body about. I had to find my own way. But when I
had gained the refectory, I saw a monk standing by the door.

"It was my wraith waiting for me.

"Silently he went before me to the great door of the building. He opened
it, and we stepped out upon the rocky plateau on which the snow lay
thickly. He closed the door behind us, and motioned me to attend him
among the rocks till we were out of sight of the monastery. Then he
stopped, and we faced one another, still without a word, the grey light
of the wintry dawn clothing us so wearily, so plaintively.

"We gazed at each other, dark face to dark face, brown eyes to brown
eyes. The monk's pale hands, my hands, were clenched. The monk's strong
lips, my lips, were set. The two souls looked upon each other, there, in
the dawn.

"And then at last he spoke in French, and with the beautiful voice I
knew.

"'Whence have you come?' he said.

"'From England, father.'

"'From England? Then you live! you live. You are a man, as I am! And I
have believed you to be a spirit, some strange spirit of myself, lost to
my control, interrupting my prayers with your cries, interrupting my
sleep with your desires. You are a man like myself?'

"He stretched out his hand and touched mine.

"'Yes; it is indeed so,' he murmured.

"'And you,' I said in my turn, 'are no spirit. Yet, I, too, believed you
to be a wraith of myself, interrupting my sins with your sorrow,
interrupting my desires with your prayers. I have seen you. I have
imagined you. And now I find you live. What does it mean? For we are as
one and yet not as one.'

"'We are as two halves of a strangely-mingled whole,' he answered. 'Do
you know what you have done to me?'

"'No, father.'

"'Listen,' he said. 'When a boy I dedicated myself to God. Early, early
I dedicated myself, so that I might never know sin. For I had heard
that the charm of sin is so great and so terrible that, once it is
known, once it is felt, it can never be forgotten. And so it can make
the holiest life hideous with its memories. It can intrude into the very
sanctuary like a ghost, and murmur its music with the midnight mass.
Even at the elevation of the Host will it be present, and stir the heart
of the officiator to longing so keen that it is like the Agony of the
Garden, the Agony of Christ. There are monks here who weep because they
dare not sin, who rage secretly like beasts--because they will not sin.'

"He paused. The grey light grew over the