\n[Illustration: _The eight hundred horsemen turned in dismay_]\n\nSo the little hill-town of Spinalunga was saved by the children and\ntheir Angels, and even to this day the piazza of the Cathedral is their\nvery own playground, in which no one can prevent them from playing all\nthe year round.\n\n\n\n\nThe Sin of the Prince Bishop\n\nThe Prince Bishop Evrard stood gazing at his marvellous Cathedral; and\nas he let his eyes wander in delight over the three deep sculptured\nportals and the double gallery above them, and the great rose window,\nand the ringers' gallery, and so up to the massive western towers, he\nfelt as though his heart were clapping hands for joy within him.  And\nhe thought to himself, \"Surely in all the world God has no more\nbeautiful house than this which I have built with such long labour and\nat so princely an outlay of my treasure.\"  And thus the Prince Bishop\nfell into the sin of vainglory, and, though he was a holy man, he did\nnot perceive that he had fallen, so filled with gladness was he at the\nsight of his completed work.\n\n[Illustration: \"_Surely in all the world God has no more beautiful\nhouse than this_\"]\n\nIn the double gallery of the west front there were many great statues\nwith crowns and sceptres, but a niche over the central portal was\nempty, and this the Prince Bishop intended to fill with a statue of\nhimself.  It was to be a very small simple statue, as became one who\nprized lowliness of heart, but as he looked up at the vacant place it\ngave him pleasure to think that hundreds of years after he was dead\npeople would pause before his effigy and praise him and his work.  And\nthis, too, was vainglory.\n\nAs the Prince Bishop lay asleep that night a mighty six-winged Angel\nstood beside him and bade him rise.  \"Come,\" he said, \"and I will show\nthee some of those who have worked with thee in building the great\nchurch, and whose service in God's eyes has been more worthy than\nthine.\"  And the Angel led him past the Cathedral and down the steep\nstreet of the ancient city, and though it was midday, the people going\nto and fro did not seem to see them.  Beyond the gates they followed\nthe shelving road till they came to green level fields, and there in\nthe middle of the road, between grassy banks covered white with cherry\nblossom, two great white oxen, yoked to a huge block of stone, stood\nresting before they began the toilsome ascent.\n\n\"Look!\" said the Angel; and the Prince Bishop saw a little blue-winged\nbird which perched on the stout yoke beam fastened to the horns of the\noxen, and sang such a heavenly song of rest and contentment that the\nbig shaggy creatures ceased to blow stormily through their nostrils,\nand drew long tranquil breaths instead.\n\n\"Look again!\" said the Angel.  And from a hut of wattles and clay a\nlittle peasant girl came with a bundle of hay in her arms, and gave\nfirst one of the oxen and then the other a wisp.  Then she stroked\ntheir black muzzles, and laid her rosy face against their white cheeks.\nThen the Prince Bishop saw the rude teamster rise from his rest on the\nbank and cry to his cattle, and the oxen strained against the beam and\nthe thick ropes tightened, and the huge block of stone was once more\nset in motion.\n\nAnd when the Prince Bishop saw that it was these fellow-workers whose\nservice was more worthy in God's eyes than his own, he was abashed and\nsorrowful for his sin, and the tears of his own weeping awoke him.  So\nhe sent for the master of the sculptors and bade him fill the little\nniche over the middle portal, not with his own effigy but with an image\nof the child; and he bade him make two colossal figures of the white\noxen; and to the great wonderment of the people these were set up high\nin the tower so that men could see them against the blue sky.  \"And as\nfor me,\" he said, \"let my body be buried, with my face downward,\noutside the great church, in front of the middle entrance, that men may\ntrample on my vainglory and that I may serve them as a stepping-stone\nto the house of God; and the little child shall look on me when I lie\nin the dust.\"\n\nNow the little girl in the niche was carved with wisps of hay in her\nhands, but the child who had fed the oxen knew nothing of this, and as\nshe grew up she forgot her childish service, so that when she had grown\nto womanhood and chanced to see this statue over the portal she did not\nknow it was her own self in stone.  But what she had done was not\nforgotten in heaven.\n\nAnd as for the oxen, one of them looked east and one looked west across\nthe wide fruitful country about the foot of the hill-city.  And one\ncaught the first grey gleam, and the first rosy flush, and the first\ngolden splendour of the sunrise; and the other was lit with the colour\nof the sunset long after the lowlands had faded away in the blue mist\nof the twilight.  Weary men and worn women looking up at them felt that\na gladness and a glory and a deep peace had fallen on the life of toil.\nAnd then, when people began to understand, they said it was well that\nthese mighty labourers, who had helped to build the house, should still\nfind a place of service and honour in the house; and they remembered\nthat the Master of the house had once been a Babe warmed in a manger by\nthe breath of kine.  And at the thought of this men grew more pitiful\nto their cattle, and to the beasts in servitude, and to all dumb\nanimals.  And that was one good fruit which sprang from the Prince\nBishop's repentance.\n\nNow over the colossal stone oxen hung the bells of the Cathedral.  On\nChristmas Eve the ringers, according to the old custom, ascended to\ntheir gallery to ring in the birth of the Babe Divine.  At the moment\nof midnight the master ringer gave the word, and the great bells began\nto swing in joyful sequence.  Down below in the crowded church lay the\nimage of the new-born Child on the cold straw, and at His haloed head\nstood the images of the ox and the ass.  Far out across the snow-roofed\ncity, far away over the white glistening country rang the glad music of\nthe tower.  People who went to their doors to listen cried in\nastonishment: \"Hark! what strange music is that?  It sounds as if the\nlowing of cattle were mingled with the chimes of the bells.\"  In truth\nit was so.  And in every byre the oxen and the kine answered the\nstrange sweet cadences with their lowing, and the great stone oxen\nlowed back to their kin of the meadow through the deep notes of the\njoy-peal.\n\nIn the fulness of time the Prince Bishop Evrard died and was buried as\nhe had willed, with his face humbly turned to the earth; and to this\nday the weather-wasted figure of the little girl looks down on him from\nher niche, and the slab over his grave serves as a stepping-stone to\npious feet.\n\n\n\n\nThe Little Bedesman of Christ\n\nThis is the legend of Francis, the Little Bedesman of Christ.  Seven\nhundred years ago was he born in Assisi, the quaint Umbrian town among\nthe rocks; and for twenty years and more he cherished but one thought,\nand one desire, and one hope; and these were that he might lead the\nbeautiful and holy and sorrowful life which our Lord lived on the\nearth, and that in every way he might resemble our Lord in the purity\nand loveliness of His humanity.\n\nHome and wealth and honour he surrendered, and the love of a wife and\nof little prattlers on his knees; for none of these things were the\nportion of Christ.\n\nNo care he took as to how he should be sheltered by night or wherewith\nhe should be clothed by day; and for meat and drink he looked to the\nhand of God, for these were to be the daily gift of His giving.  So\nthat when he heard the words of the sacred Gospel read in the little\nchurch of St. Mary of the Angels--\"Provide neither gold nor silver nor\nbrass in your purses, nor scrip for your journey, neither two coats,\nneither shoes, nor yet staves\"--he went out and girt his coarse brown\ndress with a piece of cord, and cast away his shoes and went barefoot\nthenceforth.\n\nEven to this day the brethren of the great Order of religious men which\nhe founded are thus clothed, and girt with a cord, and shod with\nnakedness.  And this Order is the Order of the Lesser Brethren, the\nFratres Minores; and often they are called Franciscans, or the Friars\nof St. Francis.\n\nBut as to the thought he bestowed on his eating and drinking: once when\nhe and Brother Masseo sat down on a broad stone near a fresh fountain\nto eat the bread which they had begged in the town, St. Francis\nrejoiced in their prosperity, saying, \"Not only are we filled with\nplenty, but our treasure is of God's own providing; for consider this\nbread which has come to us like manna, and this noble table of stone\nfit for the feasting of kings, and this well of bright water which is\nbeverage from heaven;\" and he besought God to fill their hearts with an\nardent love of the affluence of holy poverty.\n\n[Illustration: _St. Francis of Assisi_]\n\nEven the quiet and blessed peace of the cloister and the hermitage he\ndenied himself; for he remembered that though the Lord Christ withdrew\ninto the hills and went into the wilderness to refresh His soul with\nprayer and communion with His Heavenly Father, it was among the sons of\nmen that He had His dwelling all His days.  So he, too, the Little\nBedesman, often tasted great happiness among the rocks and trees of\nsolitary places; and his spirit felt the spell of the lonely hills; and\nhe loved to pray in the woods, and in their shadow he was consoled by\nthe visits of Angels, and was lifted bodily from the earth in ecstasies\nof joy.  But the work which he had set his hands to do was among men,\nand in villages and the busy streets of cities.\n\n\nIt was not in the first place to save their own souls and to attain to\nholiness that he and his companions abandoned the common way of life.\nLong afterwards, when thousands of men had joined his Order of the\nLesser Brethren, he said: \"God has gathered us into this holy Order for\nthe salvation of the world, and between us and the world He has made\nthis compact, that we shall give the world a good example, and the\nworld shall make provision for our necessities.\"\n\nYet, though he preached repentance and sorrow for sin, never was it his\nwish that men and women who had other duties should abandon those\nduties and their calling to follow his example.  Besides the Order of\nthe Lesser Brethren, he had founded an Order of holy women who should\npray and praise while the men went forth to teach; but well he knew\nthat all could not do as these had done, that the work of the world\nmust be carried on, the fields ploughed and reaped, and the vines\ndressed, and the nets cast and drawn, and ships manned at sea, and\nmarkets filled, and children reared, and aged people nourished, and the\ndead laid in their graves; and when people were deeply moved by his\npreaching and would fain have followed him, he would say: \"Nay, be in\nno unwise haste to leave your homes; there, too, you may serve God and\nbe devout and holy;\" and, promising them a rule of life, he founded the\nThird Order, into which, whatever their age or calling, all who desired\nto be true followers of Christ Jesus might be admitted.\n\nEven among those who gave themselves up wholly to the life spiritual he\ndiscouraged excessive austerity, forbidding them to fast excessively or\nto wear shirts of mail and bands of iron on their flesh, for these not\nonly injured their health and lessened their usefulness, but hindered\nthem in prayer and meditation and delight in the love of God.  Once,\ntoo, when it was revealed to him that a brother lay sleepless because\nof his weakness and the pinch of hunger, St. Francis rose, and, taking\nsome bread with him, went to the brother's cell, and begged of him that\nthey might eat that frugal fare together.  God gave us these bodies of\nours, not that we might torture them unwisely, but that we might use\ntheir strength and comeliness in His service.\n\nSo, with little heed to his own comfort, but full of consideration and\ngentleness for the weakness of others, he and his companions with him\nwent about, preaching and praising God; cheering and helping the\nreapers and vintagers in the harvest time, and working with the\nfield-folk in the earlier season; supping and praying with them\nafterwards; sleeping, when day failed, in barns or church porches or\nleper-hospitals, or may be in an old Etruscan tomb or in the shelter of\na jutting rock, if no better chance befell; till at last they came to\nbe known and beloved in every village and feudal castle and walled town\namong the hills between Rome and Florence.  At first, indeed, they were\nmocked and derided and rudely treated, but in a little while it was\nseen that they were no self-seekers crazed with vanity, but messengers\nof heaven, and pure and great-hearted champions of Christ and His poor.\n\n\nIn those days of luxury and rapacity and of wild passions and ruthless\nbloodshed, it was strange to see these men stripping themselves of\nwealth and power--for many of the brethren had been rich and noble--and\nproclaiming the Gospel of the love and gentleness and purity and\npoverty of Christ.  For not only were the brethren under vow to possess\nnothing whatever in the world, and not only were they forbidden to\ntouch money on any account, but the Order itself was bound to poverty.\nIt could not own great estates or noble abbeys and convents, but was as\nmuch dependent on charity and God's providing as the humblest of its\nfriars.\n\nWas it a wonderful thing that a great affection grew up in the hearts\nof the people for these preachers of the Cross, and especially for the\nmost sweet and tender of them all, the Little Bedesman of Christ, with\nthe delicate and kindly face worn by fasting, the black eyes, and the\nsoft and sonorous voice?  Greatly the common people loved our Lord, and\ngladly they listened to Him; and of all men who have lived St. Francis\nwas most like our Lord in the grace and virtue of His humanity.  I do\nnot think that ever at any time did he say or do anything till he had\nfirst asked himself, What would my Lord have done or said?\n\nAnd certain it seems to me that he must have thought of the Thief in\nParadise and of the divine words Christ spoke to him on the cross, when\nBrother Angelo, the guardian of a hermitage among the mountains, told\nhim how three notorious robbers had come begging; \"but I,\" said the\nBrother, \"quickly drove them away with harsh and bitter words.\"  \"Then\nsorely hast thou sinned against charity,\" replied the Saint in a stern\nvoice, \"and ill hast thou obeyed the holy Gospel of Christ, who wins\nback sinners by gentleness, and not by cruel reproofs.  Go now, and\ntake with thee this wallet of bread and this little flask of wine which\nI have begged, and get thee over hill and valley till thou hast found\nthese men; and when thou comest up with them, give them the bread and\nthe wine as my gift to them, and beg pardon on thy knees for thy fault,\nand tell them that I beseech them no longer to do wrong, but to fear\nand love God; and if this they will do, I will provide for them so that\nall their days they shall not lack food and drink.\"  Then Brother\nAngelo did as he was bidden, and the robbers returned with him and\nbecame God's bedesmen and died in His service.\n\n\nNot to men alone but to all living things on earth and air and water\nwas St. Francis most gracious and loving.  They were all his little\nbrothers and sisters, and he forgot them not, still less scorned or\nslighted them, but spoke to them often and blessed them, and in return\nthey showed him great love and sought to be of his fellowship.  He bade\nhis companions keep plots of ground for their little sisters the\nflowers, and to these lovely and speechless creatures he spoke, with no\ngreat fear that they would not understand his words.  And all this was\na marvellous thing in a cruel time, when human life was accounted of\nslight worth by fierce barons and ruffling marauders.\n\nFor the bees he set honey and wine in the winter, lest they should feel\nthe nip of the cold too keenly; and bread for the birds, that they all,\nbut especially \"my brother Lark,\" should have joy of Christmastide, and\nat Rieti a brood of redbreasts were the guests of the house and raided\nthe tables while the brethren were at meals; and when a youth gave St.\nFrancis the turtle-doves he had snared, the Saint had nests made for\nthem, and there they laid their eggs and hatched them, and fed from the\nhands of the brethren.\n\nOut of affection a fisherman once gave him a great tench, but he put it\nback into the clear water of the lake, bidding it love God; and the\nfish played about the boat till St. Francis blessed it and bade it go.\n\n\"Why dost thou torment my little brothers the Lambs,\" he asked of a\nshepherd, \"carrying them bound thus and hanging from a staff, so that\nthey cry piteously?\"  And in exchange for the lambs he gave the\nshepherd his cloak.  And at another time seeing amid a flock of goats\none white lamb feeding, he was concerned that he had nothing but his\nbrown robe to offer for it (for it reminded him of our Lord among the\nPharisees); but a merchant came up and paid for it and gave it him, and\nhe took it with him to the city and preached about it so that the\nhearts of those hearing him were melted.  Afterwards the lamb was left\nin the care of a convent of holy women, and to the Saint's great\ndelight, these wove him a gown of the lamb's innocent wool.\n\nFain would I tell of the coneys that took refuge in the folds of his\nhabit, and of the swifts which flew screaming in their glee while he\nwas preaching; but now it is time to speak of the sermon which he\npreached to a great multitude of birds in a field by the roadside, when\nhe was on his way to Bevagno.  Down from the trees flew the birds to\nhear him, and they nestled in the grassy bosom of the field, and\nlistened till he had done.  And these were the words he spoke to them:\n\n\"Little birds, little sisters mine, much are you holden to God your\nCreator; and at all times and in every place you ought to praise Him.\nFreedom he has given you to fly everywhere; and raiment He has given\nyou, double and threefold.  More than this, He preserved your kind in\nthe Ark, so that your race might not come to an end.  Still more do you\nowe him for the element of air, which he has made your portion.  Over\nand above, you sow not, neither do you reap; but God feeds you, and\ngives you streams and springs for your thirst; the mountains He gives\nyou, and the valleys for your refuge, and the tall trees wherein to\nbuild your nests.  And because you cannot sew or spin, God takes\nthought to clothe you, you and your little ones.  It must be, then,\nthat your Creator loves you much, since He has granted you so many\nbenefits.  Be on your guard then against the sin of ingratitude, and\nstrive always to give God praise.\"\n\nAnd when the Saint ceased speaking, the birds made such signs as they\nmight, by spreading their wings and opening their beaks, to show their\nlove and pleasure; and when he had blessed them with the sign of the\ncross, they sprang up, and singing songs of unspeakable sweetness, away\nthey streamed in a great cross to the four quarters of heaven.