“No,” he said, “I cannot return to the world, for I hate it and it hates me, but here I perish.”
The Abbot rose and embraced him. “Poor child! Such is the world, such is life; but if it is so, and if you see that it is so, the only thing left is to live it; and count it a point of honour to live till death comes and liberates us.”
“No! I want to die now,” sobbed the youth.
“We may not do that, my son”; the words escaped from the old man. “If you knew ... if you knew....”
But he restrained himself: “What shall we do, then? Go to Father Martin and have some food, and a glass of wine, but only one; then go and have a good long sleep. Sleep for a day or two. Then come, that I may see you. Go now—but wait a minute—you must have a dispensation from me.”
He sat down and wrote something on a page which he had torn out of the book. Armed with this permission, the youth departed, looking, however, somewhat hesitatingly and abashed.
The Abbot remained sitting, but did not begin to write again. Instead of that, he commenced crumbling the bread and strewing the crumbs on the table. Immediately a little bird came and picked one up; then there followed several, who settled on the old man’s hand, arms, and shoulders. A spray of vine hung from the roof of the arbour and swayed gently in the wind. Its ring-like tendrils felt about in the air for a support. The Abbot was amused, and placed his finger jestingly into one of the rings: “Come, little thing! here is your support!”
The tendril seemed to hear him, immediately curled round his finger, and formed a ring.
“Shall I get the ring?” jested the old man. “Perhaps I shall be a bishop. God deliver me!”
The Dean appeared in the door of the arbour. “Do I disturb you, brother?”