Again the voice: Hilarius strove to reach up to the grated window of the cell—it was too high above him. An overpowering desire came upon him to ask the Ankret of his future. With a spring he caught at the window’s upright bars; his cap flew off and he hung bare-headed, the sun behind him, gazing into the cell.
On his knees was an old man whose long white hair lay in matted locks upon his shoulders, and whose beard fell far below his girdle. The skin of his face was like grey parchment, and his deep-set eyes glowed strangely in their hollow cavities.
Hilarius strove to speak, but words failed him.
The Ankret looking up saw the beautiful face at his window with its aureole of yellow hair, and stretched out his bony withered hands.
“Blessed Michael, Blessed Michael, the messenger of the Lord!” he cried, gaining strength from the vision.
“What would’st thou, Father!” said Hilarius, afraid.
“Nay, who am I that I should speak? and yet, and yet—” the old man’s voice grew weaker—“the Bread of Heaven, that I may die in peace.”
He stretched out his hands again entreatingly, and Hilarius was sore perplexed.
“Dost thou crave speech of the Abbat, my Father?”
The Ankret looked troubled.