'Go! I will not kill you. I despise you too much.'
He did not move, but stood as if he were turned to stone, still
terror-stricken and afraid. Then, in my contempt, I took a horn of water
and flung it over him.
'You look pale, my friend,' I said. 'Here is water to mix with your
wine.'
Then I leant back and burst into a shout of laughter, and I laughed till
my sides ached, and I laughed again.
I threw down money to pay for my entertainment, and went out. But as I
bestrode my horse and we recommenced our journey along the silent roads
I felt my head ache worse than ever. All enjoyment was gone; I could
take no pleasure in life. How long would it last? How long? I rode along
under the mid-day sun, and it fell scorching on my head; the wretched
beast trotted with hanging head, his tongue lolling out of his mouth,
parched and dry. The sun beat down with all the power of August, and
everything seemed livid with the awful heat. Man and beast had shrunk
away from the fiery rays, the country folk were taking the noonday rest,
the cattle and the horses sheltered by barns and sheds, the birds were
silent, and even the lizards had crept into their holes. Only the horse
and I tramped along, miserably--only the horse and I. There was no
shade; the walls on either side were too low to give shelter, the road
glaring and white and dusty. I might have been riding through a furnace.
Everything was against me. Everything! Even the sun seemed to beat down
his hottest rays to increase my misery. What had I done that all this
should come to me? I clenched my fist, and in impotent rage cursed
God....
At last I saw close to me a little hill covered with dark fir trees; I
came nearer, and the sight of the sombre green was like a draught of
cool water. I could no longer bear the horror of the heat. From the main
road another smaller one led winding up the hill. I turned my horse, and
soon we were among the trees, and I took a long breath of delight in the
coolness. I dismounted and led him by the bridle; it was enchanting to
walk along the path, soft with the fallen needles, and a delicious green
smell hovered in the air. We came to a clearing, where was a little
pond; I watered the poor beast, and, throwing myself down, drank deeply.
Then I tied him to a tree and advanced a few steps alone. I came to a
sort of terrace, and going forward found myself at the edge of the hill,
looking over the plain. Behind, the tall fir trees gave me shade and
coolness; I sat down, looking at the country before me. In the cloudless
sky it seemed now singularly beautiful. Far away on one side I could see
the walls and towers of some city, and to it in broad curves wound a
river; the maze and corn, vines and olive trees, covered the land, and
in the distance I saw the soft blue mountains. Why should the world be
so beautiful, and I so miserable?
'It is, indeed, a wonderful scene.'
I looked up and saw the monk whom I had spoken with at the inn. He put
down his sack and sat by my side.
'You do not think me importunate?' he asked.
'I beg your pardon,' I replied, 'I was not civil to you; you must
forgive me. I was not myself.'
'Do not talk of it. I saw you here, and I came down to you to offer you
our hospitality.'
I looked at him questioningly; he pointed over his shoulder, and
looking, I saw, perched on the top of the hill, piercing through the
trees, a little monastery.
'How peaceful it looks!' I said.
'It is, indeed. St Francis himself used sometimes to come to enjoy the
quiet.'
I sighed. Oh, why could not I have done with the life I hated, and also
enjoy the quiet? I felt the monk was watching me, and, looking up, I met
his glance. He was a tall, thin man, with deeply-sunken eyes and hollow
cheeks. And he was pale and worn from prayer and fasting. But his voice
was sweet and very gentle.
'Why do you look at me?' I said.
'I was in the tavern when you disarmed the man and gave him his life.'
'It was not for charity and mercy,' I said bitterly.
'I know,' he answered, 'it was from despair.'
'How do you know?'
'I watched you; and at the end I said, '"God pity his unhappiness."'
I looked with astonishment at the strange man; and then, with a groan, I
said,--
'Oh, you are right. I am so unhappy.'
He took my hands in his, and with the gentleness of the mother of God
herself replied,--
'"Come unto Me all ye that are weary and heavy laden, and I will give
you rest."'
Then I could suffer my woe no longer. I buried my face in his bosom, and
burst into tears.