“Has the Prior sent for me again?” stammered the surprised Cœlestin.
In reply the dark figure touched a warning finger to its lips—and then held out the flute. Who else could it be but Brother Cleofas, the one who dreamed of the sweetness of smoked meat?
“Cleofas, Brother!” exclaimed Cœlestin, with delight. “Then there is one who has sympathy for me, who has not forgotten me, who braves the anger of the Prior for my sake! I thank you, Brother—and I always thought you were my enemy. Pardon me, Brother! Pardon me! My flute, my flute!”
The monk signalled him to be quiet. Before Cœlestin thanked him he had disappeared. In his excitement, good Cœlestin had quite forgotten that now all the Brothers were assembled in the church. He believed firmly that that silent monk must have been Cleofas. He went to the window and played.
The melody was sad and elegiac, as if it tried to harmonize with the mood of the evening. Suppressed sighs, restrained tears, were interwoven in the melody; a thousand nightingales sobbed their sorrow in the song. Then, upon the instant, it changed—it was a wild dance of a carnival, an unrestrained orgy, wherein from time to time shook the laughter of madness. I do not know how long Cœlestin played, but this time it was really Cleofas, who, raging like a tiger, came with a message from the Prior. Cœlestin declared that Brother Cleofas came to his cell and gave him the flute. The Prior knew that Brother Cleofas had been in the church with him. Cœlestin stuck to his statement and could not be shaken from it. It looked bad for Cœlestin. Everyone had seen Cleofas at vesper service; no one had seen Cœlestin.
The Prior put his hand to his brow as if in search for a reasonable decision. The Prior took the flute and carried it into his own room. Cœlestin was led to the Cloister prison, where he was to remain and eat only bread and water until he confessed to the truth. Night came on. Cœlestin did not know it. The little prison chamber under the roof was always dark. The one little barred window was right under the drain spout of the roof. The door opened. Brother Cleofas came in. Grumbling he placed a piece of bread by Cœlestin’s cot; and fastened a diminutive earthen lamp to the unpainted wall and left. Cœlestin tried to talk with him, but he shut the door in silence and turned the key.
He threw himself upon the miserable cot and tried to sleep. Feverish fancies crossed his brain, his forehead was hot, his eyes were heavy, but he could not sleep. Slowly the hours passed.
“What a wretched existence!” thought Cœlestin, “It would be better to die.” He began to meditate about death. It seemed to him something desirable. The flickering flame of the lamp sent smoke and shadows across the barred window space, and stretched into thicker blackness in the corners. Right by the door Cœlestin watched the shadow grow thicker. Was it an illusion? He rubbed his eyes in order to see better. The shadows thickened into a form, and the form drew near to him. It was hidden in a brown robe of peculiar shape. The long, thin, yellow face resembled old parchment in the Cloister library. It came nearer and nearer and its steps were noiseless. Cœlestin looked straight at this phantom being; he did not feel the slightest fear. Now it stood beside him and looked down upon him with green, sparkling eyes.
“You are Satan!” declared Cœlestin calmly, without turning his eyes away.
“You may not be mistaken,” replied the stranger hoarsely.