The Life of Saint Columba, Apostle of Scotland

by F. A. Forbes

Then Diarmaid could no longer control his grief and wept aloud while the Saint did his best to comfort him, speaking words of hope and consolation. On their way home from the barn to the monastery Columba grew weary, and sat down to rest by the wayside, at a spot where there is now a great stone cross. As he sat there waiting until he should have strength to continue his journey, the old white horse that used to carry the milk pails from the farm to the monastery came up and laid its head upon the Saint's shoulder, looking at him as if he knew that it was for the last time, with eyes so full of dumb grief that they seemed to be shedding tears. Diarmaid would have driven him away, but Columba checked him.

"Let him be," he said; "he is wiser than you, Diarmaid, for he knows by instinct that I shall never pass by this way again. The old horse loves me, let him grieve for his friend."

Then the faithful animal nestled his head closer against the shoulder of the old man, who caressed him gently and gave him his blessing. "It is God," he said, "who has made known to this poor beast that he will see me no more." When continuing their journey they had reached the little hill that overlooked the monastery, Columba raised his hands in blessing over his beloved island home.

"This place will be famous in the days to come," he said, "and saints and kings will come from other lands to do it honour."

When he reached his cell he sat down to write the copy of the Psalter on which he was engaged, for the old man's hand had not lost its skill. He wrote until the church bell rang for the first vespers of the Sunday; then, having reached the verse in the thirty-third Psalm where it is written "They that seek the Lord shall not be deprived of any good," he laid down the pen.

"Let Baithen write the rest," he said.

Baithen was the cousin of Columba, and one of the monks who had come with him from Derry. He had been his pupil, and was scarcely less skilful with the pen than his master. Holy, charitable, and beloved by all, he was chosen to succeed Columbcille as abbot of Iona. When he took up the pen that the Saint had laid down to go on with the work of transcription, the words that came next were, "Come ye children, hearken unto me, and I will teach you the fear of the Lord," with which words he began his ministry as abbot.

When Vespers were over, Columba went back to his cell and sitting down upon his bed—the naked rock with a stone for a pillow that was still the only couch on which this monk of seventy-seven would rest his aged limbs—he bade Diarmaid listen while he gave him his last instructions for the brethren.

"My last words to you are these," said he. "Cherish true and unfeigned charity ever amongst yourselves, and God will never leave you in need, but will give you all that is necessary for your welfare in this world, and His glory in that which is to come."

After these words he was silent, and seemed to be lost in the contemplation of the glory of which he had spoken, and Diarmaid forbore to interrupt his prayer. When the bell rang for matins shortly before midnight, Columba arose, and went swiftly to the church. Diarmaid followed more slowly, and as he approached the door, the whole church seemed to him to be lit up with a strangely radiant light which vanished as he entered. "Where are you, Father?" he whispered, struck with a sudden fear, as he groped his way through the building. There was no answer. He made his way through the darkness as best he could to the altar.