He rose. “Come! I will show you Brother Richard.”
He whom they sought was standing at the table in the room where he worked. Between his hands was a bowl of silver whereon he had wrought vine leaves and grapes. He put down his work and kneeled before the Abbot, then stood with crossed hands and lowered eyes. He was brown-blond, tall and still, with a face of dimmed power, dimmed beauty.
When they had gone away, said Somerville, “Lord Abbot, Friar Paul is twice as thin and pale as yonder monk, and hath eyes that burn like coals! He would never see within him nor bring forth, vine leaves around a silver bowl! He sees but saints and martyrs filling his cell and speaking to him out of glories!” He nodded as he finished.
The staccato of his voice drummed like a rude heel upon the Abbot’s now fevered desire. Said the Abbot’s will, deep down, “He shall see all that is necessary. Oh, Hugh. I will oust you yet!”
Somerville rode away. Halfway to his house, up the Wander, his mind perceived something that made him laugh. “I am not prophet, yet will I prophesy! Before spring there will be miracles at Silver Cross!”
It was a foggy day, a grey pearl, with shadows that were trees.
“Aha and Aho!
Mankind and its woe,