The monk shook his head.
“Oh no, Madame, not so. We none of us lay claim to ‘genius’; that is for those in the outer world,—here we simply work and do our best for the mere love of doing it.”
Here, preceding them a little, he threw open a door, and ushered them into a quaint low room, panelled in oak, and begged them to be seated for a few moments while he went to inform “Brother Sebastian” of their arrival.
Left alone they gazed about in silence, till Sir Frederick, after staring hard at the panelled walls said—
“You may be pretty sure these fellows have carved every bit of that oak themselves. Monks are always wonderful workmen,—Laborare est orare, you know. By the way I noticed that monk artist who was with us just now wore no tonsure,—I wonder why? Anyhow it’s a very ugly disfigurement and quite senseless; they do well to abjure it.”
“Is this man you come to see,—El-Râmi—a member of the Fraternity?” asked Strathlea of Irene in a low tone.
She shook her head compassionately.
“Oh no—poor creature,—he would not understand their rules or their discipline. He is simply in their charge, as one who must for all his life be weak and helpless.”
At that moment the door opened, and a tall slim figure appeared, clad in the trailing white garments of the brotherhood; and in the dark poetic face, brilliant eyes and fine sensitive mouth there was little difficulty in recognising Féraz as the “Brother Sebastian” for whom they waited. He advanced towards them with singular grace and quiet dignity,—the former timidity and impetuosity of, youth had entirely left him, and from his outward aspect and, bearing he looked like a young saint whose thoughts were always set on the highest things, yet who nevertheless had known what it was to suffer in the search for peace.
“You are most welcome, Madame”—he said, inclining himself with a courteous gentleness towards Irene,—“I expected you,—I felt sure that you would one day come to see us. I know you were always interested in my brother ...”