They started out to see this wonderful saint
Le Glorieux and the two boys started out to see this wonderful saint. She stood in the forest within a five minutes' walk from the castle, in front of a great oak. She was a painted wooden figure about five feet in height, and she had been scorched by the summer sun and pelted by rainstorms until her garments were all a dull gray, her face, partly concealed by her nun's coif, wearing a self-satisfied simper not at all consistent with her garb.
"The good saint is not a tall woman," said Philibert, eying her critically. He walked all around the figure, mounted a stone behind it, and examined it closely. "Some day she will move when they least expect it," he said, "for she is not secure on her pedestal, and a storm will blow her over."
In spite of the fact that a late hour had been set for the visit to the saint, and the matter was supposed to be a secret carefully kept from the servants, when the time came to start a curious crowd gathered and followed the supposed culprit, her master and mistress and their guests, to the statue of Saint Monica.
By Cimburga's side walked a tall young man who was said to be the miller's son, and whose presence beside the accused was viewed with considerable astonishment by those who knew him, for his father was well-to-do, and his station was above that of Cimburga. The face of the girl was radiant with happiness, and those who observed her tranquil countenance wondered why she exhibited so little agitation at a time when she might be supposed to be in a state of despair.
It was a very solemn procession that walked out on that moonlight night. At present there exist comparatively few people who would expect a wooden saint to move, even from a motive so noble as to prove the innocence of an accused person; but, as has already been said, many strange things were believed in the fifteenth century.
Even all whispering ceased as they approached the saint. The princess, warmly wrapped in fur, was riding a little mule, and as Le Glorieux walked beside her she slipped a cold hand into his with a shiver of fear, and all stepped softly over the frosty ground as if fearful of something, they knew not what. The wind swept through the trees, rustling the dry leaves. Was the saint already moving? No, it was only the shadow of a limb, which, stirred by the wind, swayed above her head.
"Hist!" said the castle chaplain, though there was no need to call for silence, as none at that moment felt in the least like talking. Then, in a solemn voice, the priest invoked the saint to deign to decide the fate of the accused maiden then standing before her. Was she innocent of the sin of theft?
He paused, there was a breathless moment of expectancy, then Saint Monica really did move. There was no doubt about it. She bowed her head and raised her right hand! All saw her do it, as they would tell their children, and their children's children, for years to come. The priest murmured some words in Latin, then all returned immediately to the castle, for none seemed inclined to remain in the neighborhood of the saint who so kindly had set their minds at rest. All gathered in the chapel, where a Te Deum was sung, as it had been sung for the first time when the son of Saint Monica was converted.