“It is for you to choose,” said the Prior again, “you have been happy with us, I think?”
Chris pressed his lips together and looked down.
“Of course Satan will not leave you alone,” went on the monk presently. “He will suggest many reasons against your profession. If he did not, I should be afraid that you had no vocation.”
Again he waited for an answer, and again Chris was silent. His soul was so desolate that he could not trust himself to say all that he felt.
“You must wait a little,” went on the Prior, “recommend yourself to our Lady and our Patron, and then leave yourself in their hands. You will know better when you have had a few days. Will you do this, and then come to me again?”
“Yes, my Lord Prior,” said Chris, and he took up the letter, bowed, and went out.
Within the week relief and knowledge came to him. He had done what the monk had told him, and it had been followed by a curious sense of relief at the thought suggested to him that the responsibility of decision did not rest on him but on his heavenly helpers. And then as he served mass the answer came.
It was in the chapel of the Blessed Virgin, a little building entered from the north transept, with its windows opening directly on to the road leading up into the town; there was no one there but the two. It was about seven o’clock on the feast of the Seven Martyrs, and the chapel was full of a diffused tender morning light, for the chapel was sheltered from the direct sunshine by the tall church on its south.
As they went up to the altar the bell sounded for the Elevation at the high-altar of the church, at the missa familiaris, and the footstep of someone passing through the north transept ceased instantly at the sound. The priest ascended the steps, set down the vessels, spread the corporal, opened the book, and came down again for the preparation. There was no one else in the chapel, and the peace of the place in the summer light, only vitalized by the brisk chirping of a sparrow under the eaves, entered into Christopher’s soul.