The illuminator laid his pen down, and looked up at the lad.
“Bertram,” he said, “just fifty years gone, I was what thou art, and my thoughts then were thine.”
“Thou wert, Father?” responded Bertram in an interested tone. “Well, and what was the end?”
“The end is not yet. But the next thing was, that I did as thou fain wouldst do:—I signed me with the good red cross, and I went to the Holy Land.”
“And thou earnest back, great of name, and blessed in soul?”
“I came back, having won no name, and with no blessing, for I knew more of evil than when I set forth.”
“But, Father, at our Lord’s sepulchre!” urged Bertram.
“Youngling,” said Wilfred, a rare, sweet smile flitting across his lips, “dost thou blunder as Mary did? Is the Lord yet in the sepulchre? ‘He is not here; He is risen.’ And why then should His sepulchre be holier than other graves, when He that made the holiness is there no longer?”
“But where then is our Lord?” asked Bertram, rather perplexed.
“He is where thou wouldst have Him,” was the quiet answer. “If that be in thine heart, ay:—and if no, no.”