He had no kith nor kin; no one and nothing for which he cared, save his bees. Of these he had a goodly store, ten hives set in the garden behind his hovel,—it was little else. In the summer they made music around him while he tilled the soil. He found their droning very pleasant to his ears. By virtue of this goodly possession he was called Simon of the Bees. The title was dear to him, though no man dreamed it. Here was the sole thing mankind had ever bestowed on him which afforded him pleasure; yet, since the bestowal was of careless custom rather than of charity aforethought, it was deserving of no reward. Such was his reasoning. It was a matter of occasional speculation in the village as to whom Simon would will his bees on his death, having no kin. It remained, however, speculation; and was like to do so.
On this winter night Simon, warming his hands over the fire, and muttering now and again to himself, was roused from his muttering by a blow on the door. He got slowly to his feet, grumbling the while, and drew back the wooden bolt which made it fast. Without, in the darkness, he saw a cloaked figure standing in the wind-driven snow.
“Shelter, for the love of heaven,” said a man’s voice.
“I am none so sure of the love,” responded Simon, and made to shut the door. In this he was frustrated by the sudden swaying of the figure, which fell very prone across his threshhold, feet and legs without, head and shoulders on the mud floor of the hovel.
“A very unceremonious entry,” grumbled Simon. And he stood for a moment irresolute. The man could not lie where he was, since his bulk upon the step made it impossible to close the door. The wind blew the smoke in eddying waves about the room. In a moment you could scarce see a hand’s breadth before your face. To push him without meant his death on a very certainty. Directly or indirectly Simon had never yet had the murder of a man on his soul, whatever sins else burdened it. Grumbling more heartily he got his hands under the man’s arms, and tugged him forward into the room. Then he made the door fast again.
The smoke now making its way through the hole in the roof, the air cleared somewhat. Simon looked down upon the prostrate figure.
“An’ he dies within ’twere e’en less pleasant than he died without,” he muttered. He got water in a horn cup, and held it to the man’s lips, forcing it between them. In a moment or so the man opened his eyes, lifted himself feebly on his elbow, and looked around.
“Where am I?” he asked.
“No more original than the rest of men,” muttered Simon. “There never yet was swooning man but asked his whereabouts on coming to himself. Doubtless fearing to find himself in a less pleasant place than he is accustomed to. An’ you would know, you are in the shelter you demanded.”
“I thank you.”