\n\nOne more story I must tell of the Saint and the wild creatures.\n\nOn a time when St. Francis was dwelling in the town of Agobio, there\nappeared in that countryside a monstrous grey wolf, which was so savage\na man-eater that the people were afraid to go abroad, even when well\narmed.  A pity it was to see folk in such fear and danger; wherefore\nthe Saint, putting his whole trust in God, went out with his companions\nso far as they dared go, and thence onward all alone to the place where\nthe wolf lay.\n\nThe wild beast rushed out at him from his lair with open mouth, but St.\nFrancis waited and made over him the sign of the most holy cross, and\ncalled him to him, saying, \"Come hither, Brother Wolf!  In the name of\nChrist I bid you do no harm, neither to me nor to any one.\"  And when\nthe wolf closed his jaws and stopped running, and came at the Saint's\nbidding, as gentle as a lamb, and lay down at his feet, St. Francis\nrebuked him for the slaying of God's creatures, the beasts, and even\nmen made in God's image.  \"But fain would I make peace,\" he said,\n\"between you and these townsfolk; so that if you pledge them your faith\nthat you will do no more scathe either to man or beast, they will\nforgive you all your offences in the past, and neither men nor dogs\nshall harry you any more.  And I will look to it that you shall always\nhave food as long as you abide with the folk of this countryside.\"\n\nWhereupon Brother Wolf, by movements of body and tail and bowing of\nhead, gave token of his good will to abide by that bargain.  And in\nsign that he plighted his troth to it he gave the Saint his paw, and\nfollowed to the market-place of Agobio, where St. Francis repeated all\nthat he had said, and the people agreed to the bargain, and once more\nthe wolf gave pledge of his faith by putting his paw in the Saint's\nhand.\n\nFor two years thereafter Brother Wolf dwelt in Agobio, going tame and\ngentle from house to house and in and out at will, doing hurt to none,\nbut much loved of the children and cared for in food and drink and\nkindness by the townsfolk, so that no one lifted stone or stick against\nhim, neither did any dog bark at him.  At the end of those years he\ndied of old age, and the people were grieved that no more should they\nsee his gentle coming and going.\n\nSuch was the courtesy and sweet fellowship of St. Francis with the wild\ncreatures.\n\n\nIt remains yet to say of him that he was ever gay and joyous as became\nGod's gleeman.  Greatly he loved the song of bird and man, and all\nmelody and minstrelsy.  Nor was it ill-pleasing to God that he should\nrejoice in these good gifts, for once lying in his cell faint with\nfever, to him came the thought that the sound of music might ease his\npain; but when the friar whom he asked to play for him was afraid of\ncausing a scandal by his playing, St. Francis, left alone, heard such\nmusic that his suffering ceased and his fever left him.  And as he lay\nlistening he was aware that the sound kept coming and going; and how\ncould it have been otherwise? for it was the lute-playing of an Angel,\nfar away, walking in Paradise.\n\nSweet new songs he made in the language of the common people, folk of\nfield and mountain, muleteers and vine-dressers, woodmen and hunters,\nso that they in turn might be light of heart amid their toil and\nsorrow.  One great hymn he composed, and of that I will speak later;\nbut indeed all his sayings and sermons were a sort of divine song, and\nwhen he sent his companions from one village to another he bade them\nsay: \"We are God's gleemen.  For song and sermon we ask largesse, and\nour largesse shall be that you persevere in sorrow for your sins.\"\n\nSeeing that ladies of the world, great and beautiful, took pleasure in\nthe songs of the troubadours sung at twilight under their windows, he\ncharged all the churches of his Order that at fall of day the bells\nshould be rung to recall the greeting with which Gabriel the Angel\nsaluted the Virgin Mother of the Lord: \"Hail, full of grace, the Lord\nis with thee, blessed art thou among women.\"  And from that day to this\nthe bells have rung out the Angelus at sunset, and now there is no land\nunder heaven wherein those bells are not heard and wherein devout men\nhearing them do not pause to repeat that greeting angelic.\n\nIn like fashion it was great delight to him (the Pope having given him\nleave) to make in the churches of the Order a representation of the\nCrib of Bethlehem on the feast of the Nativity.  Of these the first was\nmade at the hermitage of Greccio.  Thither the peasants flocked on\nChristmas Eve, with lanterns and torches, making the forest ring with\ntheir carols; and there in the church they found a stable with straw,\nand an ox and an ass tethered to the manger; and St. Francis spoke to\nthe folk about Bethlehem and the Shepherds in the field, and the birth\nof the divine Babe, so that all who heard him wept happy tears of\ncompassion and thankfulness.\n\nAnd as St. Francis stood sighing for joy and gazing at the empty\nmanger, behold! a wondrous thing happened.  For the knight Giovanni,\nwho had given the ox and the ass and the stable, saw that on the straw\nin the manger there lay a beautiful child, which awoke from slumber, as\nit seemed, and stretched out its little hands to St. Francis as he\nleaned over it.\n\nEven to this day there is no land in which you may not see, on\nChristmas Eve, the Crib of Bethlehem; but in those old days of St.\nFrancis many souls were saved by the sight of that lowly manger from\nthe sin of those heretics who denied that the Word was made flesh and\nthat the Son of God was born as a little child for our salvation.\n\nThe joy and gaiety of St. Francis were of two kinds.  There was the joy\nof love, and there was the joy of suffering for love.  And of this last\nhe spoke a wonderful rhapsody as he journeyed once with Brother Leo, in\nthe grievous cold of the early spring, from Perugia to St. Mary of the\nAngels.  For, as Brother Leo was walking on before, St. Francis called\naloud to him:--\n\n\"O Brother Leo, although throughout the world the Lesser Brethren were\nmirrors of holiness and edification, nevertheless write it down, and\ngive good heed to it, that not therein is perfect joy.\"\n\nAnd again, a little further on, he called aloud:\n\n\"O Brother Leo, though the Lesser Brother should give the blind sight,\nand make the misshapen straight, and cast out devils, and give hearing\nto the deaf, and make the lame to walk and the dumb to speak; yea,\nshould he even raise the four days' dead to life, write it down that\nnot herein is perfect joy.\"\n\nAnd yet a little further on he cried out:\n\n\"O Brother Leo, if the Lesser Brother should know all languages, and\nevery science, and all the Scriptures, so that he could foretell not\nsolely the hidden things of the future but also the secrets of the\nheart, write down that not therein is perfect joy.\"\n\nA little further yet, and once again he cried aloud:\n\n\"O Brother Leo, God's little sheep, though the Lesser Brother were to\nspeak with the tongue of the Angels, and know the courses of the stars\nand the virtues of herbs, and though the treasures of the earth were\ndiscovered to him, and he had craft and knowledge of birds and fishes\nand of all living creatures, and of men, and of trees and stones, and\nroots and waters, write it down that not therein is perfect joy.\"\n\nAnd once more, having gone a little further, St. Francis called aloud:\n\n\"O Brother Leo, even though the Lesser Brother could by his preaching\nconvert all the unbelievers to the faith of Christ, write down that not\ntherein is perfect joy.\"\n\nAnd when, after St. Francis had spoken in this manner for the space of\ntwo miles, Brother Leo besought him to reveal wherein might perfect joy\nbe found, St. Francis answered him:\n\n\"When we are come, drenched with rain and benumbed with cold and\nbespattered with mud and aching with hunger, to St. Mary of the Angels,\nand knock at the door, and the porter asks wrathfully, 'Who are you?'\nand on our answering, 'Two of your brethren are we,' 'Two gangrel\nrogues,' says he, 'who go about cheating the world and sorning the alms\nof the poor; away with you!' and whips the door to, leaving us till\nnightfall, cold and famished, in the snow and rain; if with patience we\nbear this injury and harshness and rejection, nowise ruined in our mind\nand making no murmur of complaint, but considering within ourselves,\nhumbly and in charity, that the porter knows well who we are, and that\nGod sets him up to speak against us--O Brother Leo, write down that\ntherein is perfect joy.\"\n\nAnd perfect joy, he added, if, knocking a second time, they brought the\nporter out upon them, fuming, and bidding them betake themselves to the\nalms-house, for knaves and thieves, and nevertheless they bore all with\npatience and with gladness and love.  And yet again, he continued, if a\nthird time they knocked and shouted to him, for pity of their hunger\nand cold and the misery of the night, to let them in, and he came,\nfierce with rage, crying, \"Ah, bold and sturdy vagabonds, now I will\npay you,\" and caught them by the hood, and hurled them into the snow,\nand belaboured them with a knotty cudgel; and if still, in despite of\nall pain and contumely, they endured with gladness, thinking of the\npains of the blessed Lord Christ, which for love of Him they too should\nbe willing to bear--then might it be truly written down that therein\nwas perfect joy.\n\n\nThis was the perfect joy of the Saint most like to Christ of all the\nSaints that the world has seen.  And of all joys this was the most\nperfect, seeing that it was by the patient way of tears and\ntribulation, of bodily pain and anguish of spirit, of humiliation and\nrejection, that a man might come most nearly to a likeness of Christ.\n\nThrough all his gaiety and gladness and benignity he carried in his\nheart one sorrow, and that was the memory of the Passion of our Lord.\nOnce he was found weeping in the country, and when he was asked whether\nhe was in grievous pain that he wept, \"Ah!\" he replied, \"it is for the\nPassion of my Lord Jesus that I weep; and for that I should think\nlittle shame to go weeping through the whole world.\"\n\nTwo years before his death there befell him that miraculous\ntransfiguration, which, so far as it may be with a sinful son of Adam,\nmade perfect the resemblance between him and the Saviour crucified.\nAnd it was after this manner.\n\nIn the upper valley of the Arno stream there towers above the pines and\ngiant beeches of the hills a great basalt rock, Alvernia, which looks\nover Italy, east and west, to the two seas.  That rock is accessible by\nbut a single foot-track, and it is gashed and riven by grim chasms, yet\nwithal great oaks and beech-trees flourish atop among the boulders, and\nthere are drifts of fragrant wild flowers, and legions of birds and\nother wild creatures dwell there; and the lights and colours of heaven\nplay about the rock, and the winds of heaven visit it with wholesome\nair.\n\nNow a great and wealthy gentleman of Tuscany, Orlando of Chiusi, gave\nSt. Francis that mountain for a hermitage where he could be remote from\nmen, and thither, with three of the brethren most dear to him, the\nSaint went to spend the forty days of the Fast of St. Michael the\nArchangel.\n\nTwo nights they slept on the way, but on the third day, so worn was St.\nFrancis with fatigue and illness, that his companions were fain to beg\na poor peasant to lend them his ass.  As they proceeded on their\njourney the peasant, walking behind the ass, said to St. Francis, \"Tell\nme now, art thou Brother Francis of Assisi?\" and when St. Francis said\nhe was, the peasant rejoined, \"Look to it, then, that thou strive to be\nas good as folk take thee to be, so that those who have faith in thee\nbe not disappointed in what they expect to find in thee.\"  And\ninstantly St. Francis got down from the ass, and, kneeling on the\nground, kissed the peasant's feet, and thanked him for his brotherly\nadmonition.\n\nSo onward they journeyed up the mountain till they came to the foot of\nAlvernia, and there as St. Francis rested him under an oak, vast\nflights of birds came fluttering and blithely singing, and alighted on\nhis shoulders and arms, and on his lap, and about his feet.  \"Not\nill-pleased is our Lord, I think,\" said he, \"that we have come to dwell\non this mountain, seeing what glee our little brothers and sisters the\nBirds show at our coming.\"\n\nUnder a fair beech on the top of the rock the brethren built him a cell\nof branches, and he lived alone in prayer, apart from the others, for\nthe foreknowledge of his death had overshadowed him.  Once as he stood\nby the cell, scanning the shape of the mountain and musing on the\nclefts and chasms in the huge rocks, it was borne in upon him that the\nmountain had been thus torn and cloven in the Ninth Hour when our Lord\ncried with a loud voice, and the rocks were rent.  And beside this\nbeech-tree St. Francis was many times uplifted into the air in rapture,\nand many times Angels came to him, and walked with him for his\nconsolation.\n\nA while later, the brethren laid a tree across a chasm, and St. Francis\nhid himself in a more lonely place, where no one might hear him when he\ncried out; and a falcon, which had its nest hard by his cell, woke him\nfor matins, and according as he was more weary or sickly at one time\nthan another, that feathered brother, having compassion on him, woke\nhim later or sooner, and all the long day was at hand to give him\ncompanionship.\n\nHere in this wild place, in September, on Holy Cross Day, early in the\nmorning, before the dawn whitened, St. Francis knelt with his face\nturned to the dark east; and praying long and with great fervour, he\nbesought the Lord Christ Jesus for two graces before he died.  And the\nfirst was this, that, so far as mortal flesh might bear it, he might\nfeel in his body the torture which our Lord suffered in His Passion;\nand the second, that he might feel in his heart the exceeding great\nlove for which He was willing to bear such torture.\n\nNow even while he was praying in this wise a mighty six-winged Seraph,\nburning with light unspeakable, came flying towards him; and St.\nFrancis saw that the Seraph bore within himself the figure of a cross,\nand thereon the image of a man crucified.  Two of the six wings of the\nSeraph were lifted up over the head of the crucified; and two were\nspread for flying; and two veiled the whole of the body on the cross.\n\nThen as the Seraph drew nigh, the eyes of Christ the crucified looked\ninto the eyes of St. Francis, piercing and sweet and terrible; and St.\nFrancis could scarce endure the rapture and the agony with which that\nlook consumed him, and transfigured him, and burned into his body the\nsimilitude of Christ's Passion.  For straightway his hands and his feet\nwere pierced through and through with nails; and the heads of the nails\nwere round and black, and the points were bent backward and riveted on\nthe further side of hand and foot; and his right side was opened with\nthe deep thrust of the spear; and the gash was red and blood came\ndropping from it.  Terrible to bear was the ache of those wounds; and\nfor the nails in his feet St. Francis scarce could stand and could not\nwalk at all.\n\nSuch was the transfiguration of the Little Bedesman of Christ into His\nvisible semblance on the holy rock Alvernia.\n\nFor two years he sustained the ecstasy and anguish of that likeness,\nbut of his sayings and of the wonders he wrought in that time I will\nnot speak.\n\nIn those days he composed the Song of the Sun, and oftentimes sang it,\nand in many a village and market-place was it sung by the brethren\ngoing two by two in their labour for souls.  A mighty hymn of praise to\nthe Lord God most high and omnipotent was this Song of the Sun; for in\nthis manner it was that St. Francis sang:\n\n\n\"Praised be Thou, my Lord; by all Thy creatures praised; and chiefly\npraised by Brother Sun who gives us light of day.\n\n\"Through him Thou shinest; fair is he, brilliant with glittering fire;\nand he through heaven bears, Most High, symbol and sense of thee.\n\n\"Praised by Sister Moon be Thou; and praised by all the Stars.  These\nhast Thou made, and Thou hast made them precious and beautiful and\nbright.\n\n\"Praised by Brother Wind be Thou; by Air, and Cloud that lives in air,\nand all the Weathers of the world, whereby their keep Thou dost provide\nfor all the creatures Thou hast made.\n\n\"Praised by Sister Water, Lord, be Thou; the lowly water, precious,\npure, the gracious handmaiden.\n\n\"Praised by Brother Fire, by whom Thou makest light for us i' the dark;\nand fair is he and jocund, sturdy and strong.\n\n\"Praised by our Sister Mother-Earth, which keeps us and sustains, and\ngives forth plenteous fruit, and grass, and coloured flowers.\n\n\"Praised be Thou, Lord my God, by those who for Thy love forgive, and\nfor Thy love endure; blessed in their patience they; by Thee shall they\nbe crowned.\"\n\n\nAs he drew nigh to his end at St. Mary of the Angels, he cried out,\n\"Welcome, Sister Death!\" and when his brethren, as he had bidden them,\nsang once more the Song of the Sun, he added another verse:\n\n\"Praised by our Sister Death be Thou--that bodily death which no man\nmay escape.  Alas for those who die in mortal sin, but happy they\nconforming to Thy will; for these the second death shall nowise hurt.\"\n\n\nIn the tenth month, on the fourth day of the month, in the\nforty-and-fifth year of his age, having recited the Psalm, \"I cried\nunto Thee, O Lord, and said: Thou art my hope and my portion in the\nland of the living,\" St. Francis died very joyfully.  At the fall of\nthe night he died, and while still the brethren were gazing upon his\nface there dropped down on the thatch of the cell in which he lay larks\ninnumerable, and most sweetly they sang, as though they rejoiced at the\nrelease of their holy kinsman.\n\nHe was buried at the great church at Assisi; but though it is thought\nhe lies beneath the high altar, the spot is unknown to any man, and the\nhill-folk say that St. Francis is not dead at all, but that he lives\nhidden in a secret crypt far down below the roots of wall and pillar.\nStanding there, pale and upright, with the blood red in the five wounds\nof his crucifixion, he waits in a heavenly trance for the sound of the\nlast trumpet, when the nations of the earth shall see in the clouds Him\nwhom they have pierced.\n\nLong after his death it was the custom of the brethren of a certain\nhouse of his Order to go chanting in procession at midnight once in the\nyear to his resting-place.  But the way was long and dark; the weather\noften bleak and stormy.  Little by little devotion cooled, and the\nfriars fell away, till there remained but one old monk willing to go on\nthis pilgrimage.  As he went into the dark and the storm, the road\namong the woods and rocks grew luminous, and in place of the cross and\ntorches and canticles of the former days, great flocks of birds\nescorted him on his way, singing and keeping him company.  