He paused for a few moments to look down at his plump proportions.
”—And light,” he added sadly. “I can’t run as they do.”
He stood perfectly still as he spoke, watching the deep crease in the valley, whose bottom was hidden by clumps of willow and beds of reeds with their dark purply waving blooms.
“I suppose I must go after them,” he sighed. “What can they want down there?”
The little monk sighed again and then started off to follow the boys, trying hard to walk slowly and steadily; but it was all in vain. The hill-side sloped very steeply to the broad bed of willows and reeds far below, making the way very bad for so heavy and inactive a man. Worse still: walking over the short grass in the hot sun had made the bottoms of the monk’s sandals as slippery as glass, and so it was that before he had gone far down the slope he began to talk to himself, at first slowly—then quickly—then in a loud excited way—and lastly he uttered a shout and a cry for help.
“Here,” he said, at first, “I want to go down slowly. It’s too hot to walk fast. Steady! Why, I am going faster!”
Then there was a minute’s pause, and the monk cried excitedly:
“I don’t want to run.” Then: “Oh, dear me, however am I to stop myself?” And directly after: “Oh, do stop me, somebody, or I shall be broken all to bits.” And lastly: “Here, help, help, help!”
Then there was a loud crashing sound, some water flew up, the monk uttered a final “Oh!” and lay perfectly still, listening, for all at once a familiar voice cried: