“Blessed Michael, Blessed Michael!” he murmured entreatingly.
Hilarius’ hands hurt him sore; it was clear that the holy man saw some wondrous vision, and ’twas no gain time to speech of him.
“Blessed Michael, Blessed Michael!” quavered the old, tired voice.
Hilarius felt himself slipping; with a great effort he held fast and braced himself against the wall.
“Blessed Michael, Blessed Michael!”—The appeal in the half-dead face was awful.
Hilarius’ grip failed; he slid to the ground bruised and sore from the unaccustomed strain, but well pleased. True, he had gained no counsel from the Ankret, but he had seen the holy man—ay, even when he was visited by a heavenly messenger, and that in itself should bring a blessing. He turned to go, when a sudden thought came to him. There was no one in sight, no sound but the failing cry from the tired old saint. Hilarius doffed his cap again and his fresh young voice rose clear and sweet through the thin still air:—
“Iesu, dulcis memoria,
Dans vera cordis gaudia;
Sed super mel et omnia
Dulcis ejus praesentia.”
At the fourth stanza his memory failed him; but he could hear the Ankret crooning to himself the words he had sung, and crying softly like a little child.
Hilarius went home with wonder in his heart, but said no word of what had befallen him; and that night the Ankret died, and the Sub-Prior gave him the last sacraments.
Next day it was known that a vision had been vouchsafed the holy man before his end; and that the Prince of Angels himself had brought his message of release: and Hilarius, greatly content to think that the Blessed Michael had indeed been so near him, kept his own counsel.