It was a bitterly cold night and St Agnes’ Eve; the snow fell heavily, caught into whirling eddies by the keen north wind. Hilarius and the Friar, crossing an empty waste of bleak unprotected heath, met the full force of the blast, and each moment the snow grew denser, the darkness more complete. They struggled on, breathless, beaten, exhausted and lost; Hilarius, leading the Friar by one hand, held the other across his bent head to shield himself from the buffets of the wind.
Suddenly he stood fast.
“I can no more, Father,” he said, “the snow is as a wall; there is naught to see or to hear; I deem we are far from our right way.” His voice was very weak, and he caught at the Friar for support.
“I will pray the Lord, my son, that He open thine eyes, even as He opened the eyes of the prophet’s servant in the besieged city; so shalt thou see a host of angels encompassing us, for we are about the Lord’s business.”
“Nay, my Father,” said Hilarius feebly, “I see no angels, and I perish.” He tottered, and would have fallen, but the Friar caught him in his arms. A moment he stood irresolute, the boy on his breast, then flung away his staff and lifted him to his shoulder.
With unerring, confident step he went forward through the snow, a white figure bearing a white burden in a white world. All at once the wind dropped, the blinding shower ceased, and Hilarius, rested and comforted, spoke:—
“Is it thou, my Father?”
“It is I, my son, but angels are on either hand and go before to guide. The snow hath ceased, canst thou walk?”
He set Hilarius gently on his feet, and lo! he found the stars alight!
The boy gave a cry, and forgetting his companion’s darkness, pointed to the left where lay a snow-clad village.