The little\nfeathered brothers and sisters had not abated in their love of the\nLittle Bedesman who had caressed and blessed them.\n\n\n\n\nThe Burning of Abbot Spiridion\n\nMany wonderful things are told of the Abbot Spiridion, who lived a\nhundred years and four and yet grew never old; neither was the\nbrightness of his eyes dimmed nor his hair silvered, nor was his frame\nbowed and palsied with the weakness of age.\n\nDuring the long years in which he ruled the abbey he had founded, he\nseemed to live less in this world than in the communion of the blessed\nsouls of men redeemed.  The whole earth was as clear to him as though\nit had been of crystal, and when he raised his eyes he saw not solely\nwhat other men saw, but the vision of all that is under the heavens.\nAnd this vision of life was at once his trial and his consolation.  For\nit was an unspeakable sorrow and anguish to see on all sides the sin\nand suffering and misery of creation, and often he wept bitterly when\nno one dared ask him the reason of his affliction.  Yet oftentimes, on\nthe other hand, he laughed for lightness of spirit, and bade the\nbrethren rejoice because of the salvation of some reprobate soul, or\nthe relief of one oppressed, or the bestowal of some blessing on the\nservants of God.\n\nWhen it happened that a brother had been sent on a journey and was long\nabsent, and the community was talking of him, wondering how he had\nfared and where he might now be, the Abbot would sometimes break\nsilence and say: \"I see our brother resting in such or such a cell,\" or\n\"Our brother is even now singing a psalm as he drifts in his small boat\nof skins down this or that river,\" or, perchance, \"Our brother is\ncoming over the hill and in an hour he will be with us.\"\n\nIn the abbey there was a certain lay-brother, dull and slow of wit,\nwith a hindrance in his speech; and one of the monks despised him and\nscoffed at his defect of nature.  This lay-brother had the care of the\ngarden of pot-herbs and fruit-trees, and as he was toiling there one\nday the Abbot called the uncharitable monk to him, and said: \"Come, let\nus see what our brother the Fool is doing.\"\n\nThe monk trembled when he heard those words, for he knew that his\nscornfulness had been discovered, and he followed the Abbot in great\nconfusion.  In the garden they found the lay-brother planting cabbages.\n\n\"Is our brother the Fool alone?\" asked the Abbot.\n\n\"Our brother is alone, father,\" replied the monk.\n\nThen the Abbot touched the monk's eyes, and straightway he saw that the\nlay-brother was not alone: beside him were two radiant child-angels,\none of whom held for him a basket containing the young plants, and the\nsecond walked to and fro playing on a lute to lighten his labour.\nThen, overwhelmed with shame, the monk fell on his knees, confessing\nhis sin and promising amendment.\n\nMore strange than this is the story I have now to tell.  It happened\nthrough mischance that fire broke out in the abbey, and the flames were\nspreading so fiercely from one wattled cell to another that there was\ngreat danger of the whole monastery being destroyed.  With piteous\ncries the religious surrounded the Abbot, and besought him to intercede\nwith God that their home might be spared.\n\nSpiridion gently shook his head.  \"The mercy of God,\" he replied, \"has\ngiven it to another to intercede for us in our danger this day.  The\nholy Pontiff, Gregory, has looked out of Rome and seen us in our\ntrouble.  At this moment he is kneeling in prayer for us, and his\nsupplication on our behalf will avail.\"\n\nEven while Spiridion was speaking, the Pope, far away in the Golden\nCity, beheld the flames rising from the abbey, and called his household\nto join him in entreating heaven; and at once it was seen that the\nflames were being beaten to the ground and extinguished as though\ninvisible hands were beating them down with invisible branches of trees.\n\nNow when the brethren were made aware that the whole earth was being\nconstantly shown thus in vision to the Abbot, they stood in sad dread\nof him; even the most pure and lowly-hearted were abashed at this\nthought that perchance every act and every vain fancy of theirs was\nlaid bare to his knowledge.  So it came to pass that out of shame and\nfear their hearts were little by little estranged from him.\n\nThe Abbot was not slow to perceive the change, and he spoke of it when\nthey met in chapter.\n\n\"Truly it is a grievous and a terrible thing,\" he said, \"that any man\nshould see with the eyes of the soul more than it is given the eye of\nflesh to see; and I pray you, brethren, beseech the Lord, if it be His\nwill, that the vision be withdrawn from me.  But if His will it be not,\nbeseech Him that I may not sin through seeing.  So much for myself, but\nas for you, dear children, why are you grieved?  Because it may be that\nI see you when you think no man sees you?  Am I then the only one who\nsees you?  Is there not at least one other--even the high God, from\nwhom the hidden man of the heart is nowise hidden?  If you fear His\nholy eyes, little need you fear the eyes of any sinful man.\"\n\nSuch a one was the Abbot Spiridion.  His spirit passed from among men\nin the hundred and fifth year of his exile, in the third month of the\nyear, on the morning of the resurrection of the Lord Christ, between\nthe white and the red of the morning, when the brethren were singing\nprime.  As he listened to them singing, his cheeks suddenly became\nflushed with bright colour, and those who were about him, thinking he\nwas in pain, asked if in any way they might relieve him; but he replied\nin a low voice, \"When the heart is glad the face flowers.\"  In a little\nafter that he laughed softly to himself, and so they knew that his end\nwas gladness.\n\nWhen he died there were three hundred religious in that monastery, and\nin his stead Samson was made Abbot of Gracedieu.\n\n\nThe body of Spiridion was laid in a stone coffin hard by the abbey\nchurch, and to those who had known the holy man it seemed nothing\nstrange that the sick and afflicted should come and kneel by his grave,\nin the hope that by his intercession they might obtain succour in their\nmisery.  Certain it is that the blind were restored to sight, and the\nsick to health, and the painful to great ease; and the fame of these\nmiracles was noised abroad in the world till thousands came in\npilgrimage to the spot, and costly gifts--gold and silver and jewels,\nsheep and cattle, wine and corn, and even charters of large demesnes,\nfruitful fields and woods and waters--were bestowed as thank-offerings\nto the saintly man.\n\nThen over his tomb rose a vast and beautiful minster, and the tomb\nitself was covered with a shrine, brilliant with blue and vermilion and\ngold and sculptured flowers, and guarded by angels with outspreading\nwings.\n\nAt the beginning Abbot Samson was well pleased, for the great church\nrose like a dream of heaven, but when he perceived that the constant\nconcourse of people was destroying the hushed contemplation and piety\nof the house, and that the brethren were distracted with eagerness for\ngain and luxury and the pride of life, he resolved to make an end.\nWherefore after High Mass on the Feast of All Saints he bade the\nreligious walk in procession to the splendid shrine, and there the\nAbbot, with the shepherd's staff of rule in his hand, struck thrice on\nthe stone coffin, and three times he called aloud: \"Spiridion!\nSpiridion!  Spiridion!\" and begged him, as he had been founder and\nfirst father of that monastery, to listen to the grievance which had\nbefallen them in consequence of the miracles he had wrought from his\ngrave.\n\nAnd after an indignant recital of their loss of humility, of their\nlukewarmness, of their desire for excitement and the pageants of the\nworld, of their lust for buildings of stone and pillared walks and\nplentiful living, he concluded: \"Make, then, we beseech thee, no sign\nfrom thy sepulchre.  Let life and death, and joy and sorrow, and\nblindness and disease, and all the vicissitudes of this world follow\ntheir natural courses.  Do not thou, out of compassion for thy\nfellow-man, interpose in the lawful succession of things.  This is what\nwe ask of thee, expecting it of thy love.  But if it be that thou deny\nus, solemnly we declare unto thee, by the obedience which once we owed\nthee, we shall unearth thy bones and cast them forth from amongst us.\"\n\nNow whether it was that for some high purpose God delayed the answer to\nthat prayer, or whether it was the folly and superstition of men which\ngave to things natural the likeness of the miraculous, and even\nperadventure the folk lied out of a mistaken zeal for the glory of the\nsaints, there was no abatement of the wonders wrought at Spiridion's\ntomb; and when the Abbot would have forbidden access to the vast crowds\nof pilgrims, the people resisted with angry violence and threatened\nfire and bloodshed.\n\nSo Samson summoned the wisest and holiest of the brotherhood, and took\nthem into counsel.\n\n\"This thing,\" said he, \"cannot be of God, that one of His saints, the\nfounder of this house, should lead into sloth and luxury the children\nof the house he has founded.  Sooner could I believe that this is a\nmalignant snare of the most Evil One, who heals the bodily ailments of\na few that he may wreck the immortal souls of many.\"\n\nThen arose Dom Walaric, the most aged of the monks, and said: \"Already,\nFather Abbot, hast thou spoken judgment.  Grievously shall I lament\nwhat must be done; but in one way only can we root out this corruption.\nLet the bones of the holy man be unearthed and cast forth.  He in the\nhigh heavens will know that we do not use him despitefully, but that of\ntwo evils this, indeed, is scarcely to be spoken of as an evil.\"\n\nWherefore, in a grassy bay of the land by the river a great pile of\nfaggots was reared, dry and quick for the touch of flame.  And the\nAbbot broke down the shrine and opened the tomb.\n\nWhen the stone lid of the coffin had been lifted, the religious saw\nthat, though it had been long buried, the body showed no sign of decay.\nFresh and uncorrupted it lay in the sacred vestments; youthful and\ncomely of face, despite a marvellous old age and years of sepulture.\n\nWith many tears they raised what seemed rather a sleeping man than a\ndead, and bore him to the river; and when they had heaped the faggots\nabout him, the Abbot blessed the body and the fuel, and with his own\nhand set fire to the funeral pile.\n\nThe brethren restrained not their weeping and lamentation as they\nwitnessed that hallowed burning; and the Abbot, with heavy eyes,\ntarried till the last ember had died out.  Then were all the ashes of\nthe fire swept together and cast into the fleeting river, which bore\nthem through lands remote into the utmost sea that hath no outland\nlimit save the blue sky and the low light of the shifting stars.\n\n\n\n\nThe Countess Itha\n\nIn the days of King Coeur-de-Lion the good Count Hartmann ruled in\nKirchberg in the happy Swabian land.  And never had that fair land been\nhappier than it was in those days, for the Count was a devout\nChristian, a lover of peace in the midst of warlike and rapacious\nbarons, and a ruler just and merciful to his vassals.  Among the green\nand pleasant hills on his domain he had founded a monastery for the\nmonks of St. Benedict, and thither he often rode with his daughter\nItha, the delight of his heart and the light of the grim old castle of\nthe Kirchberg; so that, seeing the piety of her father, she grew up in\nthe love and fear of God, and from her gentle mother she learned to\nfeel a deep compassion for the poor and afflicted.\n\nNo sweeter maid than she, with her blue eyes and light brown hair, was\nthere in all that land of sturdy men and nut-brown maidens.  The people\nloved the very earth she stood on.  In their days of trouble and sorrow\nshe was their morning and their evening star, and they never wearied of\npraising her goodness and her beauty.\n\nWhen Itha was in the bloom of her girlhood it befell that the young\nCount Heinrich of the Toggenburg, journeying homeward from the famous\ntournament at Cologne, heard of this peerless flower of Swabia, and\nturned aside to the Castle of Kirchberg to see if perchance he might\nwin a good and lovely wife.  He was made welcome, and no sooner had he\nlooked on Itha's fair and loving face, and marked with what modesty and\ncourtesy she bore herself, than he heard joy-bells ringing in his\nheart, and said, \"Now, by the blessed cross, here is the pearl of price\nfor me!\"  Promptly he wooed her with tender words, and with eyes that\nspoke more than tongue could find words for, and passionate observance,\nand all that renders a man pleasing to a maid.\n\nAnd Itha was not loth to be won, for the Count was young and handsome,\ntall and strong, and famous for feats of arms, and a mighty\nlord--master of the rich straths and valleys of the Thur River, and of\nmany a burgh and district in the mountains beyond; and yet, despite all\nthis, he, so noble and beautiful, loved her, even her, the little\nSwabian maid who had never deemed herself likely to come to such honour\nand happiness.  Nor were the kindly father and mother ill-pleased that\nso goodly a man and so mighty a lord should have their dear child.\n\nSo in a little while the Count put on Itha's hand the ring of\nbetrothal, and Itha, smiling and blushing, raised it to her lips and\nkissed it.  \"Blissful ring!\" said the Count jestingly; \"and yet,\ndearest heart, you do well to cherish it, for it is an enchanted ring,\nan old ring of which there are many strange stories.\"  Even while he\nwas speaking Itha's heart misgave her, and she was aware of a feeling\nof doubt and foreboding; but she looked at the ring and saw how massive\nwas the gold and how curiously wrought and set with rare gems, and its\nbrilliancy and beauty beguiled her of her foreboding, and she asked no\nquestions of the stories told of it or of the nature of its enchantment.\n\nQuickly on the betrothal followed the marriage and the leave-taking.\nWith tears in her eyes Itha rode away with her lord, looking back often\nto the old castle and gazing farewell on the pleasant land and the\nfields and villages she should not see again for, it might be, many\nlong years.  But by her side rode the Count, ever gay and tender, and\nhe comforted her in her sadness, and lightened the way with loving\nconverse, till she put from her all her regret and longing, and made\nherself happy in their love.\n\n[Illustration: _Itha rode away with her lord_]\n\nSo they journeyed through the rocks and wildwood of the Schwartzwald,\nand came in view of the blue waters of the lake of Constance glittering\nin the sun, and saw the vast mountain region beyond with its pine\nforests, and above the forests the long blue mists on the high\npastures, and far over all, hanging like silvery summer clouds in the\nblue heavens, the shining peaks of the snowy Alps.  And here, at last,\nthey were winding down the fruitful valley of the Thur, and yonder,\nperched on a rugged bluff, rose the stern walls of Castle Toggenburg,\nwith banners flying from the turrets, and the rocky roadway strewn with\nflowers, and vassals and retainers crowding to welcome home the bride.\n\n\nNow, for all his tenderness and gaiety and sweetness in wooing, the\nCount Heinrich was a hasty and fiery man, quickly stirred to anger and\nblind rage, and in his storms of passion he was violent and cruel.  Not\nlong after their home-coming--woe worth the while!--he flashed out ever\nand anon in his hot blood at little things which ruffled his temper,\nand spoke harsh words which his gentle wife found hard to bear, and\nwhich in his better moments he sincerely repented.  Very willingly she\nforgave him, but though at first he would kiss and caress her,\nafterwards her very forgiveness and her meekness chafed and galled his\nproud spirit, so that the first magical freshness of love faded from\ntheir life, even as the dew dries on the flower in the heat of the\nmorning.\n\nNot far from the castle, in a clearing in the woods, nestled the little\nconvent and chapel of Our Lady in the Meadow, and thither, attended by\none of her pages, the Countess Itha went daily to pray for her husband,\nthat he might conquer the violence of his wild heart, and for herself,\nthat she might not grow to fear him more than she loved him.  In these\ndays of her trial, and in the worse days to come, a great consolation\nit was to her to kneel in the silent chapel and pour out her\nunhappiness to her whose heart had been pierced by seven swords of\nsorrow.\n\nTime went by, and when no little angel came from the knees of God to\nlighten her burden and to restrain with its small hands the headlong\npassion of her husband, the Count was filled with bitterness of spirit\nas he looked forward to a childless old age, and reflected that all the\nfruitful straths of the Toggenburg, and the valleys and townships,\nwould pass away to some kinsman, and no son of his would there be to\nprolong the memory of his name and greatness.  When this gloomy dread\nhad taken possession of him, he would turn savagely on the Countess in\nhis fits of fury, and cry aloud: \"Out of my sight!  For all thy\nmeekness and thy praying and thy almsgiving, God knows it was an ill\nday when I set eyes on that fair face of thine!\"  Yet this was in no\nway his true thought, for in spite of his lower nature the Count loved\nher, but it is ever the curse of anger in a man that it shall wreak\nitself most despitefully on his nearest and best.  And Itha, who had\nlearned this in the school of long-suffering, answered never a word,\nbut only prayed the more constantly and imploringly.\n\n\nIn the train of the Countess there were two pages, Dominic, an Italian,\nwhom she misliked for his vanity and boldness, and Cuno, a comely\nSwabian lad, who had followed her from her father's house.  Most\nfrequently when she went to Our Lady in the Meadow she dismissed\nDominic and bade Cuno attend her, for in her distress it was some crumb\nof comfort to see the face of a fellow-countryman, and to speak to him\nof Kirchberg and the dear land she had left.  But Dominic, seeing that\nthe Swabian was preferred, hated Cuno, and bore the lady scant\ngoodwill, and in a little set his brain to some device by which he\nmight vent his malice on both.  This was no difficult task, for the\nCount was as prone to jealousy as he was quick to wrath, and with\ncrafty hint and wily jest and seemingly aimless chatter the Italian\nsowed the seeds of suspicion and watchfulness in his master's mind.\n\nConsider, then, if these were not days of heartbreak for this lady,\nstill so young and so beautiful, so unlovingly entreated, and so far\naway from the home of her happy childhood.  Yet she bore all patiently\nand without complaint or murmur, only at times when she looked from\nterrace or tower her gaze travelled beyond the deep pine-woods, and in\na wistful day-dream she retraced, beyond the great lake and the Black\nForest, all the long way she had ridden so joyfully with her dear\nhusband by her side.