e likened it to the darkness in his own soul.

'What shall I do?' he groaned.

He could not tell the monks that it was not a miracle he had seen; he
could not tell them that he had lost faith again.... And then his
thoughts wandering to the future,--

'Must I remain all my life in this cold monastery? If there is no God,
if I have but one life, what is the good of it? Why cannot I enjoy my
short existence as other men? Am not I young--am not I of the same flesh
and blood as they?'

Vague recollections came to him of those new lands beyond the ocean,
those lands of sunshine and sweet odours. His mind became filled with a
vision of broad rivers, running slow and cool, overshadowed by strange,
luxuriant trees. And all was a wealth of beautiful colour.

'Oh, I cannot stay!' he cried; 'I cannot stay!'

And it was a land of loving-kindness, a land of soft-eyed, gentle women.

'I cannot stay! I cannot stay!'

The desire to go forth was overwhelming, the walls of his cell seemed
drawing together to crush him; he must be free. Oh, for life! life! He
started up, not seeing the madness of his adventure; he did not think of
the snow-covered desert, the night, the distance from a town. He saw
before him the glorious sunshine of a new life, and he went towards it
like a blind man, with outstretched arms.

Everyone was asleep in the monastery. He crept out of his cell and
silently opened the door of the porter's lodge; the porter was sleeping
heavily. Jasper took the keys and unlocked the gate. He was free. He
took no notice of the keen wind blowing across the desert; he hurried
down the hill, slipping on the frozen snow.... Suddenly he stopped; he
had caught sight of the great crucifix which stood by the wayside at the
bottom of the hill. Then the madness of it all occurred to him. Wherever
he went he would find the crucifix, even beyond the sea, and nowhere
would he be able to forget his God. Always the recollection, always the
doubt, and he would never have rest till he was in the grave. He went
close to it and looked up; it was one of those strange Spanish
crucifixes--a wooden image with long, thin arms and legs and protruding
ribs, with real hair hanging over the shoulders, and a true crown of
thorns placed on the head; the ends of the tattered cloth fastened about
the loins fluttered in the wind. In the night the lifelikeness was
almost ghastly; it might have been a real man that hung there, with
great nails through hi