At last he ventured to stop and look around him, his fair hair aflame in the sunlight, his eyes full of awe of this arched and pillared city of mystery and wonder.
It was very silent. Here and there a coney peeped out and fled, and a woodpecker toiled with sharp, effective stroke. Hilarius’ eyes shone as he lifted his head and caught sight of the sunlit blue between the great, green-fringed branches: it was as if Our Lady trailed her gracious robe across the tree-tops. Then, as he bathed his thirsty soul in the great sea of light and shade, cool depths and shifting colours, the sense of his wrong-doing slipped from him, and joy replaced it—joy so great that his heart ached with it. He went on his way, singing Lauda Syon, his eyes following the pine-boles, and presently, coming out into an open glade, halted in amazement.
A flower incarnate stood before him; stood—nay, danced in the wind. Over the sunny sward two little scarlet-clad feet chased each other in rhythmic maze; dainty little brown hands spread the folds of the deep blue skirt; a bodice, silver-laced, served as stalk, on which balanced, lightly swaying, the flower of flowers itself. Hilarius’ eyes travelled upwards and rested there. Cheeks like a sunburnt peach, lips, a scarlet bow; shimmering, tender, laughing grey eyes curtained by long curling lashes; soft tendrils of curly hair, blue black in the shadows, hiding the low level brow. A sight for gods, but not for monks; above all, not for untutored novices such as Hilarius.
His sin had found him out; it was the Devil, the lovely lady of St Benedict; he drew breath and crossed himself hastily with a murmured “Apage Sataas!”
The dancer stopped, conscious perhaps of a chill in the wind.
“O what a pretty boy!” she cried gaily. “Playing truant, I dare wager. Come and dance!”
Hilarius crimsoned with shame and horror. “Woman,” he said, and his voice trembled somewhat, “art thou not shamed to deck thyself in this devil’s guise?”
The dancer bit her lip and stamped her little red shoe angrily.
“No more devil’s guise than thine own,” she retorted, eyeing his semi-monastic garb with scant favour. “Can a poor maid not practise her steps in the heart of a forest, but a cloister-bred youngster must cry devil’s guise?”
As she spoke her anger vanished like a summer cloud, and she broke into peal on peal of joyous laughter. “Poor lad, with thy talk of devils; hast thou never looked a maid in the eyes before?”