\n\nOne day in the springtime, when the birds of passage had flown\nnorthward, carrying her tears and kisses with them, she bethought her\nof the rich apparel in which she had been wed, and took it from the\ncarved oaken coffer to sweeten in the sun.  Among her jewels she came\nupon her betrothal ring, and the glitter of it reminded her of what her\nlord had said of its enchantment and the strange stories told of it.\n\"Are any of them so sad and strange as mine?\" she wondered with tears\nin her eyes; then kissing the ring in memory of that first kiss she had\ngiven it, she laid it on a table in the window-bay, and busied herself\nwith the bridal finery; and while she was so busied she was called away\nto some cares of her household, and left the chamber.\n\nWhen she returned to put away her marriage treasures, the betrothal\nring was missing.  On the instant a cold fear came over her.  In vain\nshe searched the coffer and the chamber; in vain she endeavoured to\npersuade herself that she must have mislaid the jewel, or that\nperchance the Count had seen it, and partly in jest and partly in\nrebuke of her carelessness, had taken it.  The ring had vanished, and\nin spite of herself she felt that its disappearance portended some\nterrible evil.  Too fearful to arouse her husband's anger, she breathed\nno word of her loss, and trusted to time or oblivion for a remedy.\n\n\nNo great while after this, as the Swabian page was rambling in the wood\nnear the convent, he heard a great outcry of ravens around a nest in an\nancient fir-tree, and prompted partly by curiosity to know the cause of\nthe disquiet, and partly by the wish to have a young raven for sport in\nthe winter evenings, he climbed up to the nest.  Looking into the great\nmatted pack of twigs, heather and lamb's wool, he caught sight of a\ngold ring curiously chased and set with sparkling gems; and slipping it\ngleefully on his finger he descended the tree and went his way homeward\nto the castle.\n\nA few days later when the Count by chance cast his eye on the jewel, he\nrecognised it at a glance for the enchanted ring of many strange\nstories.  The crafty lies of the Italian Dominic flashed upon him; and,\nnever questioning that the Countess had given the ring to her\nfavourite, he sprang upon Cuno as though he would strangle him.  Then\nin a moment he flung him aside, and in a voice of thunder cried for the\nwildest steed in his stables to be brought forth.  Paralysed with\nfright, the luckless page was seized and bound by the heels to the tail\nof the half-tame creature, which was led out beyond the drawbridge, and\npricked with daggers till it flung off the men-at-arms and dashed\nscreaming down the rocky ascent into the wildwood.\n\nStung to madness by his jealousy, the Count rushed to the apartment of\nthe Countess.  \"False and faithless, false and faithless!\" he cried in\nhoarse rage, and clutching her in his iron grasp, lifted her in the air\nand hurled her through the casement into the horrible abyss below.\n\nAs she fell Itha commended her soul to God.  The world seemed to reel\nand swim around her; she felt as if that long lapse through space would\nnever have an end, and then it appeared to her as though she were\npeacefully musing in her chair, and she saw the castle of Kirchberg and\nthe pleasant fields lying serene in the sunlight, and the happy\nvillages, each with its great crucifix beside its rustic church, and\nmen and women at labour in the fields.  How long that vision lasted she\ncould not tell.  Then as in her fall she was passing through the tops\nof the trees which climbed up the lower ledges of the castle rocks,\ngreen leafy hands caught her dress and held her a little, and strong\narms closed about her, and yielded slowly till she touched the ground;\nand she knew that the touch of these was not the mere touch of\nsenseless things, but a contact of sweetness and power which thrilled\nthrough her whole being.\n\nFalling on her knees, she thanked God for her escape, and rising again\nshe went into the forest, wondering whither she should betake herself\nand what she should do; for now she had no husband and no home.  She\nleft the beaten track, and plunging through the bracken, walked on till\nshe was tired.  Then she sat down on a boulder.  Among the pines it was\nalready dusk, and the air seemed filled with a grey mist, but this was\ncaused by the innumerable dry wiry twigs which fringed the lower\nbranches of the trees with webs of fine cordage; and when a ray of the\nsetting sun struck through the pine trunks, it lit up the bracken with\nemerald and brightened the ruddy scales of the pine bark to red gold.\nHere it was dry and sheltered, with the thick carpet of pine-needles\nunderfoot and the thick roof of branches overhead: and but for dread of\nwild creatures she thought she might well pass the night in this place.\nTo-morrow she would wander further and learn how life might be\nsustained in the forest.\n\nThe last ray of sunshine died away; the deep woods began to blacken; a\ncool air sighed in the high tops of the trees.  It was very homeless\nand lonely.  She took heart, however, remembering God's goodness to\nher, and placing her confidence in His care.\n\nSuddenly she perceived a glimmering of lights among the pines.  Torches\nthey seemed, a long way off; and she thought it must be the retainers\nof the Count, who, finding she had not been killed by her fall, had\nsent them out to seek for her.  The lights drew nearer, and she sat\nvery still, resigned to her fate whatsoever it might be.  And yet\nnearer they came, till at length by their shining she saw a great stag\nwith lordly antlers, and on the tines of the antlers glittered tongues\nof flame.\n\nSlowly the beautiful creature came up to her and regarded her with his\nlarge soft brown eyes.  Then he moved away a little and looked back, as\nthough he were bidding her follow him.  She rose and walked by his\nside, and he led her far through the forest, till they came to an\noverhanging rock beside a brook, and there he stopped.\n\n\nIn this hidden nook of the mountain-forest she made her home.  With\nbranches and stones and turf she walled in the open hollow of the rock.\nIn marshy places she gathered the thick spongy mosses, yellow and red,\nand dried them in the sun for warmth at night in the cold weather.  She\nlived on roots and berries, acorns and nuts and wild fruit, and these\nin their time of plenty she stored against the winter.  Birds' eggs she\nfound in the spring; in due season the hinds, with their young, came to\nher and gave her milk for many days; the wild bees provided her with\nhoney.  With slow and painful toil she wove the cotton-grass and the\nfibres of the bark of the birch, so that she should not lack for\nclothing.\n\nIn the warm summer months there was a great tranquillity and hushed joy\nin this hard life.  A tender magic breathed in the colour and music of\nthe forest, in its long pauses of windless day-dreaming, in its breezy\nfrolic with the sunshine.  The trees and boulders were kindly; and the\nturf reminded her of her mother's bosom.  About her refuge the wild\nflowers grew in plenty--primrose and blue gentian, yellow cinquefoil\nand pink geranium, and forget-me-nots, and many more, and these looked\nup at her with the happy faces of little children who were innocent and\nknew no care; and over whole acres lay the bloom of the ling, and\nnothing more lovely grows on earthly hills.  Through breaks in the\nwoodland she saw afar the Alpine heights, and the bright visionary\npeaks of snow floating in the blue air like glimpses of heaven.\n\nBut it was a bitter life in the winter-tide, when the forest fretted\nand moaned, and snow drifted about the shelter, and the rocks were\njagged with icicles, and the stones of the brook were glazed with cold,\nand the dark came soon and lasted long.  She had no fire, but, by God's\ngood providence, in this cruel season the great stag came to her at\ndusk, and couched in the hollow of the rock beside her, and the lights\non his antlers lit up the poor house, and the glow of his body and his\npleasant breath gave her warmth.\n\nHere, then, dead to the world, dead to all she loved most dearly, Itha\nconsecrated herself body and soul to God for the rest of her earthly\nyears.  If she suffered as the wild children of nature suffer, she was\nfree at least from the cares and sorrows with which men embitter each\nother's existence.  Here she would willingly live so long as God\nwilled; here she would gladly surrender her soul when He was pleased to\ncall it home.\n\nThe days of her exile were many.  For seventeen years she dwelt thus in\nher hermitage in the forest, alone and forgotten.\n\n\nForgotten, did I say?  Not wholly.  The Count never forgot her.  Stung\nby remorse (for in his heart of hearts he could not but believe her\ntrue and innocent), haunted by the recollection of the happiness he had\nflung from him, wifeless, childless, friendless, he could find no rest\nor forgetfulness except in the excitement and peril of the\nbattle-field.  But the slaughter of men and the glory of victory were\nas dust and ashes in his mouth.  He had lost the joy of life, the pride\nof race, the exultation of power.  For one look from those sweet eyes,\nover which, doubtless, the hands of some grateful peasant had laid the\nearth, he would have joyfully exchanged renown and lordship, and even\nlife itself.\n\n\nAt length in the fulness of God's good time, it chanced that the Count\nwas hunting in a distant part of the forest, when he started from its\ncovert a splendid stag.  Away through the open the beautiful creature\nseemed to float before him, and Heinrich followed in hot chase.  Across\ngrassy clearings and through dim vistas of pines, over brooks and among\nboulders and through close underwood, the fleet quarry led him without\nstop or stay, till at last it reached the hanging rock which was Itha's\ncell, and there it stood at bay; and alarmed by the clatter of hoofs, a\ntall pale woman, rudely clad in her poor forest garb, came to the\nentrance.\n\nSurprised at so strange a sight, the Count drew rein and stared at the\nwoman.  Despite the lapse of time and her pallor and emaciation, in an\ninstant he recognised the wife whom he believed dead, and she too\nrecognised the husband she had loved.\n\nHow shall I tell of all that was said between those two by that lonely\nhermitage in the depth of the forest?  As in the old days, she was\neager to forgive everything; but it was in vain that the Count besought\nher to return to the life which she had forgotten for so many years.\nLong had she been dead and buried, so far as earthly things were\nconcerned.  She would prefer, despite the hardness and the pain, to\nspend in this peaceful spot what time was yet allotted to her, but that\nshe longed once more to hear the music of the holy bells, to kneel once\nmore before the altar of God.\n\nWhat plea could Heinrich use to shake her resolution?  His shame and\nremorse, even his love, held him tongue-tied.  He saw that she was no\nlonger the meek gentle Swabian maiden who had shrunk and wept at every\nhasty word and sharp glance of his.  He had slain all human love in\nher; nothing survived save that large charity of the Saints which binds\nthem to all suffering souls on the earth.\n\nWofully he consented to her one wish.  A simple cell was prepared for\nher in the wood beside the chapel of Our Lady in the Meadow, and there\nshe dwelt until, in a little while, her gentle spirit was called home.\n\n\n\n\nThe Story of the Lost Brother\n\nThis is the story written in the chronicle of the Priory of Kilgrimol,\nwhich is in Amounderness.  It tells of the ancient years before that\ngreat inroad of the sea which broke down the high firs of the western\nforest of Amounderness, and left behind it those tracts of sand and\nshingle that are now called the Blowing Sands.  In those days Oswald\nthe Gentle was Prior of Kilgrimol, and he beheld the inroad of the sea;\nand afterwards he lived through the suffering and sorrow of the great\nplague of which people now speak as the Black Death.\n\nOf all monks and men he was the sweetest and gentlest, and long before\nhe was chosen Prior, when he had charge of the youths who wished to be\nmonks, he never wearied of teaching them to feel and care for all God's\ncreatures, from the greatest to the least, and to love all God's works,\nand to take a great joy even in stones and rocks, and water and earth,\nand the clouds and the blue air.  \"For,\" said he, \"according to the\nflesh all these are in some degree our kinsfolk, and like us they come\nfrom the hands of God.  Does not Mother Church teach us this, speaking\nin her prayers of God's creature of fire, and His creature of salt, and\nHis creature of flowers?\"\n\nWhen some of the brotherhood would smile at his gentle sayings, he\nwould answer: \"Are these things, then, so strange and childish?\nRather, was not this the way of the Lord Jesus?  You have read how He\nwas in the wilderness forty days, tempted of Satan, and how He was with\nthe wild beasts?  All that those words may mean we have not been\ntaught; but well I believe that the wild things came to Him, even as\nvery little children will run to a good man without any doubt of his\ngoodness; and that they recognised His pitifulness and His power to\nhelp them; and that He read in their dumb pleading eyes the pain and\nthe travail under which the whole creation groaneth; and that He\nblessed them, and gave them solace, and told them in some mysterious\nway of the day of sacrifice and redemption which was drawing near.\"\n\nOnce when the brethren spoke of clearing out the nests from the church\ntower, because of the clamour of the daws in the morning and evening\ntwilight, the Novice-master--for this was Oswald's title--besought them\nto remember the words of the Psalmist, King David: \"The sparrow hath\nfound an house and the swallow a nest for herself, where she may lay\nher young, even thine altars, O Lord of Hosts.\"\n\nAs for the novices, many a legend he told them of the Saints and holy\nhermits who had loved the wild creatures, and had made them companions\nor had been served by them in the lonely places of the hills and\nwildwood.  And in this, he taught them, there was nothing strange, for\nin the book of Hosea, it was written that God would make, for those who\nserved Him, a treaty of peace and a league of love with the beasts and\nthe birds of heaven and the creeping things of the earth, and in the\nbook of Job it was said that even the stones of the field should be in\nfriendship with them.\n\n\"And this we see,\" he would say, \"in the life of the blessed Bishop\nKieran of Saighir, who was the first Saint born in green Erinn.  For he\nwandered away through the land seeking the little well where he was to\nfound his monastery.  That well was in the depths of a hoary wood, and\nwhen he drew near it the holy bell which he carried rang clear and\nbright, as it had been foretold him.  So he sat down to rest under a\ntree, when suddenly a wild boar rushed out of its lair against him; but\nthe breath of God tamed it, and the savage creature became his first\ndisciple, and helped him to fell small trees and to cut reeds and\nwillows so that he might build him a cell.  After that there came from\nbrake and copse and dingle and earth and burrow all manner of wild\ncreatures; and a fox, a badger, a wolf, and a doe were among Kieran's\nfirst brotherhood.  We read, too, that for all his vows the fox made\nbut a crafty and gluttonous monk, and stole the Saint's leather shoes,\nand fled with them to his old earth.  Wherefore Kieran called the\nreligious together with his bell, and sent the badger to bring back the\nfugitive, and when this was done the Saint rebuked the fox for an\nunworthy and sinful monk, and laid penance upon him.\"\n\nWhen the novices laughed at this adventure, Father Oswald said:\n\n\"These things are not matters of faith; you may believe them or not as\nyou will.  Perhaps they did not happen in the way in which they are now\ntold, but if they are not altogether true, they are at least images and\nsymbols of truth.  But this I have no doubt is true--that when the\nblessed Columba was Abbot in Iona, he called one of the brethren to him\nand bade him go on the third day to the western side of the island, and\nsit on the sea-shore, and watch for a guest who would arrive, weary and\nhungry, in the afternoon.  And the guest would be a crane, beaten by\nthe stormy winds, and it would fall on the beach, unable to fly\nfurther.  'And do thou,' said Columba, 'take it up with gentle hands\nand carry it to the house of the guests, and tend it for three days and\nthree nights, and when it is refreshed it will fly up into the air, and\nafter scanning its path through the clouds it will return to its old\nsweet home in Erinn; and if I charge thee so earnestly with this\nservice, it is because the guest comes from our dear land.'  And the\nBrother obeyed; and on the third day the crane arrived, storm-beaten\nand weary, and three days later it departed.  Have you not also heard\nor read how our own St. Godrich at Whitby protected the four-footed\nforesters, and how a great stag, which had been saved by him from the\nhunters, came year after year at a certain season to visit him?\"\n\nMany legends too he told them of birds as well as beasts, and three of\nthese I will mention here because they are very pleasant to listen to.\nOne was of St. Malo and the wren.  The wren, the smallest of all birds,\nlaid an egg in the hood which St. Malo had hung up on a branch while he\nwas working in the field, and the blessed man was so gentle and loving\nthat he would not disturb the bird, but left his hood hanging on the\ntree till the wren's brood was hatched.\n\nThen there was the legend of St. Meinrad, who lived in a hut made of\nboughs on Mount Etzel, and had two ravens for his companions.  Now it\nhappened that two robbers wandered near the hermitage, and foolishly\nthinking that some treasure might be hidden there, they slew the Saint.\nAfter a long search, in which they found nothing, they went down the\nmountain to Zurich; but the holy man's ravens followed them with fierce\ncries, whirling about their heads and dashing at their faces, so that\nthe people in the valley wondered at the sight.  But one of the\ndalesmen who knew the ravens sent his son to the hermitage to see if\nall was well, and followed the fellows to the town.  There they took\nrefuge in a tavern, but the ravens flew round and round the house,\nscreaming and pecking at the window near which the robbers had seated\nthemselves.  Speedily the lad came down with the news of the cruel\nmurder; the robbers were seized, and, having confessed their crime,\nthey suffered the torture of death on the wheel.\n\nAnd lastly there was the legend of St. Servan, who had a robin which\nperched on his shoulder, and fed from his hand, and joined in with\njoyful twittering when the Saint sang his hymns and psalms.  