A silence fell upon them. The hermit seemed to have shrunk into himself. Absently he rolled a parched pea between fingers none too steady. His voice trembled when at length he spoke.
“I stand like you all, convicted. We be but poor Christians all. I had thought to keep my soul pure by fleeing evil; but”—and his voice grew clear and strong—“I was wrong. I shall go back! I shall go back to serve my Lord Christ! And you, brothers? What of you all? Will ye go back with me to serve our Lord and our brothers?”
He looked around the little circle. None answered for a moment; then the sorrowful man said, “I will go.” “And I,” said the thief; and the others nodded without speaking, all save the philosopher, who sat with head bent, deep in some soul struggle.
“Come,” said the merchant briskly; “an I can break my chain, so canst thou.”
“Nay, friend,” said the philosopher sadly; “it is not chains, but the absence of chains, that I feel. Could I but bind my soul to thy Christ—but how can I? Can a man force his soul to accept a mystery his mind rejects?”
Then spoke the sorrowful man, with a new and more cheerful tone in his voice.
“Ay, that he can! That have I done but now! Truly my mind cannot see heaven and mine own in heaven; but I am weary of guesswork. I will believe and hope. And thou—with all thy knowledge thou art no wiser as to God: thy mind saveth thee not: trust thou thy faith.”
“That were wisdom,” said the hermit slowly. “We speak to thee, and thou dost not bid us explain ourselves before thou wilt hear: and the Christ speaketh to thee on this his Day. Wilt thou argue? Nay, but believe!”
And the philosopher looked up at them again, and his brow cleared.