“The children coming from school cried out when they saw, and ran to him. They ran, they flew, they clung around him like bees or butterflies, joyous. They held the folds of his robe. They pressed to hold his hand, and kissed it finger by finger.
“He lifted and tossed the smallest. ‘Reach up to heaven,’ he said, ‘and pull me down a blessing. Stretch your innocent hands and gather it like a star-blossom.’ And then would the little one, all wide-eyed, reach up and wait till he said, ‘It is done!’
“‘How did the King come down?’ they asked him. ‘How was God made man?’ He answered them: ‘The sweetness of the Godhead dropped like honey from a flower. The brightness of the Godhead fell like a star-beam from a star.’
“And he would say to them: ‘Ask of your angels how God looks. How does he smile and speak? For your angels, said the King’s Majesty, ever behold his face. Mine has followed me out into a century’s shadows, walked with me out through a century’s falling leaves. But ask your angels to-night to whisper close to your pillow, or come in a dream and tell you what are his hair and eyes, his voice and his smile. Ask one time and ten times. Ask ten times and a thousand. Ask again till they answer, “His face I behold no longer; for you are no longer a child.”’
“And then their mothers would hear them at night whispering on their pillows.
“How did he die, our prince? How at last did we lose him?
“There was a thought that hovered, dove-like, over the people, that Basil would stay till his coming, stay till the coming of Christ. It hovered, coming and going, but never alighted in speech. Quieter grown, but hale, he lived to a hundred years, lived in the midst of his people, going no more abroad. He sat in the sun, or the shadow, judged, and counseled, and pardoned, peacemaking, scattering blessings.
“But when, of the hundred years, the last few sands were sifting, he girded him for a journey, and climbed the southern hills. After a week, returning, ‘I bring you a message,’ he said, ‘from our ancient Mother, the Earth.’
“He showed them a grain of gold as it comes up out of the mine, set in the gray and white of a rock with clay in the crevices pressed. Pure and sparkling it lay in its crude and worthless bed.
“Said Basil, ‘What pay you for bread? Is it dust? And for raiment, a crumbling stone? For house and land, and a gift of love, do you offer dust alone? A careless kiss is easy to give, and a careless word to say. Will you fling your dust in the face of God? You have gold in your hearts, my children. Cast your follies away like dust, and break your pride like a stone. Dig for your gold, my children, says Earth, your Mother. Deep in your hearts it lies hidden.’