Now the\nlads in the abbey-school were jealous of the Saint's favourite pupil,\nKentigern, and out of malice they killed the robin and threw the blame\non Kentigern.  Bitterly the innocent child wept and prayed over the\ndead bird; and behold! when the Saint came from singing nones in the\nminster, the robin fluttered up and flew away to meet him, chirruping\nmerrily.\n\n\"A thoughtless thing of little blame,\" said the Novice-master, \"was the\nwickedness of these boys compared with that of the monks of the Abbot\nEutychus.  The Abbot had a bear to tend his sheep while he was absent\nand to shut them in their fold at sunset, and when the monks saw that\nmarvel, instead of praising God they were burned up with envy and\nill-will, and they killed the bear.  Ah, children, it is still possible\nfor us, even in these days, to kill a Saint's robin and an abbot's\nbear.  Let us beware of envy and jealousy and uncharitableness.\"\n\n\nIn those years when Father Oswald was thus teaching his novices\ngentleness and compassion, he had but one trouble in his life, and that\nwas the remembrance of a companion of his youth, who had fled from the\nPriory and disappeared in the noise and tumult of the world's life.  As\nscholars they had been class-mates, and as novices they had been so\nclosely drawn together that each had pledged to the other that whoever\ndied first should, under God's permission, appear to the one still left\nalive, and reveal to his friend all that may be told of the state of\nthe departed.  Now hardly had they been professed monks more than a\nyear when this brother broke his vows and deserted his habit, and fled\naway under cloud of night.  Oswald had never forgotten his friend, and\nhad never ceased to grieve and pray for him.  It was the great hope and\ndesire of his heart that, having at last proved the vanity of all that\nthe world can give, this Lost Brother would one day return, like the\nProdigal Son, to the house of his boyhood.\n\n\nAs the years went by Prior Anselm grew old and sickened, and at length\nwhat was mortal of him fell as the leaf that falls and is trodden in\nthe clay; and the Novice-master was elected Prior in his stead.\n\nNow one of the first great works which the new Prior set his hand to\nwas the making of two large fish-ponds for the monastery.  \"And so,\"\nsaid he, \"not only shall we have other than sea-fish for our table, but\nin case of fire we shall have store of water at hand.  Then, too, it is\na pleasant thing to look on sweet water among trees, and to watch the\nmany sorts of silvery fish playing in their clear and silent world.\nAnd well it becomes our state of life that we should have this, for of\nour Lord's Disciples many were fishermen, and fish and bread were the\nlast earthly food our dear Master ate.  Now of these ponds let the\nlarger be our Lake of Gennesaret, and surely it shall some time happen\nto us that we shall see the Lord when the bright morning has come, and\nthat our hearts shall be as a fire of coals upon the shore.\"\n\nOf the earth dug out of the fish pools he piled up a high mound or\nbarrow, and stocked it well with saplings of oak and beech, ash and\npine, and flowering bushes; and about the mound a spiral way wound to\nthe top, and from the top one saw to the four winds over the high woods\nof Amounderness, and on the west, beyond the forest, the white sands of\nthe shore and the fresh sea.  When the saplings grew tall and stout,\nthe green leaves shut out all sight of the Priory; even the tower of\nthe church; and above the trees in the bright air it was as though one\nhad got half-way to heaven.\n\nNow after a little while the Prior reared on the high summit a vast\ncross of oak, rooted firmly amid huge boulders, and the face of our\nLord crucified was turned to the west, and His arms were opened wide to\nthe sea and to the passing ships.  And beneath the flying sails, far\naway, the mariners and fisher-folk could see the cross in the sky, and\nthey bared their heads to the calvary of Kilgrimol.  So the name of our\nhouse and our Christ was known in strange waters and in distant havens.\n\nAll that climbing greenwood of the mound was alive with wild creatures,\nwinged and four-footed, and no one was suffered to disquiet or annoy\nthem.  To us it seemed that the Prior was as well known to all the wild\nthings far and near as he was to us, for the little birds fluttered\nabout him, and the squirrels leaped from tree to tree along the way he\nwent, and the fawns ran from the covert to thrust their noses into his\nhand.  And in the winter time, if the snow lay deep and there was any\ndearth, food was made ready for them and they came in flocks and troops\nto the Priory, knowing well, one would think, that the Prior would be\ntheir loving almoner.\n\nBee-hives, too, he set up, and grew all manner of flowers, both for the\nuse of the little brown toilers and for the joyance of the brethren;\nand of the flowers he spoke deep and beautiful parables too many to be\ntold of in this book.\n\n\nNow in the third year of his rule the Prior heard tidings of the\ncompanion he had never forgotten, and he took into his confidence one\nof the religious named Bede, in whom he had great trust, and he told\nhim the story of their friendship.  \"And now, Bede,\" he said, \"I would\nhave thee go on a long journey, even to the golden city of London, and\nseek out my friend.  He will easily be found, for men know his name,\nand he hath grown to some repute, and the good things of this world\nhave not been denied him.  And in this I rejoice, for when he hath won\nall his heart may desire, he will the sooner discover how little is the\njoy and how fleeting the content.  And tell him that so long as I am\nPrior of this house, so long shall this house be a home waiting for his\nhome-coming.  Bid him come to me--if but for a little while, then for a\nlittle while be it; but if he longs for rest, this shall be the place\nof his rest until the end.  And if these things cannot be now, then let\nthem be when they may be.\"\n\nAnd Bede went on his long wayfaring and found the Lost Brother, a man\nhappy and of fair fame, and blessed with wife and child.  And the monk\nsat with the little maid on his knee, and even while he prayed for her\nand her father, he understood how it might be that the man was well\ncontent, and how that neither to-day nor to-morrow could he return to\nthat old life of the Priory in the forest.\n\n\"Yet,\" said he, \"tell the Prior that surely some day I shall see his\nface again, if it be but for mere love of him for well I know there be\namong the monks those who would more joyfully rend me or burn me at the\nstake than give the hand of fellowship to one who has cast aside the\ncowl.\"\n\nWhen he heard of these things the Prior only prayed the more earnestly\nfor the home-coming of his friend.\n\n\nNow it was in the autumn of that year, at the season when the days and\nnights are of one length, that the great inroad of the sea befell.  The\nday had been stormy, with a brackish wind clamouring out of the sea,\nand as the darkness closed in it was with us as it is with blind men\nwho hear and feel the more keenly because of their blindness and all\nthat we heard was the boom of billows breaking on the long shore and\nthe crying and groaning of the old oaks and high firs in the forest.\nThen in the midmost of the night we were aroused by so terrible a\nnoise, mingled with shrieking and wailing, that we crowded to the\nPrior's door.  Speedily he rose, and we followed him out of doors,\nwondering what disaster had happened.  The moon was shining brightly;\nshreds of cloud were flying across the cold sky; the air was full of\nthe taste of salt.\n\nAs we gazed about us we saw that the cloisters and the garth and all\nthe space within the walls were crowded with wild birds--sea-fowl and\ncrows, pheasant and blackcock, starlings and thrushes, stonechats and\nyellow-hammers, and hundreds of small winged creatures cowering for\nshelter.  And when the Prior bade us throw open the monastery gates,\nout of the sombre gloom of the forest the scared woodlanders came\ncrowding, tame and panting.  No one had ever realised that so many\nstrange creatures, in fur and pelt, housed in the green ways.  Even the\nnames of many of them we did not know, for we had never set eyes on\nthem before; but among those that were within our knowledge were coneys\nand hares, stoats and weasels, foxes and badgers, many deer with their\ndoes and fawns, and one huge grey creature of savage aspect which we\ntook to be an old wolf.\n\nThe Prior ordered that the gates should be left open for any fugitives\nthat might seek refuge, and he went among the wild beasts, calming them\nwith a touch of his hand and blessing them.  Then there came a woman,\nwith a child at her bosom and a little lad clinging to her dress, but\nshe was so distracted with fright that she was unable to say what had\nhappened.\n\nWhen he had given directions for the care of all these strange guests,\nthe Prior climbed up the mound through the tossing trees, and when he\nhad reached the summit he saw to his amazement that the sea had risen\nin a mighty flood and poured for miles into the forest.  The huge oaks\nand pines of centuries had gone down in thousands, and over their\nfallen trunks and broken branches the white billows were tumbling and\nleaping in clouds of spray in the moonlight.  Happily the land sloped\naway to the north, so that unless the wind changed and blew against us\nthe Priory seemed to be in no present danger.  Overhead the great cross\nvibrated in the storm, and the face of the Christ gazed seaward, and\nthe holy arms were opened wide.  The sight of that divine figure filled\nthe Prior's heart with peace and confidence.  \"Whether to live or to\ndie,\" he murmured, \"in Thee, O Lord, have we placed our trust.\"\n\nSuch was the terrible inroad of the sea which broke the western forest\nof Amounderness.  For many a day the land lay in salt swamp till the\nsands were blown over it and buried the fallen timber; and afterwards\nthe very name of Forest was forgotten, and the people called all that\npart the Field-lands.\n\n\nNow it was in this same year that the grievous pestilence named the\nBlack Death raged in England; but it was not till the winter had gone\nby that it reached Amounderness.  Then were seen those terrible days\nwhen ships sailed the seas with crews of dead men, and when on land\nthere was burying without sorrow and flight without safety, for though\nmany fled they could not escape the evil, and so many died that the\nwells of sorrow ran dry.  And because of the horror of so many deaths,\nit was forbidden to toll the bells any longer lest men should go mad.\nOften no hand could be got for love or for gold to touch the sick or to\ncarry the departed to their graves.  When the graveyards were filled,\nthousands were buried, without a prayer or a last look, in deep\ntrenches salted with quicklime, on the commons or in an open field.\nMany a street in many a town fell suddenly silent and deserted, and\ngrass grew between the stones of the causeway.  Here and there fires\nwere kept burning night and day to purify the air, but this availed\nlittle.  In many a thorpe and village all the inhabitants were swept\naway and even robbers and desperate vagrants were too greatly in fear\nof infection to enter the ownerless houses.  Sometimes in the fields\none saw little children, and perchance an aged woman, trying to manage\na plough or to lead a waggon.\n\nWhen this trouble fell upon the people the Prior sent out various of\nthe brethren to aid the suffering and to comfort the bereaved; but when\nmany of the monks themselves were stricken down and died within the\nhour, a great dread took hold of the others, so that they were\nunwilling to expose themselves to danger.\n\nThe Prior rebuked them for their lack of faith and the coldness of\ntheir charity.  \"When the beasts and wild creatures suffered we had\ncompassion on them,\" he said; \"what folly is this that we shall have\ncare for them and yet feel no pity for men and women in their misery!\nDo you fear that you too may be taken off by this pestilence?  Who,\nthen, has told you that you shall not die if only you can escape the\npestilence?  Daily you pray, 'Thy kingdom come,' and daily you seek\nthat it shall not come to-day.\"\n\nHe went abroad himself unweariedly with one or other of the brethren,\ndoing such good as he was able, and when he had returned home and taken\na little rest he set out once more.  Now one night as he and Brother\nBede returned belated through the forest, they were startled as they\napproached the gate to hear the weeping and moaning of one who lay\nforsaken on the cold earth; and when the Prior called out through the\ndarkness, \"Be of good cheer, Christian soul, we are coming to your\naid,\" the sufferer replied by rattling the lid of his clap-dish, and at\nonce they knew it was some poor leper who had fallen helpless by the\nway.\n\n\"Patience, brother,\" said the Prior; and bidding his companion open the\nwicket, he lifted the wretched outcast from the ground and carried him\nin his arms into the great hall.  \"Rest here a little,\" he said, \"till\nwe can bring you light and fire and food.\"\n\nThe Prior and Bede hastened to call the brethren who had charge of\nthese matters, but when they returned with the other monks they found\nthe great hall shining with a wonderful light and filled with a\nmarvellous fragrance of flowers, and on the seat where the leper had\nbeen placed there lay a golden rose, but the leper himself had vanished.\n\nThen a great joy cast fear out of the hearts of the brotherhood, and\nthey laboured without ceasing in the stricken villages.  Many of them\ndied, but it was without sorrow or repining, and the face of each was\ntouched with the golden rose ere he was laid to his rest.\n\n\nNow the pestilence of that year was stayed by a bitter winter, and snow\nlay deep even in the forest, and great blocks of ice littered the shore\nof the bleak sea.  And in the depth of the winter, when it drew near\nthe Nativity, there came riding to the monastery a stranger, who asked\nto see the Prior.  When the Prior looked into the man's face the tears\nstarted and ran down his own, and he opened his arms to him, and drew\nhim to his breast and kissed him.  For this was indeed the Lost\nBrother.  And when he had thus given him welcome, the Prior said: \"I\nask no questions; what you can tell me you shall tell when the fitting\ntime comes.  But this is your home to have or to leave, for you are as\nfree as the winds of heaven.\"\n\nAnd the Lost Brother replied: \"Wise are you no less than good.  The\nplague has bereft me of the child, and of the mother of the child.\nMore I cannot tell you now.\"\n\nThus to the Priori great happiness the companion of his youth returned\nfrom wandering the ways of the world.\n\nWhen the weeks passed, and still he remained a silent and solitary\nstranger, the religious spoke sharply among themselves of the presence\nof one who had broken vows and revelled in the joys of life, and had\nbeen received without censure or reproof.  Then the Prior, wrathful now\neven on account of his gentleness, rebuked them once again: \"O eyes of\nstone and hearts of water, are you so slow to learn?  Have you who\nsheltered the wild creatures no thought for this man of much sorrow?\nHave you who buried the dead no prayer and no tenderness for this soul\nof the living?\"\n\nMore than once the Lost Brother seemed to awake from a dream, and spoke\nof going forth again from this home or quiet, saying: \"Truly this is\ngreat peace and solace to me, but I am not of you; my thoughts are not\nyour thoughts, nor is yours my way of life.  Indeed, though I were to\nwill it never so, I could not repent of what I have done.  Let me go;\nwhy should I be an offence and a stone of stumbling to those who are\nrighteous among you?\"\n\nBut the Prior silenced him, asking gently: \"Do we distress you with any\nof these things?  God has His times and seasons, and will not be\nhastened.  At least so long as you find peace and rest here, remain\nwith us.\"\n\n\"You are strangely wise and gentle,\" the Lost Brother answered.  \"God,\nI doubt it not, has His times and seasons; but with me I know not at\nall what He will do.\"\n\nIt was no long while after this that the Prior fell into a grievous\nillness; and when he knew that his hour was drawing nigh, he besought\nthe monks to bear him up to the foot of the cross on the mound.  There,\nas he looked far abroad into the earth over the tree-tops, he smiled\nwith lightness of heart and said: \"If the earth be so beautiful and so\nsweet, what must the delight of Paradise be?\"\n\nAnd behold! a small brown squirrel came down a tree, and ran across and\nnestled in the holy man's bosom, and its eyes were full of tears.  The\nPrior stroked and caressed it, and said: \"God bless thee, little\nwoodlander, and may the nuts never fail thee!\"\n\nThen, gazing up into the blue sky and the deep spaces of air above, he\nmurmured in a low voice, \"It is a very awful and lonely way to go!\"\n\n\"Not so awful for you,\" replied the companion of his youth.  \"That blue\nway has been beaten plain by the Lord Christ, and the Apostles, and\nmany holy men from the beginning.\"\n\nA long while the Prior lay musing before he spoke again, and then he\nsaid: \"I remember me of an ancient saying which I had long forgotten.\nA year for the life of a--nay, I know not what any longer.  But after\nthat it runs, And three for the life of a field; and thrice the life of\na field for the life of a hound; and thrice the life of a hound for the\nlife of a horse; and thrice the life of a horse for the life of a man;\nand thrice the life of a man for the life of a stag; and thrice the\nlife of a stag for the life of an ouzel; and thrice the life of an\nouzel for the life of an eagle; and thrice the life of an eagle for the\nlife of a salmon; and thrice the life of a salmon for the life of a\nyew; but the Lord God liveth for ever--the Lord God liveth for ever!\"\n\nThat same night the alabaster box was broken and the precious ointment\npoured out.  And on the Prior's breast they placed the golden rose, and\nunder the great red hawthorn in the midst of the cloister-garth they\nlaid him, O Lord, beneath the earth which is Thy footstool.\n\nAt the same hour in which he was taken from us there was a great crying\nand lamentation of the wild creatures in the forest, and the tall stags\nbellowed and clashed their antlers against the gates of the monastery.\n\nIn the place of Prior Oswald, Father Bede was made Prior.\n\nWhether the spirit of Prior Oswald ever returned to earth the book does\nnot tell, but the Lost Brother, the companion of his youth, lived in\nthe house of Kilgrimol to old age, and in the days of Bede's rule he\nmade a good end.\n\n\n\n\nThe King Orgulous\n\nTo and fro in the open cloister of Essalona walked the monk Desiderius,\nmusing and musing.  Every now and again he stayed in his paces to feed\na tall white stork and two of her young, which stood on the parapet\nbetween the pillars of the cloister; and though for the most part his\ndole went to the storklings, the mother was well content with his\nstroking of her head and soft white backfeathers.