"I can go no farther," he gasped, and fell to the ground under his burthen.
"I knew it would be so!" cried the monk, looking helplessly round for some succour.
Far and wide there was no living creature to be seen. By the wayside stood an old picture of a saint under a weather-beaten shrine, overgrown with wild roses; the storm had half overthrown it, and no one had set it up again; not a soul could have passed that way. A few birds were perched on the roof bickering over their food. It was in vain that brother Porphyrius listened for the steps that had accompanied them through the wood, they had ceased since the monks had come out of it. The protecting angel appeared to have forsaken Donatus, and that was why his strength had failed. Porphyrius relieved him of his burden, and laid him in the scanty shade of the shrine, for the sun had risen again, and pierced very sensibly through the mists which rose from the deserted and flooded road; it could no longer dazzle the eyeless man, but it scorched his shaven head which he grasped in his hands with faint groans. There was no spring in sight whence to fetch water for the unhappy man. Should he go back to the wood? Could he leave the blind man alone for so long?
"Is there no one near," he shouted to the empty distance. "Hi, hallo, help!--help." Then again he listened to the silence, holding his hand over his eyes.
Something moved at the edge of the wood, a young girl came out of it. In one hand she held a rush basket, and in the other a hazel-rod; on her shoulders she carried a small bundle and a round wooden water-jar, such as pilgrims used. Her hair shone in the sun like flaming gold, her little bare feet showed below her short petticoat like white flowers. Her gait was as light, and she ran forward as quickly as if she were moved by some mysterious power. That must be the light step that has accompanied them so far.
Brother Porphyrius stared fixedly at the marvel as it came forth from the dim shade of the wood, so brilliant and yet so modest, simple, and maidenly--half a child and half a maiden--so sweet and yet so grave. Had the blind man's guardian angel indeed assumed a human form, so as not to reveal itself in all its glory to the unworthy eyes of the brother who could see?
Before he had time to think of all this, the little girl was by his side.
"Did he fall down, has he hurt himself?" she asked, and her large golden-brown eyes were filled with tears of unutterable anxiety; brother Porphyrius did not answer, he gazed at her, speechless; she did not wait for the answer, but knelt down by the sick man. "My angel," she said softly, "my lord and my angel, do not die and leave me." And she gently raised his head, and poured water on his brow from her flask; Donatus began to breathe again, and raising himself he asked,
"Who is that?"
"A child that has been following us," said Porphyrius. "She does not belong to our neighbourhood. I never saw her before."