rother Marcus, whose gifts as a healer were not less notable than his
skill in poesy. The horseman, meanwhile, as custom was with all
visitors, had been led to the oratory to hear a passage of Holy
Scripture; after which the prior poured water upon his hands, and
certain of the monks washed his feet.

Before sunset Basil lost consciousness of present things; and many days
went by before he again spoke as a sane man. When at length the fever
declined, and his head turned upon the pillow in search of a human
countenance, he saw standing beside him a venerable figure in the
monastic garb, whose visage, though wrinkled with age and thought, had
such noble vividness in its look, and wore a smile so like that of
youth in its half-playful sweetness, that Basil could but gaze
wonderingly, awestruck at once, and charmed by this unexpected
apparition.

'My son,' sounded in a voice grave and tender, 'be your first syllables
uttered to Him by whose omnipotent will you are restored to the life of
this world.'

With the obedience of a child he clasped his thin hands, and murmured
the prayer of childhood. Then the gracious figure bent over him. He
felt the touch of lips upon his forehead, and in the same moment fell
asleep.

It was night when he again woke. A little lamp revealed bare walls of
stone, a low, timbered ceiling, a floor of red tiles. Basil's eyes, as
soon as they were open, looked for the venerable figure which he
remembered. Finding no one, he thought the memory was but of a dream.
Feeling wonderfully at ease in body and calm in mind, he lay musing on
that vision of the noble countenance, doubting after all whether a
dream could have left so distinct an impression, when all at once there
fell upon his ear a far sound of chanting, a harmony so sweetly solemn
that it melted his heart and filled his eyes with tears. Not long
after, when all was silent again, he heard the sound of soft footsteps
without, and in the same moment the door of his cell opened. The face
which looked in seemed not quite unknown to him, though he could not
recall where he had seen it.

'You have slept long, dear brother,' said Marcus, with a happy smile.
'Is all well with you?'

'Well, God be thanked,' was the clear but faint reply.

The poet-physician, a small, nervous, bright-eyed man of some forty
years, sat down on a stool by the bedside and began talking cheerfully.
He had just come from matins, and was this morning excused from lauds