\n\nThen he resumed his slow walk, turning over and over in his perplexed\nmind the questions of grace and nature, and praying for light in the\nobscure ways where reason groped darkling.  Meanwhile the storks stood\ngrave and patient, as if they too had matter for deep musing.\n\nAs in this day, so in the ancient time the convent of Essalona was\nperched on a beetling crag on the northern side of the Sarras\nmountains.  There the mighty ridge, with its belts of virgin pinewood\nand its stony knolls and pastoral glens, breaks off suddenly in a\nprecipitous escarpment; and, a thousand feet below, the land is an\nimmense green plain, sweeping away to the blue limits of the north.  It\nis as though the sea had once on a time run up to the mountain wall and\ntorn down the tawny rocks for sand and shingle, and had then drawn back\ninto the north, leaving the good acres to grow green in the sun.\nThrough the plain winds a river, bright and slow; in many places the\nfruitful level is ruffled with thicket and coppice; and among the far\nfields the white walls of farms and hamlets glitter amid their boskage.\nWhen the clear sunlight fell on that still expanse of quiet earth, one\nmight see, in those days, the stone towers and sparkling pinnacles of\nthe royal city of Sarras, with a soft blue feather of smoke floating\nover it.\n\nOften had Desiderius let his eyes rest on the smoulder and gleam of\nthat busy city, which was all so hushed and dreamlike in the distance,\nlittle thinking the while that one day he should dwell within its\nwalls, and play a strange part in the deeds that men remember.\n\nFrom the brink of the escarpment rises the rock of Essalona, and the\nconvent is built on the edge of the rock, in such sort that, leaning\nover the parapet of the open cloister, Desiderius might have dropped a\npebble sheer down to the plain below.  A single path wound up the rock\nto the gate, so narrow and steep that one sturdy lay-brother might have\nheld the way with a thresher's flail against a score of men-at-arms.\n\n[Illustration: _King Orgulous_]\n\nHere, then, in this solitary house, Desiderius dwelt with five other\nbrethren, all good and faithful men; but he, the youngest and yet the\nmost learned in philosophy and star-lore and the sacred Scriptures and\nthe books of the wise, was the most meek and lowly of heart.  No pains\ndid he spare his body or his spirit to master the deep knowledge of\ndivine things.  Diligent by day, he eked out the light of the stars\nwith the lamp of the firefly, or conned his page by the dim shining of\nthe glow-worm along the lines.\n\nNow as he mused in the cloister he stopped short with a deep sigh, and\nstood before the storks, and said: \"Away, happy birds; you have leave.\nDisport yourselves, soaring very high in the sunny heavens, or take\nyour rest on our roofs.  I have appeased you with food; but to the\nhunger of my soul who shall minister?\"\n\nAt his word the storks flapped their wings and rose from the parapet,\nand went sailing up into the sunshine; and Desiderius heard at his\nshoulder a most sweet and gracious voice saying: \"What is thy hunger,\nand wherein wouldst thou have me minister to thee?\"\n\nTurning about, Desiderius saw that it was an Angel which spoke, and he\nfell at the bright spirit's feet, abashed and in great dread.  But the\nAngel raised him up, and gave him courage, saying: \"O Desiderius, most\ndear to me (for I am thine Angel Guardian), do not tremble to tell me;\nbut speak to me even as thou wouldst speak to a man of thy brethren.\"\n\nThen said Desiderius: \"Show to me and make plain, I pray thee, the\nmystery of the grace of God in the heart of man.\"\n\n\"Many are the mysteries of God,\" said the Angel, \"whereof even the\nhighest of the Archangels may not sustain the splendour, and this is\none of them.  Howbeit, if thou wilt be patient and prayerful, and wilt\nrepose thy trust in the Lord Christ, I will strive to show thee two\npictures of thy very self--one, to wit, of the natural Adam in\nDesiderius, and one of the man redeemed by the blood shed for thee.  So\nin some wise shalt thou come to some dim light of this mystery of grace\ndivine.  Will that suffice thee?\"\n\n\"That, Lord Angel, will suffice,\" said the monk, bowing low before the\nAngel.\n\n\"Wait, then, and watch; and even in thy body and before thou diest thou\nshalt behold as I have said.\"\n\nTherewith the Angel left him, and Desiderius was aware of but the walls\nand pillars of the cloister, and the bright vast plain, and, far away,\nthe city of Sarras glittering, and the smoke sleeping like a small blue\ncloud above it.  And the coming and going of the Angel was after this\nmanner.  Desiderius perceived him, bright in the brightness of the\nsunshine, as one perceives a morsel of clear ice floating in clear\nwater; and when Desiderius saw him no more it was as though the clear\nice had melted into the clear water.\n\n\nNow after the lapse of three short years, and when he was but in his\nthirtieth summer, Desiderius was summoned from his cell on the lonely\nmountain, and, despite his tears and supplications and his\nprotestations of ignorance and inexperience and extreme youth, made\nArchbishop of Sarras.  Only one answer was vouchsafed to him.  \"One of\nthy vows was entire obedience, and the grace of God is sufficient for\nthee.\"\n\nIn that same year a horde of the fierce Avars poured out from the round\ngreen earth-walls of their mysterious stronghold, which lay beyond\nDanube, and, crossing the river, fell on Sarras; and clashing with that\nravening horde, Astulf the King of Sarras was slain.\n\nIll had it then fared with the folk of Sarras, city and plain alike,\nbut for a certain Talisso, a free-rider, who from a green knoll had\nwatched the onset.  When he saw the slaying of the King, he plunged\ninto the battle, cleaving his way through the ranks of squat and\nswarthy Avars; and heartening the men of Sarras with his ringing cheer\nand battle-laughter, shaped them into wedges of sharp iron and drove\nthem home through the knotted wood of their foemen, till the Avars fled\nhot-foot to Danube water, and through the water, and beyond, and so\nreached the strait doorways of their earth-bound stronghold, the Hring.\n\nNow, seeing that the King of Sarras had left neither child nor brother\nto heirship, and that their deliverer was a stalwart champion, young\nand nobly statured, and handsome and gracious as he was valiant, frank\ntoo and open-handed, and that moreover he seemed a man skilled in the\nmastery of men and in affairs of rule, the fighting men of Sarras\nthought that no better fortune could befall them than they should\nchoose this Talisso for their king.  To Sarras therefore they carried\nhim with them on their merry home-going, and having entered the free\ntown, called the Council of Elders to say yea or nay.  With few words\nthe Elders confirmed the choice, and the joy-bells were rung, and great\nwas the rejoicing of all men, gentle and simple, that God had sent them\nso goodly a man for their ruler and bulwark.\n\nIn a week from that the city was dight and decked for the crowning of\nTalisso.  Garlands were hung across the streets; windows and walls were\ngraced with green branches and wreaths of flowers; many-coloured\ndraperies, variegated carpets and webs of silk and velvet hung from\nparapet and balcony; once more the joy-bells were set aswing, and amid\na proud array of nobles and elders and gaily harnessed warriors the new\nKing walked under a canopy of cloth of gold to the High Church.\n\nThere in solemn splendour the new Archbishop administered to him the\nkingly oath, and anointed him with the chrism of consecration, and set\nthe gold of power on his head, and invested him with the mantle of St.\nVictor and girt about him the Saint's great iron sword set with many\njewels on the apple and the cross.  As the Archbishop was completing\nthese ordinances, he chanced to look full into the King's face for the\nfirst time, and as the King's eyes met his each stood still as stone\nregarding the other for such a space as it would take one to count\nfour, telling the numbers slowly.  Neither spoke, and when they who\nwere nearest looked to learn the cause of the stillness and the\nstoppage they saw with amazement that the new King and the new\nArchbishop were as like the one to the other as brothers who are twins.\nWith a slow and audible drawing of the breath the Archbishop took up\nagain the words of the ritual, and neither looked at the other any more\nat that time.\n\nNow, having been crowned and consecrated, Talisso ascended the steps in\nfront of the altar, and, drawing the huge blade from its sheath, lunged\nwith it four times into the air--once to the north, and once to the\nsouth, once to the east and once to the west.  Sheathing the sword, he\ndescended, and walking to the western portal mounted his war-horse, and\npaced slowly down the street, followed by a brilliant cavalcade, to the\nMound of Coronation.\n\nUrging his steed up the ascent, he drew rein on the summit, and once\nmore bared the holy brand, and, wheeling to the four quarters of\nheaven, thrust it into the air in token of lordship and power\ninalienable; and when he rode down the Mound to his people a great cry\nwas raised in greeting, and four pigeons were loosed.  High they flew\nin circles overhead, and, each choosing his own airt, darted out to the\nfour regions of the world to bear the news of that crowning.\n\n\nThe first years of the new reign seemed to be the dawn of a Golden Age\nin the land of Sarras, and in those years no man was more beloved and\nhonoured by the King than was Archbishop Desiderius.  As time passed\nby, however, and the evil leaven of unrestrained power began to ferment\nin the King's heart, and the Archbishop opposed and reproved him,\ngently and tenderly at first, but ever more gravely and steadfastly,\ncoldness and estrangement divided them; and soon that strange\nresemblance which gave them the aspect of twin brothers, became a root\nof suspicion and dread in the King's mind, for he reasoned with\nhimself, \"What more likely than that this masterful prelate should\ndream of wearing the crown, he who so nearly resembles the King that\nthe mother of either might well pause ere she should say which was her\nson?  A foot of iron, and a sprinkling of earth, and farewell Talisso!\nNone would guess it was Desiderius who took his ease in thy chair.\"\n\nThus by degrees limitless power waxed into lawlessness, and suspicion\nand dread into moroseness and cruelty, and on this rank soil the red\nweeds of lust and hate and bitter pride sprang up and choked all that\nwas sweet and gracious and lovable in the nature of the man.\n\nThen did the wise and gentle folk of Sarras come to perceive how\nwoefully they had been deceived in the tyrant they had crowned, and\nspeedily it came to pass that when they spoke of King Talisso they\nbreathed not his name, but using an ancient word to signify such insane\nand evil pride as that of Lucifer and the Fallen Angels, they called\nhim the King Orgulous.  Yet if this was the mind of the better folk,\nthere was no lack of base and venomous creatures--flatterers,\ntime-servers, and sycophants--to minister to his wickedness and\nmalignity.\n\nDark were the days which now fell on Sarras, and few were those on\nwhich some violence or injustice, some deed of lust or rapacity was not\nflaunted in the face of heaven.  The most noble and best men of the\ncity were attainted and plundered and driven into exile.  Of the meaner\nsort of folk many a poor citizen or rustic toiler went shaven and\nbranded, or maimed of nose and eyelids, or with black stumps seared\nwith pitch and an iron hook for hand.  Once more the torture-chamber of\nthe castle rang with the screams of poor wretches stretched on the\nrack; and the ancient instruments of pain, which had rusted through\nmany a long year of clemency, were once more reddened with the sweat of\nhuman agony.\n\nAn insatiable lust of cruelty drove the King to a sort of madness.\nWith a fiendish malice he fashioned of wood and iron an engine of\ntorment which bore the likeness of a beautiful woman, but which opened\nwhen a spring was pressed, and showed within a hideous array of knives;\nand these pierced the miserable wight about whom the Image closed her\narms.  In blasphemous merriment the King called this woman of his\nmaking Our Lady of Sorrow, and in mockery of holy things he kept a\nsilver lamp burning constantly before her, and crowned her with flowers.\n\nNow in the hour in which the King was left wholly to his wickedness, he\ndoomed to the Image the young wife of one of the chief men of Sarras.\nLittle more than a girl was she in years; sweet and exceeding lovely;\nand she still suckled her first babe.\n\nWhen the tormentors would have haled her to the Image, \"Forbear,\" she\nsaid, \"there is no need; willingly I go and cheerfully.\"  And with a\nfearless meekness she walked before them with her little babe in her\narms into the chamber of agony.\n\nComing before the Image with its garland of flowers she knelt down, and\nprayed to the Virgin Mother of our Lord, and commended her soul and the\nsoul of her dear babe to our Lady and her divine Son; and the babe\nstretched out its little hands to the Image, cooing and babbling in its\ninnocence.\n\nThen, as though this were a spectacle to make the very stones shriek\nand to move the timber of the rack and the iron of the axe to human\ntenderness, the Image stepped down from its pedestal, and lifted up\nmother and child, and a wondrous light and fragrance filled the stone\nvault, and the tormentors fled, stricken with a mad terror.\n\nDown from the castle and through the streets of the hushed and weeping\ncity the Image led the mother and her babe to their own door, and when\nthey had entered the house, and the people stood by sobbing and\npraying, the Image burst into flames, and on the spot where it stood\nthere remained a little heap of ashes when that burning was done.\n\nJudge if the land of Sarras was silent after this day of divine\ninterposition.  Hastily summoning the Bishops of the realm, and\ngathering a body of men-at-arms, the Archbishop Desiderius proclaimed\nfrom the Jesus altar of the High Church the deposition of the King\nOrgulous.  Talisso was seized and stripped of his royal robes; a width\nof sackcloth was wrapped about his body, and with a rope round his neck\nhe was led to the Mound of Coronation.  There, on the height whereon he\nhad thrust his sword into the four regions of heaven, he received his\nsentence.\n\nStanding erect in a circle on the top of the Mound the nine Bishops of\nthe realm held each a lighted torch in his hand.  In the centre stood\nDesiderius beside the King deposed, and holding high his torch uttered\nthe anathema which was to sever all bonds of plighted troth and loyalty\nand service, and to cast him forth from the pale of Holy Church, and to\ndebar him from the common charity of all Christian people.  At that\nmoment the Bishops marked with awe the strange resemblance between\nDesiderius and the King, and the eyes of these two met, and each was\naware how marvellously like to himself was the other.  But with a clear\nunfaltering voice the Archbishop cried aloud the doom:\n\n\"May he be outcast from the grace of heaven and the gladness of earth.\nMay the stones betray him, and the trees of the forest be leagued\nagainst him.  In want or in sickness may no hand help him.  Accursed\nmay he be in his house and in his fields, in the water of the streams\nand in the fruits of the earth.  Accursed be all things that are his,\nfrom the cock that crows to awaken him to the dog that barks to welcome\nhim.  May his death be the death of Pilate and of Judas the betrayer.\nMay no earth be laid on the earth that was he.  May the light of his\nlife be extinguished thus!\"\n\nAnd the Archbishop cast down his torch and trampled it into blackness;\nand crying \"Amen, amen, amen!\" the Bishops threw down their torches and\ntrod them under foot and crushed out every spark of fire.\n\n\"Begone,\" said the Archbishop, \"thou art banned and banished.  If\nwithin three days thy feet be found on the earth of Sarras, thou shalt\nhang from the nearest tree.\"\n\nAs he spoke the great bell of the High Church began to toll as for one\nwhose spirit has passed away.  At the sound Talisso started; then\ntaking the rope from his neck and flinging it on the ground with a\nmocking laugh, he turned and fled down the Mound and into the green\nfields that lie to the north.\n\n\nNot far had he fled into the open country before the recklessness of\nthe reiver and strong-thief fell on Talisso.  Entering a homestead he\nsmote down the master, and got himself clothing and food and weapons,\nand seizing a horse, pushed on apace till he came to the red field\nwhere he had routed the Avars, and thence onward to Danube water.\n\nBeyond Danube, some days' riding into the north, lay that mysterious\nstronghold, the Hring, the camp-city of the Avar robber-horde.  And\nthither Talisso was now speeding, for he said to himself: \"They are\nraiders and slayers, and this kind is quick to know a _man_.  They will\nlove me none the less that I have stricken and chased them.  Rather\nwill they follow me and avenge me, if not for my sake for the sake of\nthe fat fields and rich towns of Sarras.\"\n\nNow the stronghold was a marvel in the manner of its contrivance, and\nin its size and strength; for it was bulwarked with seven rings, each\ntwenty feet high and twenty feet wide, and the rings were made of\nstockades of oak and beech and pine trunks, filled in with stones and\nearth, and covered atop with turf and thick bushes.  The distance\nacross the outer ring was thirty miles, and between each ring and the\none within it there were villages and farms in cry of each other, and\neach ring was pierced by narrow gateways well guarded.  In the midst of\nthe innermost ring were the tent of the Chagan or Great Chief, and the\nHouse of the Golden Hoard.  Piled high were the chambers of that house\nwith the enormous treasure of a century of raiding--silken tissues and\nroyal apparel and gorgeous arms, great vases and heavy plate of gold\nand silver, spoil of jewels and precious stones, leather sacks of\ncoined money, the bribes and tribute of Greece and Rome, and I know not\nwhat else of rare and costly.  Long afterwards, when the Avars were\nbroken and the Hring thrown down, that hoard filled fifteen great\nwaggons drawn each by four oxen.\n\nIn the very manner in which Talisso had forecast it, so it fell out\nwith him at the Hring.  The fierce, swart, broad-shouldered dwarfs with\nthe almond eyes and woven pigtails gazed with glee and admiration on\nthe tall and comely warrior who had swept them before his sword-edge;\nand when he spoke of the rich markets and goodly houses and fruitful\nland of Sarras their eyes glistened, and they swore by fire and water\nand the four winds to avenge his wrongs.\n\n\nLittle need is there to linger in telling of a swift matter.  