'_Sic transit gloria mundi,_'
Bowing his head, he passes on to his doom.
*CHAPTER XXV*
'_That being dead yet speaketh_'
Through the chiming stars, the romp of wind in woods, the gush of spring
freshets, the cheery drone of bees; through all happy gales--of innocent
frolic, of children's laughter, of sighing, unharmful passion, of joy
and gaiety ungrudging; through the associations of his gentle spirit
with these, the things it had loved, whereby, by those who had listened
and could not altogether forget, came gradually to be vindicated the
truth of his kind religion, Bernardo's voice, though grown a phantom
voice, spoke on and echoed down the ages. Sweet babble at the hill-head,
it was yet the progenitor of the booming flood which came to take the
world with knowledge--knowledge of its own second redemption through the
humanity which is born of Nature. Already Art, life's nurse and tutor,
was, unknown to itself, quickening from the embrace of clouds and
sunlight and tender foliage; while, unconscious of the strange destinies
in its womb, it was scorning and reviling the little priest who had
brought about that union.
And, alas! it is always so. Nor profit nor credit are ever to the
pioneer who opens out the countries which are to yield his followers
both.
He perished very soon. Its third night of darkness and starvation saw
the passing of that fragile spirit, gentle, innocuous, uncomplaining as
it had lived. Frail as a bird that dies of the shock of capture, he
broke his heart upon a song.
I would have no gloomy obsequies attend his fate. In tears, and
strewing of flowers, and pretty plaintive dirges of the fields--in sighs
and lutes of love, such as waited on the sweet Fidele, would I have ye
honour him. Not because I would belittle that piercing tragedy, but
because he would. It was none to him. He but turned his face for home,
sorrowing only for his failure to win to his Christ, his comrade, a
kingdom he should never have the chance to influence again. What had he
else to fear? The star that had mothered, the road that had sped him?
All grass and flowers was the latter; of the first, a fore-ray seemed
already to have pierced the darkness of his cell, linking it to heaven.
'"Let's sing him to the ground."
"I cannot sing; I'll weep, and word it with thee;
For notes of sorrow, out of tune, are worse
Than priests and fanes that lie."'
Bring hither, I say, no passion of a vengeful hate. It is the passing
of a rose in winter.