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Page 2
What a man he was! Fair and slight, but straight as a spear and
strong as an oaken staff. His face was still young; the smooth
skin was bronzed by wing and sun. His gray eyes, clear and kind,
flashed like fire when he spoke of his adventures, and of the evil
deeds of the false priests with whom he had contended.
What tales he had told that day! Not of miracles wrought by sacred
relics; nor of courts and councils and splendid cathedrals; though
he knew much of these things, and had been at Rome and received
the Pope's blessing. But to-day he had spoken of long journeyings
by sea and land; of perils by fire and flood; of wolves and bears
and fierce snowstorms and black nights in the lonely forest; of
dark altars of heaven gods, and weird, bloody sacrifices, and
narrow escapes from wandering savages.
The little novices had gathered around him, and their faces had
grown pale and their eyes bright as they listened with parted
lips, entranced in admiration, twining their arms about one
another's shoulders and holding closely together, half in fear,
half in delight. The older nuns had turned from their tasks and
paused, in passing by, to hear the pilgrim's story. Too well they
knew the truth of what he spoke. Many a one among them had seen
the smoke rising from the ruins of her father's roof. Many a one
had a brother far away in the wild country to whom her heart went
out night and day, wondering if he were still among the living.
But now the excitements of that wonderful day were over; the hours
of the evening meal had come; the inmates of the cloister were
assembled in the refectory.
On the dais sat the stately Abbess Addula, daughter of King
Dagobert, looking a princess indeed, in her violet tunic, with the
hood and cuffs of her long white robe trimmed with fur, and a
snowy veil resting like a crown on her snowy hair. At her right
hand was the honoured guest, and at her left hand her grandson,
the young Prince Gregor, a big, manly boy, just returned from
school.
The long, shadowy hall, with its dark-brown raters and beams; the
double rows of nuns, with their pure veils and fair faces; the
ruddy flow of the slanting sunbeams striking upwards through the
tops of the windows and painting a pink glow high up on the
walls,--it was all as beautiful as a picture, and as silent. For
this was the rule of the cloister, that at the table all should
sit in stillness for a little while, and then one should read
aloud, while the rest listened.
"It is the turn of my grandson to read to-day," said the abbess to
Winfried; "we shall see how much he has learned in the school.
Read, Gregor; the place in the book is marked."
The tall lad rose from his seat and turned the pages of the
manuscript. It was a copy of Jerome's version of the Scriptures in
Latin, and the marked place was in the letter of St. Paul to the
Ephesians,--the passage where he describes the preparation of the
Christian as the arming of a warrior for glorious battle. The
young voice rang out clearly, rolling the sonorous words, without
slip or stumbling, to the end of the chapter.
Winfried listened, smiling. "My son," said he, as the reader
paused, "that was bravely read. Understandest thou what thou
readest?"
"Surely, father," answered the boy; "it was taught me by the
masters at Treves; and we have read this epistle clear through,
from beginning to end, so that I almost know it by heart."
Then he began again to repeat the passage, turning away from the
page as if to show his skill.
But Winfried stopped him with a friendly lifting of the hand.
"No so, my son; that was not my meaning. When we pray, we speak to
God; when we read, it is God who speaks to us. I ask whether thou
hast heard what He has said to thee, in thine own words, in the
common speech. Come, give us again the message of the warrior and
his armour and his battle, in the mother-tongue, so that all can
understand it."
The boy hesitated, blushed, stammered; then he came around to
Winfried's seat, bringing the book. "Take the book, my father," he
cried, "and read it for me. I cannot see the meaning plain, though
I love the sound of the words. Religion I know, and the doctrines
of our faith, and the life of priests and nuns in the cloister,
for which my grandmother designs me, though it likes me little.
And fighting I know, and the life of warriors and heroes, for I
have read of it in Virgil and the ancients, and heard a bit from
the soldiers at Treves; and I would fain taste more of it, for it
likes me much. But how the two lives fit together, or what need
there is of armour for a clerk in holy orders, I can never see.
Tell me the meaning, for if there is a man in all the world that
knows it, I am sure it is none other than thou."
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