"But you have the newspapers," we remarked, horrified to think of a young intellect rotting and mouldering away in such a manner.
"I have not seen a newspaper for nearly four years, never since I came here. We are not allowed such things."
"But you said you were sent here for only three years' punishment—how does it happen you have remained for nearly four?"
"Because I chose to stay on; you see I have lost touch with the world. My parents sent me here against my will, now I stay here against their will, because they have unfitted me by the life I have led here for that from which I came."
We listened appalled.
"Will you tell me some news, kind ladies?" he added, the while a mournful look came into his face, "for, as the Igumen said I might take you round to-day and stay with you, I should like to hear something to tell the others to-night."
"What sort of news?" we asked, a lump rising in our throats as we realised the sadness of this young life. Gently born and gently bred, educated as a gentleman, for nearly four years he had mixed with those beneath him, socially and intellectually, until he had almost reached their level. He lived with those by birth his inferiors, although he kept himself smart and clean and tidy.
"Oh!" he said, "I remember Home Rule was written about when I last saw the papers. Home Rule for Ireland like one has in Finland."
Hardly believing in his total innocence of the outer world, we asked—
"Does no one ever really see a paper in this monastery?"