It had not occurred to me to look closely at him before this morning, and I turned now as he stood gazing down the road to make sure it was the same Rabnon of a fortnight ago. As you know, this strange director of my dreams appears in surprising forms, and, while matters in dreams are usually matters of course, yet I never began a night’s escapade with him without a little misgiving lest he take some such terrible shape as the pirate who guided my pen in that devastating evening a year back. However, the benign countenance of my fellow-friar could hide no malice to-day, I thought. His grey hood was thrown back over sturdy shoulders, discovering an impressive head of white hair; the face was seamed, and set in a kindly, immobile expression. His eyes alone did not betray his age, for their deep-set glitter was as eager and querulous as I supposed must have come from mine.
We walked on down toward the town, and I began a conversation on a subject which seemed to have been a long time on my mind.
“Rabnon,” I said, “I don’t for a minute doubt the good work our Order is doing, and I feel as whole-heartedly pledged to its cause as in the first days of enthusiasm, but sometimes I grow a little squirmish under its restrictions. I am no longer a boy, but I am still a young man, and it is spring. There is something in my blood that is not as celibate as my body.”
“My boy,” said Rabnon, “love of God and love of woman are as opposite as Heaven and Hell. You cannot serve God and Mammon, and, to speak in pagan terms, you cannot serve Zeus and Aphrodite.”
“But Aphrodite was both daughter and servant to Zeus,” I replied, perhaps a little anxious to show my learning followed his. He only laughed. “Oh, come! We are neither scholars, nor scholists to argue angels off the needle’s point. I mean that if either of us allowed ourselves a woman’s love, there would be moments when God’s purpose would be farthest from our minds. St. Francis knew it as well as anyone, wherefore it is something you must suffer. My blood was hot enough in my day; I used to consider the dissatisfaction of it a part of my martyrdom.” He laughed again, and so disputing we came at length into the street of the town, and to the inn.
Those who do not know Rabnon and me from before must be told of a feminine face I have never been able to remember for description, there in my dreams without the sanction of my most unconscious sense I am sure, delightfully haunting, agonizingly beyond my control. Imagine, then, my surprise in the light of our travel’s talk when I saw a young cavalier in the courtyard helping dismount a lady with such a face and a familiar figure. Imagine, too, the furtive glances of a rebellious celibate, following them through the gate into the high-raftered room where mine host greeted us all from among his many tables. A significant sleeve-plucking from my friend was necessary to make me leave staring after the pair and join him in a corner, where we ordered an ale. And I did not talk more easily with him because the cavalier and his companion were seated at the head of a long table before us, so that I was to be observing them for the duration of our stay.
While we waited for the ale, I looked at that elusive face, and took up the discussion with Rabnon, at the same time. “Now the pretty waitress,” I pointed to the girl who had taken our order—she was then engaged in repartee with my flashy nobleman—“she has probably had more than one lover, and neither she nor they have taken more than the moment’s concentration from their more serious occupations. Yet the youth and the man in them have been satisfied, and—”
“Hold on,” Rabnon interrupted. “Now you are bringing up a different question.”
“Am I?” said I, disinterestedly. The girl’s expression, I thought, was strangely sad, her eyes remarkably wide and frightened, for one in such gay attire and with such dashing company. She should be laughing with her companion, and draining her wine with vigor to mine host, but I saw her fingers tremble as the glass went to her lips, and she sits, quite out of the merriment, her thoughts apparently somewhere beyond the leaded windows.
“You are,” said Rabnon. “The question of passion without love. And it doesn’t work, old man. I can tell you that. It’s a sure way to get into trouble, and more distraction from our work than—”