"St. Piran, honey, I've searched everywhere; an' be hanged to me if I
can find the church at all!"
"Fwhat's become av ut?" cried the saint, sitting up sharply.
"How should I know? But devil a trace can I see!"
"Now, look here," St. Piran said; "the church was there, right
enough."
"That's a true word," spoke up an old man, "for I mind it well. An
elegant tower it had, an' a shingle roof."
"Spake up, now," said the saint, glaring around; "fwich av ye's gone
an' misbestowed me parush church? For I won't believe," he said, "that
it's any worse than carelussness--at laste, not yet-a-bit."
Some remembered the church, and some did not: but the faces of all
were clear of guilt. They trooped out on the sands to search.
Now, the sands by Perranzabuloe are for ever shifting and driving
before the northerly and nor'-westerly gales; and in time had heaped
themselves up and covered the building out of sight. To guess this
took the saint less time than you can wink your eye in; but the bother
was that no one remembered exactly where the church, had stood, and as
there were two score at least of tall mounds along the shore, and all
of pretty equal height, there was no knowing where to dig. To uncover
them all was a job to last till doomsday.
"Blur-an'-agurs, but it's ruined I am!" cried St. Piran. "An' the
Visitashun no further away than to-morra at tin a.m.!" He wrung his
hands, then caught up a spade, and began digging like a madman.
They searched all day, and with lanterns all the night through: they
searched from Ligger Point to Porth Towan: but came on never a sign of
the missing church.
"If it only had a spire," one said, "there'd be some chance." But as
far as could be recollected, the building had a dumpy tower.
"Once caught, twice shy," said another; "let us find it this once, an'
next time we'll have landmarks to dig it out by."
It was at sunrise that St. Piran, worn-out and heart-sick, let fall
his spade and spoke from one of the tall mounds, where he had been
digging for an hour.
"My children," he began, and the men uncovered their heads, "my
children, we are going to be disgraced this day, and the best we can
do is to pray that we may take it like men. Let us pray."
He knelt down on the great sand-hill, and the men and women around
dropped on their knees also. And then St. Piran put up the prayer that
has made his name famous all the world over.
_THE PRAYER OF ST. PIRAN.
Harr us, O Lord, and be debonair: for ours is a particular case. We
are not like the men of St. Neot or the men of St. Udy, who are for
ever importuning Thee upon the least occasion, praying at all hours
and every day of the week. Thou knowest it is only with extreme
cause that we bring ourselves to trouble Thee. Therefore regard our
moderation in time past, and be instant to help us now. Amen_.
There was silence for a full minute as he ceased; and then the
kneeling parishioners lifted their eyes towards the top of the mound.
St. Piran was nowhere to be seen!
They stared into each other's faces. For a while not a sound was
uttered. Then a woman began to sob--
"We've lost 'en! We've lost 'en!"
"Like Enoch, he's been taken!"
"Taken up in a chariot an' horses o' fire. Did any see 'en go?"
"An' what'll we do without 'en? Holy St. Piran, come back to us!"
"Hullo! hush a bit an' hearken!" cried Andrew Penhaligon, lifting a
hand.
They were silent, and listening as he commanded, heard a muffled voice
and a faint, calling as it were from the bowels of the earth.
"Fetch a ladder!" it said: "fetch a ladder! It's meself that's found
ut, glory be to God! Holy queen av heaven! but me mouth is full av
sand, an' it's burstin' I'll be if ye don't fetch a ladder quick!"
They brought a ladder and set it against the mound. Three of the men
climbed up. At the top they found a big round hole, from the lip of
which they scraped the sand away, discovering a patch of shingle roof,
through which St. Piran--whose weight had increased of late--had
broken and tumbled heels over head into his own church.
Three hours later there appeared on the eastern sky-line, against the
yellow blaze of the morning, a large cavalcade that slowly pricked its
way over the edge and descended the slopes of Newlyn Downs. It was the
Visitation. In the midst rode St. Petroc, his crozier tucked under his
arm, astride a white mule with scarlet ear-tassels and bells and a
saddle of scarlet leather. He gazed across the sands to the sea, and
turned to St. Neot, who towered at his side upon a flea-bitten grey.
"The parish seems to be deserted," said he: "not a man nor woman can I
see, nor a trace of smoke above the chimneys."
St. Neot tightened his thin lips. In his secret heart he was mightily
pleased.
"Eight in the morning," he answered, with a glance back at the sun.
"They'll be all abed, I'll warrant you."
St. Petroc muttered a threat.
They entered the village street. Not a soul turned out at their
coming. Every cottage door was fast closed, nor could any amount of
knocking elicit an answer or entice a face to a window. In gathering
wrath the visiting saints rode along the sea-shore to St. Piran's
small hut.
Here the door stood open: but the hut was empty. A meagre breakfast of
herbs was set out on the table, and a brand new scourge lay somewhat
ostentatiously beside the platter. The visitors stood nonplussed,
looked at each other, then eyed the landscape. Between barren sea
and barren downs the beach stretched away, with not a human shape in
sight. St. Petroc, choking with impotent wrath, appeared to study the
hollow green breakers from between the long ears of his mule, but with
quick sidelong glances right and left, ready to jump down the throat
of the first saint that dared to smile.
After a minute or so St. Enodar suddenly turned his face inland, and
held up a finger.
"Hark!" he shouted above the roar of the sea.
"What is it?"
"It sounds to me," said St. Petroc, after listening for some moments
with his head on one side, "it sounds to me like a hymn."
"To be sure 'tis a hymn," said St. Enodar, "and the tune is 'Mullyon,'
for a crown." And he pursed up his lips and followed the chant,
beating time with his forefinger--
_When, like a thief, the Midianite
Shall steal upon the camp,
O, let him find our armour bright,
And oil within our lamp!_"
"But where in the world does it come from?" asked St. Neot.
This could not be answered for the moment; but the saints turned their
horses' heads from the sea, and moved slowly on the track of the
sound, which at every step grew louder and more distinct.
"_It is at no appointed hours,
It is not by the dock,
That Satan, grisly wolf, devours
The unprotected flock_"
The visitors found themselves at the foot of an enormous sand-hill,
from the top of which the chant was pouring as lava from a crater.
They set their ears to the sandy wall. They walked round it, and
listened again.
"_But ever prowls th' insidious foe,
And listens round the fold_"
This was too much. St. Petroc smote twice upon the sand-hill with his
crozier, and shouted--
"Hi, there!"
The chant ceased. For at least a couple of minutes nothing happened;
and then St. Piran's bald head was thrust cautiously forward over the
summit.
"Holy St. Petroc! Was it only you, after all? And St. Neot--and St.
Udy O, glory be!"
"Why, who did you imagine we were?" St. Petroc asked, still in
amazement.
"Why, throat-cutting Danes, to be sure, by the way you were comin'
over the hills when we spied you, three hours back. An' the trouble
we've had to cover up our blessed church out o' sight of thim
marautherin' thieves! An' the intire parish gathered inside here an'
singin' good-by songs in expectation of imminent death! An' to think
'twas you holy men, all the while! But why didn't ye send word ye was
comin', St. Petroc, darlint? For it's little but sand ye'll find in
your mouths for breakfast, I'm thinkin'."