"And yet I have repined and murmured against Him Who brought me here to save me."
"But He will forgive all that, now you truly turn to Him and submit to His Will."
"I try to give myself to Him to do as He pleases."
"And you believe He has done all things well?"
"Yes."
"Even the leprosy?"
"Yes, even that."
"You are right, my dear son; we must all be purified through suffering, for what son is he whom the Father chasteneth not? and if we are not partakers thereof, then are we bastards and not sons. All true children of God have their Purgatory here or hereafter—far better here. He suffered more for us."
A few days passed away after this conversation, and a rapid change for the worse took place in poor Evroult's physical condition. The fell disease, which had already disfigured him beyond recognition, attacked the brain. His brother and the hermit could not desire his life to be prolonged in such affliction, and they silently prayed for his release, grievous although the pang of separation would be to them both—one out of their little number of three.