“And his black turban,” continues the monk, “over his long flowing hair made him look like our hermit.” (Strange coincidence!) “On your way here have you not stopped to visit the hermit? Not far from the abbey, on your right hand coming here, is the Hermitage.”
We remember passing a pretty cottage surrounded by a vineyard in that rocky wilderness; but who would mistake that for a troglodyte’s cave? “And this young man from Baalbek,” we ask, “how did he live in this forest?”
“Yonder,” points the monk, “he cleared and cleaned for himself a little space which he made his workshop. And up in the pines he constructed a 200 platform, which he walled and covered with boughs. And when he was not working or walking, he would be there among the branches, either singing or asleep. I used to envy him that nest in the pines.”
“And did he ever go to church?”
“He attended mass twice in our chapel, on Good Friday and on Easter Sunday, I think.”
“And did he visit the abbey often?”
“Only when he wanted cheese or olive oil.” (Shame, O Khalid!) “But he often repaired to the Hermitage. I went with him once to listen to his conversation with the Hermit. They often disagreed, but never quarrelled. I like that young man in spite of his oddities of thought, which savoured at times of infidelity. But he is honest, believe me; never tells a lie; and in a certain sense he is as pious as our Hermit, I think. Roll another cigarette.”
“Thank you. And the Hermit, what is your opinion of him?”
“Well, h’m––h’m––go visit him. A good man he is, but very simple. And between us, he likes money too much. H’m, h’m, go visit him. If I were not engaged at present, I would accompany you thither.”
We thank our good monk and retrace our steps to the Hermitage, rolling meanwhile in our mind that awful remark about the Hermit’s love of money. Blindness and Plague! even the troglodyte loves and worships thee, thou silver Demiurge! We can not believe it. The grudges of monks against each other often reach darker and more fatal depths. Alas, if 201 the faith of the cheese-monger is become adulterated, what shall we say of the faith of our monkhood? If the salt of the earth––but not to the nunnery nor to the monkery, we go. Rather let us to the Hermitage, Reader, and with an honest heart; in earnest, not in sport.