“Did he come often?” inquired the Englishman.
“Very often.”
“I never saw him.”
This, again, was met with silence. Presently the sub-prior continued his narrative.
“When daylight came at last,” he said, “the shadow had left your lips. I think that night was the worst; it was then that you were nearer ... nearer than at any other time.”
Christian Vellacott was strong enough now to take his usual interest in outward things. With the writer's instinct he went through the world looking round him, always studying men and things, watching, listening, and storing up experience. The Provincial interested him greatly, but he did not dare to show his curiosity; he hesitated to penetrate the darkness that surrounded the man's life, past, present, and future. In a minor degree the taciturn sub-prior arrested his attention. The old monk was in a communicative humour, and the Englishman led him on a little without thinking much about the fairness of it.
“Did your brother die?” he asked sympathetically.
“He died,” was the reply. “Yes, my son, he died—died cursing the tyrant's bullet in his lungs. He threw away his life in a vain attempt to alter human nature, to set straight that which is crooked and cannot be set straight. He sought to bring about at once that which cometh not until the lion shall eat straw like an ox. See, my son, that you do not attempt the same.”
“I think,” said Christian, after a pause, “that we all try a little, and perhaps some day a great accumulation of little efforts will take place. You, my father, have tried as well!”
The monk slowly shook his head, without, however, any great display of conviction.