“Her kisses held him,” repeated Martin.
“She made a plan that would bind him to her forever; she plied him with wine until his senses fled, stripped him naked, crowned him with a wreath of red poppies, left him dancing and singing ribald songs, a young Bacchus in the woods; then she called the priests to witness his degradation. They believed her not; the young Divine was deep in the under cells, fasting, praying, purifying his body, preparing for his ordination. She mocked at them.
“‘Fools! He is no priest, he is Mad Martin. He cannot change; his blood still riots in him, calling for wine, for women. If I lie, burn me at the stake!’
“Mad Martin in the woods heard the angry voices of the people, the mocking gibes of the woman, and realized his degradation. He fled to the cabin, locked himself in, fell on his knees, and prayed for help. The chanting of priests, the cries of the people grew louder—their axes were breaking down the door. The poor sinner raised his arms to Heaven, with a cry, in which his battered, stricken soul took joyful flight. When the enraged people burst into the cabin, they found it empty. They searched the cells of the monastery; there was no trace of him. The Father Superior, a holy man of years, was calm.
“‘Wait, he will not fail us.’
“The day of consecration came; among the young priests stood a tall figure in white, ready to take his vows. He was pale and faint from fasting, but his voice was like a bell sounding from the distance. As he left the altar there was a bright light on his face. The people followed him on their knees. He put out his hands, blessed them, and the cripples threw away their crutches and the sick were well. Then he blessed Einsiedeln and made it a holy place for pilgrims in the ages to come. He blessed the village under the mountain, where he was born, sinned, and atoned, and prophesied its future peace, prosperity. Then he disappeared before their eyes, but he has been kept alive in our hearts and memory. Every three years, the people of our village give in the little chapel ‘The Miracle of Saint Martin.’”
There was a long silence. Martin sat, his face buried in his hands. The pastor spoke again.
“Martin! Free yourself of this horror; let Hope in. Life is knocking at your door with gifts of fulfillment!”
Martin struggled with the torrent of feeling rushing through him; then the dry eyes grew moist, the tears came. The fever of hate, the passion of Love, the terrible impulse of self destruction, a devil tempting in the night, the thought of life with reason gone—all the dangers of an overwrought mind were washed away in those tears. He dropped down, broken, helpless, on the new sweet hay in a little hut near by; the cool air swept over him. A bird’s plaintive call startled the silence—an unforgettable night of spiritual revelation, Peace....
It was dawn when he awoke. He looked about for the Pastor, found him lying in a corner, his mantle wrapped about him. Martin looked long at the noble snow-crowned head, then stole softly out, came upon a clear pool hidden in the trees—we meet them unexpectedly in Switzerland, startling us with their limpid loveliness.