“Since you judge yourself a fool by your own standard, you are assuredly in the way of becoming something greater,” said Father Felix quietly. “For the standard of men, I pay not over much heed to that measure when applied to their fellow-mortals. As to the matter of outcaste,” he looked at him very straightly, “an’ you be not outcaste from God, I see in the business less of a boggle than you perchance see.”
“An’ I were an outcaste from Him?” queried Peregrine very low.
“Then, my son, the quicker you set about returning to Him the better,” quoth Father Felix briskly.
A silence fell on these words. If Peregrine had answer to make it was at the moment no verbal one. The old man having said his say let the matter bide. The light in the sky faded, cooled to a pale blue-grey very restful to contemplate. A star came out over the forest. Big and luminous it hung in the clear space.
Anon Peregrine roused himself.
“I bid you good-evening,” he said.
The old man looked at him, seemed about to speak, checked the words on his lips, gave “Good-evening” in response. Peregrine went down the hill.
Coming again to the thorn-bush, he halted irresolute, made half turn to retrace his steps. He denied the impulse; sat down once more beneath the thorn-bush.
Night crept slowly onward, spreading her dusky mantle over the valley. At the foot of the hills it was intensely dark, yet with a soft darkness as of velvet. The night itself was softly velvet; grey velvet above the hills, star-sprinkled. Sirius faced him in a dip between them, blinking now fire-red, now green. No moon being visible, the stars shone with a greater radiance.