in later days christian vellacott could bring back to his memory no distinct recollection of that first night spent in the monastery. there was an indefinite remembrance of the steady, monotonous clang of a bell in the first hours, doubtless the tolling of the matins, calling the elect to prayer at midnight.

after that he must have fallen into a deep, lethargic sleep, for he never heard the distant strains of the organ and the melodious chanting of gruff voices. the strange, unquiet melody hovered over him in the little cell, following him as he glided away from earth upon the blessed wings of sleep, and haunted his restless dreams.

the monks were early astir next morning, for the sweet smell of drying hay filled the air, and the second crop of the fruitful earth lay waiting to be stacked. with tucked-up gowns and bared arms the sturdy devotees worked with rake and pitchfork. no whispered word passed between them; none raised his head to look around upon the smiling landscape or search in the cloudless sky for the tiny lark whose morning hymn rippled down to them. each worked on in silence, tossing the scented hay, his mind being no doubt filled with thoughts above all earthly things.

near at hand lay a carefully-kept vegetable garden of large dimensions. here grew in profusion all nourishing roots and herbs, but there was no sign of more luscious fruits. small birds hopped and fluttered here and there unheeded and unmolested, calling to each other joyously, and the warming air was alive with the hum of tinier wings.

in the midst of this walked man—the lord of all—humbly, silently, with bowed head and unadmiring eyes—man whose life was vouchsafed for the enjoyment of all these things.

a little square patch of sunlight lay on the stone floor of the small cell allotted to christian vellacott. the thick oak door deadened the sounds of life in the monastery, such as they were, and the strong, laboured breathing of the young englishman alone broke the chill silence.

christian lay, all dressed, on the narrow bed. his eyes were half closed, and the ruddy brown of his cheeks had faded into an ashy grey. his clenched hands lay numbly at his side. through his open, swollen lips meaningless words came in a hoarse whisper.

presently the door opened with a creaking sound, but the sleeper moved no limb or feature. rené drucquer entered the cell and ran quickly to the bedside. behind, with more dignity and deliberation, followed the sub-prior of the monastery. the young priest had obtained permission from his provincial to see christian vellacott for a few moments before his hurried departure for india. thus rené had received his mission sooner than he had hoped for. the astute and far-seeing provincial had from the beginning intended that rené drucquer should be removed from harm's way without delay once his disagreeable mission to st. mary western was performed.

“my father,” exclaimed the young priest in alarm, “he is dying!”

the venerable sub-prior bent his head over the bed. he was a tall, spare man, with very sunken cheeks, and a marvellous expression of placid contentment in his eyes such as one never finds in the face of a young monk. he was very learned in medicines, and in the administration of such simple herbs as were required to remedy the illnesses within the monastery walls. perhaps some of his patients died when they might have lived under more skilled treatment, but it is a short and easy step from life to death within a comfortless cell, and his bony hands were as tender over his sick brethren as those of a woman.

he felt the englishman's pulse and watched his ashen face for some moments, touching the clammy forehead softly, while rené drucquer stood by with a great sickening weight of remorse and fear upon his heart. then the sub-prior knelt stiffly down, and placed his clean-shaven lips near to christian's ear.

“my son,” he said, “do you hear me?”

christian breathed less heavily, as if he were listening to some far-off sound, but never moved a feature. presently he began to murmur incoherently, and the sub-prior bent his ear to listen.

“much good would a blessing of mine do you, hilda,” observed christian into the reverend ear. the old gentleman raised his cadaverous head and looked somewhat puzzled. again he listened.

“look after aunt judy—she cannot last long,” murmured the young englishman in his native tongue, which was unknown to the monk.

“it is fever,” said the sub-prior presently—“one of those terrible fevers which kill men as the cold kills flies!”

no thought seemed to enter the monk's mind of possible infection. he knelt upon the cold floor with one bare and bony arm beneath the sick man's head, while the other lay across his breast. he was looking intently into the veiled eyes, inhaling the very breath of the swollen lips.

“will he die, my father?” asked rené drucquer in a whisper; his face was as pale as vellacott's.

