The foot is fleet when conscience spurs it on,
And fear of death is calling in one’s trail,
Then lonely country roads and midnight dark
Seem better than the torch-illumined park,
Where smiling faces even a stranger hail
On gala-nights in merry old London.
And to possess a trusted friend, in flight,
Who knows the road and place of safe retreat,
Is more than thousand when all things are well,
His whispered counsel more than when they yell
Their loud approval in the hour of heat,
While wine is flowing, on a banquet night.
The boy did follow him, and strange to tell,
The monk had offered him his services,
And led the way, for much he traversed had
The country near and far. Sordino, glad
To grasp this straw of help in his distress,
Did follow him through lane and murky dell.
Amid its trees a hermit’s hut did stand,
Upon whose door the monk three times did knock;
“Who’s there?” a voice did clearly ask within,
The monk replied: “Thy well-known brother Quinn;”
The door did ope, a man in cloister-frock
Appeared with light and crucifix in hand.
“Grant to us all a shelter over night,
True sons of Holy Church, though fugitives,
Not without recompense shall be thy care,
For though we nothing in our hands do bear,
This gentleman no favors e’er receives,
Without a thanks which lingers with delight.”
“I do not covet payment for a favor,”
The hermit answered, “hospitality
Is but a duty upon all enjoined,
And deeds of kindness into lucre coined
Cannot in heaven as holy treasures be
Stored up, since of man’s selfishness they savor.”
“But I would know who comes to hermit’s cot,
With fear upon his face and hard of breath.”
To which the monk replied: “A man of rank
From that most classic land, where Dante drank
From the clear fountain which o’ercometh death,
Gives hope to hearts whose is the exile’s lot.”
“As ’neath the temple in Jerusalem
A fountain issued forth all sweet and clear,
So doth from mother-church a well-spring flow,
And all who drink thereof must feel the glow
Of life within which makes them see and hear
The joy that trembles round Christ’s diadem.”
“His quest is to regain some precious bells,
That blessed his land, to whom his soul is wed,--
And on his painful journey he has found
The man who stole them, brought him to the ground;
From dire avengers he has justly fled,
Protect him thou, lest him some villain quell.”
The hermit promised him his hut’s protection,
And of a secret cave beneath a tree,
Meanwhile the monk and page should preparation
Make for departure to that stalwart nation,
Whose melodies, one with its history,
Have from its sacred lore the true inflection.