es lay about the
plain and hill-sides. In the far-off hollow slept the little town of
Monistrol, its blue smoke mingling with the clearer atmosphere. Through
all the valley the river ran its winding, silvery course on its way to
the sea.

The plateau on which we stood held the monastery buildings. Near us
stretched the gardens of the monks in cultivated terraces, and above
them, winding round the mountain was the white road leading out into the
world lying to the south of Montserrat. Again, as we looked, another
eagle soared from one of the peaks and took its slow majestic flight
across the valley, no doubt on the track of its mate, perhaps to find
out why he tarried so long. A string of boys in caps and black cloaks
left the convent and wound round the white road, conducted by a few of
the monks whose duty it was to keep watch and ward over the students.
These passed out of sight, and once more we seemed alone with nature.

But on turning back down the cypress avenue, sitting against the little
chapel we saw the Franciscan monk who had lately filled the Norman
archway. Though his breviary was open, he was not reading. His
eyes--large, dark, dreamy eyes that ought to belong to a genius--were
looking out on the mountain and the far-off sky, lost in profound
contemplation.

[Illustration: CHURCH OF MONTSERRAT.]

Of what nature were his thoughts? Introspective or retrospective? Was he
thinking of days that were past, or of the life to come? Were regret and
remorse his portion, or resignation to his present surroundings? Was he
dwelling upon some terrible Might-have-been? He looked inexpressibly
lonely, as though he and the world had parted company for ever, but
there was something singularly interesting about him. It seemed
difficult to intrude upon his solitude, as impossible to pass without
speaking.

Some influence compelled us to stop. His face was pale and refined. He
was so thin as to be almost cadaverous; not an ounce of flesh had he to
spare on his bones; there was a certain look of hunger in his large
magnificent eyes; not a hungering after the flesh-pots of Egypt, but, as
it seemed, for peace of mind and repose of soul. Grazing at the skies,
he appeared to be asking questions of the Infinite Beyond. Where was the
kingdom of Heaven and what was it like? When there came for him the
great apocalypse of the soul how would it find its way to the realms of
paradise?

We stopped in front of him, and he started a