to eat with keen appetite, and his
strength increased hour by hour. On a Sunday, after the office of the
third hour, Marcus cheerily gave him permission to rise. This prompted
Basil to inquire whether his man, who had come with him, was still in
the monastery. Marcus, with eyes averted, gave a nod. Might he speak
with him, Basil asked. Presently, presently, was the answer. Marcus
himself aided the convalescent to dress; then having seated him in a
great chair of rude wickerwork, used only on occasions such as this,
left him to bask in a beam of sunshine. Before long, his meal was
brought him, and with it a book, bound in polished wood and metal,
which he found to be a Psalter. Herein, when he had eaten, he read for
an hour or so, not, however, without much wandering of the thoughts. He
had fallen into reverie, when his door opened, and there appeared
before him the Abbot Benedict.
Basil started up, stood for a moment in agitation, then sank upon his
knees, with head reverently bowed.
'Rise, rise, my son,' spoke the voice which had so moved him in his
vision of a week ago, a voice subdued by years, but perfectly steady
and distinct. 'Our good brother Marcus assures me that I may talk with
you a little while without fear of overtasking your strength--nay, sit
where you were, I pray you. Thanks be to God, I need not support for my
back.'
So saying, the abbot seated himself on the stool, and gazed at Basil
with a smile of infinite benevolence.
'Your face,' he continued, 'speaks to me of a time very far away. I see
in it the presentment of your father's father, with whom, when he was
much of your age, I often talked. His mother had a villa at Nursia, the
home of my youth. Once he turned aside from a journey to visit me when
I dwelt at Sublaqueum.'
The reminiscence checked his tongue he kept silence for a moment,
musing gravely.
'But these are old stories, my Basil, and you are young. Tell me
somewhat of your parents, and of your own life. Did not your good
father pass away whilst at Constantinople?'
Thus, with perfect simplicity, with kindliest interest in things human,
did Benedict draw the young man into converse. He put no question that
touched on the inner life, and Basil uttered not a word concerning his
late distress, but they touched for a moment upon public affairs, and
Basil learnt, without show of special interest, that Totila still
lingered in Campania.
'Your follower, Deodatus,' said the abbot
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