Mounted\non their nimble and hardy ponies, the Avars dashed into Sarras land two\nhundred strong, and tarried neither to slay nor spoil, but outsped the\nfleet feet or rumour, till in the grey glimmer of cock-crow they\nsighted the towers of Sarras city.  Under cover of a wood they rested\ntill the gates were flung wide for the early market folk.  Who then but\nTalisso laughed his fierce and orgulous laugh as he rode at their head\nand they all hurled through the gates, and, clattering up the empty\nstreet, carried the castle out of hand?\n\nNot a blow was struck, no drop of blood reddened iron or stone; and\nsuch divinity doth hedge even a wicked king dethroned that when the\nguards saw the tyrant once more ascending the steps of power they\nlowered their points and stood at a loss how to act.  But Talisso, with\nsome touch of his pristine graciousness, bade no man flee or fear who\nwas willing to return to his allegiance.  \"First, however, of all\nthings, bring me hither the Archbishop; bring with ropes and horses if\nneed be; but see that not a hair of his head be injured.\"\n\n\nNow on this same night that these Hunnish folk were pressing forward to\nSarras city Desiderius saw in a dream Talisso standing before the\nthrone of God.  On his head he wore his crown, but otherwise he was but\nsuch as he stood for sentence on the Mound of Coronation, to wit, with\na rope around his neck, and naked save for the fold of sackcloth about\nhis loins.\n\nBeside him stood an Angel, and the Angel was speaking: \"All the lusts\nof the flesh, and all the lusts of the eyes, and all the lusts of the\nwill, and the pride of life this man hath gratified and glutted to\nsurfeiting, yet is he as restless as the sea and as insatiable as the\ngrave.  Speak, man, is it not so?\"\n\nAnd Talisso answered, with a peal of orgulous laughter: \"Restless as\nthe sea; insatiable as the grave.\"\n\n\"How then, Lord,\" said the Angel, \"shall this man's unrest and hunger\nbe stayed?\"\n\nGod spoke and said: \"Fill his mouth with dust.\"\n\nThen the Angel took a handful of dust and said to Talisso: \"Open thy\nmouth and eat.\"\n\nTalisso cried aloud, \"I will not eat.\"\n\n\"Open thy mouth,\" said the Angel sternly.\n\n\"My mouth I will not open,\" replied Talisso.\n\nThereupon the Angel caught him by the hair, and plucked his head\nbackward till his throat made a knotted white ridge above the neck, and\nas Talisso opened his mouth, shrieking blasphemies and laughing with\nfrantic rage, the Angel filled it with dust.\n\nTalisso fell backwards, thrusting with his feet and thrashing the\nground with his hands; his crown fell from his head and rolled away;\nhis face grew set and white; and then he lay straight and rigid.\n\n\"Hast thou filled his mouth?\"\n\n\"His mouth, Lord, is filled,\" the Angel answered.\n\nThis was the dream of Desiderius.\n\n\nWhen citizens came running to the palace, and the Archbishop learned\nhow the gates had been surprised and the castle taken, he lost no time\nin casting about what he should do.  He sent messengers to summon the\nCouncil of the Elders, and bade his men-at-arms fall into array.  Then\nhe hastened to the High Church, and, after a brief prayer before the\naltar, girt on the great sword of St. Victor, threw over his purple\ncassock the white mantle of the Saint, and putting on his head a winged\nhelm of iron, made his way to the castle where Talisso awaited his\ncapture.\n\n\"Stay you here,\" he said to his men-at-arms when they reached the\nportals, \"and if by God's blessing work fall to your hands to do, do it\ndoughtily and with right good will.\"\n\nUp the high hall of the castle, through the groups of lounging Avars he\nwent, with great strides and eyes burning, to the dais where Talisso\nsat apart in the royal chair.\n\n\"Ha! well met, Lord Archbishop,\" cried the dethroned King, springing to\nhis feet at the sight of him.\n\n\"Well met, Talisso,\" replied Desiderius in a loud voice.  \"With no more\nado I now tell thee that for thee there is but one end.  Thy mouth must\nbe filled with dust.\"\n\nAs he spoke, Desiderius flung back his mantle and drew the holy sword.\nHeaving it aloft he struck mightily at Talisso.  From the King's helmet\nglanced the keen brand, and descending to the shoulder shore away the\nplates of iron, and bit the flesh.\n\nOnce more the great sword was swung up, for Desiderius neither heard\nnor heeded the cry and rush of the Avars; but or ever the stroke could\nfall Desiderius saw the Angel of Essalona by his side and felt his hand\nrestraining the blade; and at the same instant the figure before him,\nthe figure of the King Orgulous, grew dim and hazy, and wavered, and\nbroke like smur blown along a wooded hillside, and vanished from his\ngaze.\n\n\"A little truer stroke,\" said the Angel, \"and thou hadst slain thyself,\nfor of a truth the man thou wast slaying was none other than thyself;\nas it is, thou art hurt more than need was\"--for the shoulder of the\nArchbishop was bare, and the blood streamed from it.\n\nBewildered at these words, Desiderius gazed about to see if the high\nhall and the Avars were but the imagery of a dream.  But there in front\nof him stood the dwarfish tribe, with naked brands and battle-axes.\nThese, when they looked on his face, raised a hoarse cry of terror, for\nthey too had beheld Talisso, how at a blow of the magic sword he had\nfallen and perished even from the vision of men, and now they saw that\nhe who had slain the King was himself the King.  Howling and\nclamouring, they broke from the hall and fled into the street; and\nthere the men-at-arms did right willingly and doughtily the work which\nthus came to their hands.  Of that fierce and uncouth robber horde,\nwhich rode to Sarras two hundred strong, scarce two score saw Danube\nwater again.\n\n\nWhen Desiderius knew for a surety that the natural man within him was\nverily that King wicked and orgulous, and understood that the sins of\nthat evil King were the sins he himself would have committed but for\nthe saving grace of God, a great awe fell upon him, and he was abashed\nwith a grievous dread lest the King Orgulous were not really dead and\ndone with, but were sleeping still, like the Kings of old legend, in\nsome dusky cavern of his nature, ready to awake and break forth with\nsword and fire.  Gladly would he have withdrawn to the solitude of the\nlittle convent on the beetling crag, far from the temptations of power\nand the splendour and tumult of life; but the same answer was given to\nhim now as had been given to him of old: \"One of thy vows was entire\nobedience, and the grace of God is sufficient for thee.\"\n\n\n\n\nThe Journey of Rheinfrid\n\nOn the green skirts of the Forest of Arden there was a spot which the\nwindings of the Avon stream had almost made into an island, and here in\nthe olden time the half-savage herdsmen of King Ethelred kept vast\ndroves of the royal swine.  The sunny loops of the river cut clearings\non the east and south and west, but on the north the Forest lay dense\nand dark and perilous.  For in those ancient days wolves still prowled\nabout the wattled folds of the little settlement of Wolverhampton, and\nBirmingham was only the rude homestead of the Beormingas, a cluster of\nbeehive huts fenced round with a stockade in the depths of the woods.\n\nAmong the swineherds of the King there was one named Eoves, and one\nday, while wandering through the glades of great oaks on this edge of\nthe Forest, he saw three beautiful women who came towards him singing a\nsong more strange and sweet than he had ever heard.  He told his\nfellows, and the story spread far and wide.  Some said that the three\nbeautiful women were three goddesses of the old pagan world, and\nthought Eoves had acted very foolishly in not speaking to them.  Others\nsaid they might have been the Three Fates, in whose hands are the lives\nof men, and the joy of their lives, and the sorrow they must endure,\nand the death which is the end of their days; and they thought that\nperhaps Eoves had been wise to keep silence.\n\nBut when the holy Bishop Egwin heard the tale, he visited the place\nalone, and in the first glimmer of the sunrise, when all wild creatures\nare tame and the earth is most lovely to look upon, he beheld the three\nbeautiful women, and he saw in a moment that they were the Virgin\nMother Mary and two heavenly handmaidens.  \"And our Lady,\" he used\nafterwards to say, \"was more white-shining than lilies and more freshly\nsprung than roses, and the savage forest was filled with the fragrance\nof Paradise.\"\n\nStraightway the Bishop sent his woodmen and had the aged oaks felled\nand the underwood cleared away; and on the spot where the beautiful\nwomen had stood a fair church was built for the worship of the true\nGod, and around it clustered the cells of an abbey of Black Monks.  In\na little while people no longer spoke of the place by its old name, but\ncalled it Eovesholme, because of the vision of Eoves.\n\nNow when more than three and a half centuries had gone by, and Agelwyn\nthe Great-hearted was Abbot, there was a Saxon noble, young and\ndissolute, who had been stricken by the Yellow Plague, and, after three\ndays' sickness, had been abandoned by his friends and followers in what\nseemed to be his last agony.  For the Yellow Plague was a sickness so\nghastly and dreadful that men called it the Yellow Death, and fled from\nit as swiftly as they might.  But in the dead and dark of the third\nnight a beautiful Child, crowned with roses and bearing in his hand a\nrose, had come to the dying thane and said: \"Now mayest thou see that\nthe best the world can give--call it by what name thou wilt and prize\nit at its utmost worth--is nothing more than these: wind and smoke and\na dream and a flower.  But though all have fled from thee and left thee\nto die alone in grievous plight, this night thou shalt not die.\"\n\nThen he was bidden to rise on the morrow--\"for strength shall be given\nthee,\" said the Child--and travel with the sun westward till he came to\nthe Abbey of Egwin, and there he must tell the Abbot all that had\nbefallen him.\n\n\"And the good Abbot will receive thee among his sons,\" said the Child;\n\"and after that, in a little while, thou shalt go on a journey, and\nthen again in a little while shalt come to me.\"\n\nOn the morrow Rheinfrid the thane rose from his bed hale and strong,\nbut his whole nature was changed; and he made no more account of life\nand of all that makes life sweet--as honour and wealth and joy and use\nand the love of man and woman--than one makes of wind and smoke and a\ndream and a flower; and all that he greatly desired was to undertake\nthe journey which had been foretold, and to see once more the Child of\nthe Roses.\n\nWestward he rode with the sun and came at nightfall to the Abbey of\nEovesholme; and there he told Agelwyn the Abbot the story of his wild\nlife and his sickness and the service that had been laid upon him.\n\nThe Abbot embraced him, saying, \"Son, welcome art thou to our house,\nand thy home shall it be till the time comes for thy journey.\"\n\nFor a whole year Rheinfrid was a novice in the house, and when the year\nhad gone by he took the vows.  In the presence of the brotherhood he\ncast himself on the pavement before the high altar, and the pall of the\ndead was laid over him, and the monks sang the dirge of the dead, for\nnow he was indeed dying to this world.  And from his head they cut the\nlong hair, and clothed him in the habit of a monk, and henceforth he\nwas done with all earthly things and was one of themselves.\n\n\"Surely, now,\" he thought, \"the time of my journey draws near.\"  But\none year and a second and yet a third passed away, and there came to\nhim no call, and he grew wearied with waiting, and weariness begot\nsullenness and discontent, and he questioned himself: \"Was it not a\ndream of sickness which deceived me?  An illusion of pain and darkness?\nWhy should I waste my life within these walls?\"  But immediately\nafterwards he was filled with remorse, and confessed his thoughts to\nthe Abbot.\n\n\"Have faith and patience, my son,\" said Agelwyn.  \"Consider the many\nyears God waited for thee, and grew not impatient with thy delay.  When\nHis good time comes thou shalt of a certainty set out on thy journey.\"\n\nSo for a while Rheinfrid ceased to repine, and served faithfully in the\nAbbey.\n\n\nIn the years which followed, William the Norman came into these parts\nand harried whole shires on account of the rebels and broken men who\nhaunted the great roads which ran through the Forest.  Cheshire and\nShropshire, Stafford and Warwick were wasted with fire and sword.  And\ncrowds naked and starving--townsmen and churls, men young and old,\nmaidens and aged crones, women with babes in their arms and little ones\nat their knees--came straggling into Eovesholme, fleeing most\nsorrowfully from the misery of want.\n\nIn the little town they lay, indoors and out, and it was now that the\nAbbot got himself the name of the Great-hearted.  For he gave his monks\norders that all should be fed and cared for; and daily from his own\ntable he sent food for thirty wanderers whom he named his guests, and\ndaily in memory of the love of Christ he washed the feet of twelve\nothers, and never shrank from the unhappy lepers among them.  But for\nall his care the people died lamentably from grief and sickness--on no\nday fewer than five or six between prime and compline; and these poor\nsouls were buried by the brethren.  Of the little children that were\nleft to the mothering of the east wind, some were adopted by the canons\nand priests of the Abbey church, and others by the monks.\n\nIn his eagerness to help and solace, the Abbot even sent forth\nmessengers to bring in the fugitives to refuge.  Now on a day that\nRheinfrid went out on this work of mercy, he met at a crossway a number\nof peasants fleeing before a dozen Norman men-at-arms.  He raised his\narm and called to them to make a stand, but they were too much\nterrified to heed him.  Then he saw that one of the soldiers had seized\nby the hair a fair Saxon woman with a babe at her bosom, and with a\ngreat cry he bade him let her go, for his blood was hot within him as\nhe thought of the Saxon woman who had carried him in her arms and\nsuckled him when he was but such a little child.  But the Norman only\nlaughed and turned the point of his sword against the monk.\n\nThen awoke the long line of thanes slumbering in wild caves and dark\nways of his soul, and with a mighty drive of his fist he struck the\nman-at-arms between the eyes, so that he fell like a stone.  With\nsavage curses the knave's comrades rushed in against the monk, but\nRheinfrid caught up the Norman's sword, and with his grip on the hilt\nof it his old skill in war-craft came back to him, and he carried\nhimself like a thane of the old Sea-wolves, and the joy of battle\ndanced in his eyes.\n\nIll was it then for those marauders.  One of them he clove through the\niron cap; the neck of another he severed with a sweep of the bitter\nblade.\n\nAnd now that he was fighting he remembered his calling, and with a\nclear voice he chanted the great psalm of the man who has sinned:\n\"Miserere mei Deus--Have mercy on me, O God, according to Thy\nloving-kindness; according unto the multitude of Thy tender mercies\nblot out my transgressions.\"\n\nThe strength of ten was in his body, and verse by verse he laid the\nNormans low, till of the troop no more than two were left.  These were\nfalling back before him as he pressed onward chanting his Miserere,\nwhen a body of horsemen rode up and drew rein to watch the issue.\n\n\"By the Splendour of God!\" cried the leader, as he glanced at the woman\nand scanned the number of the dead tumbled across the road, \"it is a\n_Man_!\"\n\nRheinfrid looked up at the new comer, and saw a gigantic, ruddy-faced\nman of forty, clad in chain mail and wearing a circlet of gold about\nhis massive head.  At once he felt sure that he was face to face with\nthe Master of England.  Still he kept his sword's point raised for\nanother attack, and with a quiet frankness met the Conqueror's\nimperious gaze.\n\n\"Ha, monk! hast thou no fear of me?\" cried William, frowning.\n\n\"Lord King, hast thou no fear of God?\" Rheinfrid retorted.\n\nFor a moment the King's haughty eyes blazed with wrath, but William\never loved a strong man and dauntless, and he laughed gaily: \"Nay, thou\nhast slain enough for one day; let us cry truce, and tell me of what\nhouse thou comest.\"\n\nSo Rheinfrid spoke to the King about Eovesholme, and the Abbot, and the\nharbouring of the miserable fugitives, and told the tale of his own\nfighting that day.  And the great Norman was well pleased, and\nafterwards he gave Agelwyn the custody of Winchcombe Abbey when the\nabbot of that house fell under his displeasure.  As for Rheinfrid he\ntook the woman and her babe into the town; and many others he rescued\nand succoured, but he neither slew nor smote any man thereafter.\n\nNow for eight long years Rheinfrid lived in the quiet of the cloister,\nstriving to be patient and to await God's own time; and his daily\nprayer was that of the Psalmist: \"How long wilt Thou forget me, O Lord?\nFor ever?  How long wilt Thou hide Thy face from me?\"\n\nIn the ninth year, after long sickness, the soul of Agelwyn passed out\nof the shadow of this flesh unto the clemency of God, and shortly after\nhis death a weariness of well-doing and a loathing of the dull days of\nprayer beset Rheinfrid; and voices of the joy of life called to him to\nstrip off his cowl and flee from his living tomb.\n\nAs he knelt struggling with the temptation the little Child crowned\nwith roses stood beside him, looking at him with sad reproachful eyes.\n\"Couldst thou not be patient a little while?\" he asked.\n\n\"A little while!\" exclaimed Rheinfrid; \"see! twelve, thirteen, long\nyears have gone by, and is that a little while?\"\n\nBut the Child answered gravely: \"An evil thing is impatience with the\ndelays of God, to whom one day is as a thousand years, and a thousand\nyears as one day.\"\n\nAnd Rheinfrid knew not what reply to make, and as he hesitated the\nChild began to fade away.  \"Do not go, do not go yet,\" he cried; \"grant\nme at least one prayer--that I shall see thee again at the time I shall\nhave most need of thee.\"\n\nAnd the Child smiled and answered: \"Thou shalt see me.\"\n\nAnd the vision disappeared, but the fragrance of the roses lingered\nlong in the little cell.\n\n\nThen was Walter the Norman made Abbot, and forthwith he began to build\na vast and beautiful minster, the fame of which should be rumoured\nthrough all the land.  Speedily he emptied the five great chests filled\nwith silver which Agelwyn had left, and then there set in a dearth of\ntimber and stone and money, but the Abbot bethought him of a device for\nescaping from his difficulties.  He took into his counsel the wise\nmonks Hereman and Rheinfrid, because they had both travelled through\nmany shires, and he entrusted to them the shrine containing the relics\nof St. Egwin, and bade them go on a pilgrimage from one rich city to\nanother, making known their need, exhorting the people to charity, and\ngathering gifts of all kinds for the building of the minster.  