“he is in the hands of the good god,” was the pious answer. the tall monk rose to his feet and stood before the bed thinking. he rubbed his bony hands together slowly. through the tiny window a shaft of sunlight poured down upon his grizzled head, and showed up relentlessly the deep furrows that ran diagonally down from his cheek-bone to his chin.

“you must watch here, my son,” he continued, “while i inform the father-provincial of this.”

the venerable sub-prior was no jesuit, and perhaps he would have been just as well pleased had the provincial elected to live elsewhere than in the monastery. but the prior—an old man of ninety, and incapable of work or thought—was completely in the power of the society.

when he found himself alone with the englishman, rené drucquer sat wearily upon a small wooden bench, the only form of seat provided, and leaned his narrow face upon his hands.

the prospect that he saw before him as he sat staring vacantly at the floor of the little cell was black enough. he saw no possible outlet, and he had not the courage to force his way through the barriers erected all round him. it must be remembered that he was a roman catholic, and over a sincere disciple of the mother church the power of the jesuits is greater than man should ever be allowed to exercise. the slavery that england fought against so restlessly is nothing to it, for mental bondage is infinitely heavier than physical service. he had determined to accept the provincial's offer of missionary work in asia, but the sudden horror of realising that he was a jesuit, and could never be anything else than a jesuit for the rest of his days, was fresh upon him. he was too young yet to find consolation in the thought that he at all events could attempt to steer a clear, unsullied course through the shoals and quicksands that surround a priest's existence, and he was too old to buoy himself up with the false hope that he might, despite his jesuit's oath, do some good work for his church. his awakening had been rendered more terrible by the brilliancy of the dreams which it had interrupted.

he had not looked upon christian vellacott as a victim hitherto, for the bravest receive the least sympathy, and the young englishman's cool way of treating his reverse of fortune had repelled pity or commiseration. but now all that was changed. whatever this sickness might prove to be, rené drucquer felt that the blame of it lay at his own door. if christian vellacott were to die, he, rené drucquer, was in the eyes of god a murderer, for he had forcibly brought him to his death. this was an unpleasant reflection for a young devotee whose inward soul was full of human kindness; and the presence of the strong man who lay gasping for breath upon the narrow, comfortless bed was not reassuring.

it was only natural that those thoughts, coupled with the realisation of the aimlessness of his own existence, should have bred in the young jesuit's heart a dull fire of antagonism against the man who was in immediate authority over him, and when the provincial noiselessly entered the cell a few minutes later, he felt a sudden thrill of misgiving at the thought that his feelings were sacred to none—that this man with his deep, inscrutable eyes could read the face of his very soul like an open book.

in this, rené drucquer was right. the provincial was fully aware of the presence of this spirit of antagonism, and, moreover, he knew that it extended to the taciturn sub-prior who accompanied him. but this knowledge in no way disturbed him. the spirit of antagonism had met him in every turn of life. it was so familiar that he had learned to despise it. hitherto he had never failed in any undertaking, and he had never been turned aside from the execution of his purpose by the fear of incurring the enmity of men. such minds as this make their mark in the line of life which they take up, and if they do not happen to win the love of their fellow-beings, they get on remarkably well without it.

the provincial came into the cell with a singular noiselessness of motion. his pale face expressed neither surprise nor annoyance, and his eyes rested upon the form of the sick man with no sign of apprehension. he approached, and with his long white finger touched christian's wrist. for a few moments he watched the uneasy movements of his flushed face, and then he turned aside, without, however, leaving the bedside. here again there seemed to be no fear or thought of infection.

the sub-prior stood behind him with clasped hands, while rené, who had risen from his seat, was near at hand.

“this man, my father,” said the provincial coldly, “must not die. you must take every care, and spare no expense or trouble. if it is necessary you can have doctors from nantes. i will bear every expense, and i shall be grieved to hear of his death!”

then he turned to leave the cell. he was a busy man, and his visit had already lasted nearly three minutes.

rené drucquer stepped forward hurriedly. he was between his superior and the door, so that he was in a position to command attention.

“my father,” he pleaded, “may i nurse him?”

the provincial raised his eyebrows almost imperceptibly; then he waved his hand, commanding the young priest to stand aside.

“no,” he said softly, “you must leave for nantes in half-an-hour,” and he passed out into the noiseless corridor.