The day broke slowly, dim and grey. There was a hurried knocking at the porter's door, a peasant with white and startled face said that a brother was kneeling at the great cross in the snow, and would not speak.
The monks sallied forth anxiously, and came to the silent figure, clasping the cross in supplication.
'Brother Jasper!'
The prior touched his hands; they were as cold as ice.
'He is dead!'
The villagers crowded round in astonishment, whispering to one another. The monks tried to move him, but his hands, frozen to the cross, prevented them.
'He died in prayer—he was a saint!'
But a woman with a paralysed arm came near him, and in her curiosity touched his ragged cowl.... Suddenly she felt a warmth pass through her, and the dead arm began to tingle. She cried out in astonishment, and as the people turned to look she moved the fingers.
'He has restored my arm,' she said. 'Look!'
'A miracle!' they cried out. 'A miracle! He is a saint!'