So with\nlay-brothers to serve them and a horse to carry the holy shrine, the\nmonks began their journey, and, singing joyful canticles, the\nbrotherhood accompanied them with cross and banners and burning tapers,\nand set them well on their way beyond the river.\n\nNow think of Rheinfrid and Hereman traversing the wild England of those\nolden times.  One day they were wandering in the depths of the woods;\non another they were moving along some neglected Roman road, through\nswamps and quagmires.  Now they were passing hastily through the ruins\nof some Saxon thorpe which had been burned by the Normans, or lodging\nfor the night as guests at some convent or priory, or crossing a\ndangerous river-ford, or making a brief stay in a busy town to preach\nand exhibit the shrine of the saint, so that the diseased and suffering\nmight be touched by the miraculous relics.  And all along their journey\nthey gathered the offerings which the people brought them.\n\n\"This, surely,\" thought Rheinfrid, \"is the journey appointed me,\" and\nhis spirit was at last peaceful and contented.\n\nNow in the third week of their pilgrimage they came to a wide moor\nwhich they had to cross.  A heavy white mist lay on the lonely waste,\nand they had not gone far among the heath and grey boulders before\nRheinfrid, absorbed in prayer, found himself separated from his\ncompanions.  He called aloud to them by their names, but no one\nanswered him.  This way and that he wandered, still crying aloud, and\nhoping to discover some trace of the faint path which led over the\nmoor.  Suddenly he came to the brink of a vast chasm, the depth of\nwhich was hidden by the mist.  It was a terrible place and he thanked\nGod that he had not come thither in the darkness of the night.  As he\ngazed anxiously on all sides, wondering what he should do next, he\nperceived through the vapour a tall dark figure.  Approaching it, he\nsaw that it was a high stone cross, and he murmured gratefully, \"Here I\nam safe.  The foot of Thy cross is an ever-lasting refuge.\"  As he\nascended the rough granite steps, he noticed how wonderfully the cross\nwas sculptured, with a vine running up the shaft, and birds and small\nwild creatures among the vine-leaves, and he was able to read, in the\ncentre, words from a famous old poem which he knew:\n\n  _Rood is my name; long ago I bore a goodly King; trembling,_\n      _dripping with blood._\n\n\nAs he read them he became aware that some one had come out of the mist\nand was standing near him.  \"In the darkness the danger is great,\" said\nthe stranger; \"another step would have carried thee over the brink; and\nnone who have fallen therein have ever returned.  But the wind is\nrising, and this mist will speedily be lifted.\"\n\nWhile he was yet speaking a great draught of air drove the mist before\nit, and shifted and lifted it, and rolled it like carded wool, and in\nfront all was clear, but the light was of an iron-grey transparency,\nand Rheinfrid saw into the depths of the chasm into which he had\nwell-nigh fallen.\n\nFar down below lay the jagged ridges and ghastly abysses of a gigantic\ncrater, the black walls of which were so steep that it was impossible\nto climb them.  Smoke and steam rose in incessant puffs from the\ninnermost pit of the crater and trailed along the floor and about the\nrocky spikes and jagged ridges.\n\nThen, as Rheinfrid gazed, his face grew pale, and he turned to the\nstranger.\n\n\"What are these,\" he asked, \"men, or little statues of men, or\nstrangely shaped rocks?\"\n\n\"They are living men and women,\" said the stranger.\n\n\"They seem as small as images,\" said Rheinfrid.\n\n\"They are very far distant from us,\" replied the stranger, \"although we\nsee them so clearly.\"\n\n\"There seem to be hundreds of them standing in crowds,\" said Rheinfrid.\n\n\"There are thousands and hundreds of thousands,\" said the stranger.\n\n\"And they do not move; they are motionless as stone; they do not even\nseem to breathe.\"\n\n\"They are waiting,\" said the stranger.\n\n\"Their faces are all turned upward; they are all staring in one way.\"\n\n\"They are watching,\" said the stranger.\n\n\"Why are they watching?\" asked Rheinfrid; then looking up into the\niron-grey air in the same direction as the faces of the people in the\ncrater; \"What huge ball is that hanging in the sky above them?\"\n\n\"It is a globe of polished stone--the stone adamant, which of all\nstones is the hardest.\"\n\n\"Why do they gaze at it so steadfastly?\"\n\n\"Not hard to say,\" replied the stranger.  \"Every hundred years a little\nblue bird passes by, flying between them and the globe, and as it\npasses it touches the stone with the tip of its wing.  On the last day\nof the hundredth year the people gather and watch with eager eyes all\nday for the passing of the bird, and while they watch they do not\nsuffer.  Now this is the last hour of the last day of the hundredth\nyear, and you see how they gaze.\"\n\n\"But why do they watch to see the bird?\"\n\n\"Each time the bird passes it touches the stone, and every hundred\nyears it will thus touch it, till the stone be utterly worn away.\"\n\n\"Ten thousand ages, and yet again ten thousand, and it will not have\nbeen worn away,\" said Rheinfrid.  \"But when it has been worn away, what\nthen?\"\n\n\"Why, then,\" said the stranger, \"Eternity will be no nearer to its end\nthan it is now.  But see! see!\"\n\nRheinfrid looked, and beheld a little blue bird flash across the huge\nball of glimmering adamant, brush it with the tip of a single feather,\nand dart onward.\n\nAnd down in the crater all the faces were turned away again, and the\ncrowd fell into such confusion as an autumn gale makes among the fallen\nleaves in a spinney; and out of the innermost pit the smoke and steam\nrose in clouds, till only the jagged ridges were visible; and a long\ncry of a myriad voices deadened by the deep distance rose like the\nterrible ghost of a cry from the abyss.\n\nAnd this was one of the Seven Cries of the World.\n\nFor the Seven Cries of the World are these: the Cry of the Blood of\nAbel, and the Cry of the Deluge of Waters, and the Cry for the\nFirst-born of Egypt, and the Cry of the Cities of the Plain, and the\nCry of Rachel in Ramah, and the Cry in the darkness of the ninth hour,\nand, more grievous than any of these, the Cry of the Doom of the Pit.\n\n\"Truly,\" said Rheinfrid, shivering, \"one day is as a thousand years in\nthe sight of the Lord.\"\n\n\n\"Come with me, and I will guide thee from this place,\" said the\nstranger.  And he led the way along the brink of the gulf till they\ncame to a bridge, high and narrow and fragile, glittering like glass;\nbut when Rheinfrid touched it he perceived it was built of ice, and\nbeneath it ran a fierce river of fire, and they felt the heat of the\nriver on their faces, and the ice of the bridge was dissolving away.\n\n\"How shall I pass this without falling?\" asked Rheinfrid.\n\n\"Follow in my steps,\" said the stranger, \"and all will be well.\"\n\nHe led the way on the slippery ice-work of the bridge, and in great\nfear and doubt Rheinfrid followed; but when they reached the crown of\nthe arch the stranger threw aside his cloak and spread six mighty\nwings, and sprang from the bridge to the peak of a high mountain far\nbeyond the burning river.  The bridge cracked and swayed, and pieces\nbroke away from the icy parapet.\n\nWith a shriek of terror Rheinfrid sank down, and called upon God to\nhelp him.  Then as he prayed he felt wings growing on his shoulders,\nand a terrible eager joy and dread possessed him, for he felt the ice\nof the bridge melting away, and the water of the melting ice was\nsplashing like rain on the river of fire, and as each drop fell a\nlittle puff of white steam arose from the place where it fell.  So,\nunable to wait till the wings had grown full, he rose to his feet, and\nattempted to follow the Angel.  But his wings were too weak to bear\nhim, and he fell clinging to the bridge, which shook beneath him.\n\nOnce more he prayed; once more his impatience urged him to rise; and\nonce more he fell.  And the melted ice rained hissing into the river of\nfire, and the quick whiffs of white vapour came up from the surface.\n\nThen he committed himself to God's keeping, and waited in meekness and\nfortitude, saying, \"Whether we live or we die we are in Thy charge,\"\nand it seemed to him that, so long as it was God's will, it mattered\nnot at all what happened--whether the bridge crumbled away, dissolving\nlike a rainbow in the clouds, or whether his body were engulfed in the\ntorrent of burning.\n\nThen straightway, as he submitted himself thus, his wings grew large\nand strong, and he felt the power of them lifting him to his feet, and\nwith what seemed no more than the effort of a wish he sprang from\nnarrow way of ice and stood beside the Angel on the mountain.\n\n\"Hadst thou not been twice impatient in the cloister,\" said the Angel,\n\"thy wings would not have twice failed thee on the bridge.  Now, look\naround and see!\"\n\n\nWho shall tell the loveliness of the land on which Rheinfrid now gazed\nfrom the mountain?  To breathe the clear shining air was in itself\nbeatitude.  He saw angelic figures and heard the singing of angels in\nthe heavenly gardens glittering far below, and he longed to fly down to\ntheir blessed companionship.  Suddenly over the tree-tops of a golden\nglade he descried a starry globe which shone like chrysoprase, and\nround and round it a little blue bird flew joyously.  And so swiftly it\nflew that hardly had it gone before it had returned again.\n\nRheinfrid turned to the Angel to question him, but the Angel, who was\naware of his thoughts, said, \"Yes, it is the same globe, only we see it\nnow from the other side.  Each circle that the bird makes is a hundred\nyears; for five hundred already have you been here, but you must now\nreturn.\"\n\nThen the Angel touched the monk's head, and Rheinfrid closed his eyes,\nand in an instant it seemed to him as though he were awaking from a\nlong sleep.  Cold and rigid were his limbs, and as he tried to sit up\neach movement made them ache.  He found that he had been lying under an\naged oak.  He rubbed his hands together for warmth, and a white lichen\nwhich had overgrown them peeled off in long threads.  A heavy white\nbeard, tangled with grey moss, covered his breast, and the hair of his\nhead, white and matted with green tendrils, had grown about his body.\n\nSlowly and painfully he moved from tree to tree till he reached a broad\nroad, and saw before him a bridge, and beyond the river a fair town\nclustered on the higher ground.  So strange a town he had never beheld\nbefore--such a town as one sees in a foreign land, built with quaint\nroofs and gables and curiously coloured.  As he crossed the bridge he\nmet a woman who stared at him in amazement.  He raised his head to\nspeak, but he had lost the power of utterance.  The woman waited; and\nat last with a feeble stammering speech he asked her the name of the\nplace.  She shook her head and said she did not understand his words,\nand with a look of pity she went on her way.\n\nThen down to the bridge came an urchin, and Rheinfrid repeated his\nquestion.\n\n\"This is Eovesholme,\" said the lad.\n\n\"That cannot be,\" said Rheinfrid, \"for it is little more than twice\nseven days since I left Eovesholme, and this place is noway like the\nplace you name.\"\n\n\"Nay, but it is Eovesholme,\" replied the lad, \"and you are one of the\nmonks who used to be here before the King pulled down the Abbey.\"\n\n\"Pulled down the Abbey!  Hath King William pulled down the Abbey?\"\nRheinfrid asked in bewilderment.\n\n\"Nay, it is bluff King Hal who has pulled the Abbey down.  Come, and\nyou shall see.\"\n\nThe lad took Rheinfrid by the hand and led him through the streets till\nthey came to the ruins.  Only one beautiful sculptured arch was left\nstanding, but Rheinfrid had never seen it before.  They passed through\nand stood among a litter of stones, tumbled drums of pillars and\nfragments of carved mouldings and capitals.  Rheinfrid recognised the\nspot.  The land was the same, and the river, and the far hills, but\nnearly all the forest had been cleared, and the Abbey had vanished.\nWhat had happened to him and to them?\n\n\"Hast thou where to pass the night, old father?\" the lad asked.\n\nRheinfrid shook his head sorrowfully.\n\n\"Then I will show thee a place,\" he said.\n\nAnd again he took Rheinfrid by the hand, and let him among the ruins\ntill they came to a flight of stone steps which led down into the crypt\nof the minster.  These they descended, and there was a dim light in the\nplace, and Rheinfrid's heart beat quickly, for he knew the pillars and\nvaulted roofs and walls of this undercroft.\n\n\"Here you may rest peacefully and sleep well,\" said the urchin; \"no one\nwill venture here to disturb your slumber.\"\n\n\"Sorrow be far from thee, little son,\" said Rheinfrid, speaking he\nperceived that it was the Child, and that the Child's head was crowned\nwith roses and that he carried a rose in his hand.\n\nThen the aged monk sank on the cold stones of his old minster, faint\nand happy, for he knew now that he had finished his journey.  But the\nChild touched Rheinfrid's brow with the rose he carried, and the old\nman fell asleep, and all the crypt was dark.\n\n\n\n\nLighting the Lamps\n\nNow that it was the cool of the day (when God walked in Paradise), and\nthe straggling leaves of the limes were swaying in the fresh stream of\nthe breeze, and the book was finished--this very book--and at last,\nafter many busy evenings I was free to do as I pleased, W. V. and I\nslipped away on a quiet stroll before bedtime.\n\nIt was really very late for a little girl--nearly nine o'clock; but\nwhen one _is_ a little girl a walk between sunset and dark is like a\nramble in fairyland; and after the heat of the day the air was sweet\nand pleasant, and in the west there still lingered a beautiful\nafterglow.\n\nWe went a little way in the direction of the high trees of Caen Wood,\nwhere, you know, William the Conqueror had a hunting lodge; and as we\npassed under the green fringes of the rowans and the birches which\noverhung the pathway, it was delightful to think that perchance over\nthis very ground on which we were walking the burly Master of England\nmay have galloped in chase of the tall deer.\n\n\"He loved them as if he were their father,\" said W. V., glancing up at\nme with a laugh.  \"My history book says that.  But it wasn't very nice\nto kill them if he loved them, was it, father?\"\n\nWe turned down the new road they are making.  It runs quite into the\nfields for some distance, and then goes sharp to the right.  A pleasant\nsmell of hay was blowing up the road, and when we reached the angle we\nsaw two old stacks and the beginning of a new one; and the next field\nhad been mown and was dotted with haycocks.\n\nOn the half-finished road a steam roller stood, with its tarpaulin\ndrawn over it for the night.  In the field, along the wooden fence,\nsome loads of dross had been shot between the haycocks; lengths of sod\nhad been stripped off the soil and thrown in a heap, and planks had\nbeen laid down for the wheelbarrows.  A rake, which some haymaker had\nleft, stood planted in the ground, teeth uppermost; beside it a\nlabourer's barrow lay overturned.  A few yards away a thick elderberry\nbush was growing dim in the twilight, and its bunches of blossom looked\ncuriously white and spectral.\n\nI think even W. V. felt it strange to see this new road so brusquely\ninvading the ancient fields.  I looked across the frank natural acres\n(as if they were a sort of wild creature), stretching away with their\nhedgerows and old trees to the blue outline of the hills on the\nhorizon, and wondered how much longer one might see the rose-red of\nsunset showing through interlaced branches, or dark knots of coppice\nsilhouetted against the grey-green breadths of tranquil twilight.\n\nWhen we went a little further we caught sight among the trees of some\nout-buildings of the farm.  What a lost, pathetic look they had!\n\nThinking of the stories in my book, it seemed to me that the scene\nbefore me was a figure of the change which took place when the life we\nknow invaded and absorbed the strange mediaeval life which we know no\nlonger, and which it is now so difficult to realise.\n\n\nSlowly the afterglow faded; when you looked carefully for a star, here\nand there a little speck of gold could be found in the heavens; the\nbirds were all in their nests, head under wing; white and grey moths\nwere beginning to flutter to and fro.\n\nSuddenly over the fields the sound of church-bells floated to us.\n\n\"Is that the Angelus, father?\" asked W. V.\n\n\"No, dear; I think it must be the ringers practising.\"\n\n\"If it had been the Angelus, would St. Francis have stood still to say\nthe prayer?\"\n\n\"I think he would have knelt down to say it.  That would be more like\nSt. Francis.\"\n\n\"And would William the Conqueror?\"\n\n\"Why, no; I fancy he would have taken it for the curfew bell.\"\n\n\"They do still ring the curfew bell in some places, don't they, father?\"\n\n\"Oh yes; in several places; but, of course, they don't cover up their\nfires.\"\n\n\"I like to hear of those old bells; don't you, father?\"\n\n\nAs we reached the end of the new road we saw the man lighting the lamp\nthere; and we watched him going quickly from one post to another,\nleaving a little flower of fire wherever he stopped.  All was very\nquiet, and, as he went down the street, we could hear the sound of his\nfootsteps growing fainter and fainter in the distance.  All our\nstreets, you must know, are lined with trees, trees both in the gardens\nand on the side-walks, and the lamps glittered among the leaves and\nbranches like so many stars.  When we passed under them we noticed how\nthe light tinged the foliage that was nearest with a greenish\nash-colour, almost like the undersides of aspen-leaves.\n\n\"Isn't it just like a fairy village?\" asked W. V.\n\n\nOn our way down our own street I pointed silently to the Forest.  High\nover the billowy outline of the darkened tree-tops the church of the\nOak-men was clear against the weather-gleam.  W. V. nodded: \"I expect\nall the Oak boys and girls have said, 'God bless this house from thatch\nto floor,' and gone to bed long ago.\"  Since she heard the story of the\nGuardians of the Door, that has been her own favourite prayer at\nbed-time.\n\nThinking of the lighting of the lamps after she had been safely tucked\nin, I tried to make her a little song about it.  I don't think she will\nlike it as much as she liked the actual lighting of the lamps, but in\nyears to come it may remind her of that delightful spectacle.\n\n\n\n\nTHE LAMPLIGHTER\n\n    From lamp to lamp, from street to street,\n    He speeds with faintlier echoing feet,\n      A pause--a glint of light!\n  And, lamp by lamp, with stars he marks his round.\n\n    So Love, when least of Love we dream,\n    Comes in the dusk with magic gleam.\n      A pause--a touch--so slight!\n  And life with clear celestial lights is crowned.","title":"A Child's Book of Saints","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":61287}