ether by a
vow, forsaken the world and given up all for religion. But if you were
called upon to share that life only for a month, all its supposed
mystery and charm would disappear. It only exists in the sentiment of
the thing, not in the reality. It lies in the beauty of the solitary
mountains in which the monasteries are often placed; or the splendid
architecture they occasionally preserve. In the dull monotony of a daily
round never varied, you would learn to dread the lonely cell--even as I
once dreaded it more than death itself. Hence my freedom. It will soon
be our refectory hour," looking at a small silver watch he carried
beneath his robe. "I must return or fast."

Then there came to us a bright idea. "Why leave us?" we said. "Or if you
must do so now, why not return? Would you not be allowed to dine with us
this evening? You would tell us of your past life before you became a
monk, and of your life since then. It must contain much that is
interesting. In the evening shadows you would guide us about the
mountain paths, tell us of the evil days that fell upon the monks and
their flight into the hills."

Salvador the monk smiled. "You tempt me sorely," he replied. "I should
like it much. Such a proposal has never been made to me since I put on
cloak and cowl. It would be like a short return to the world--a backward
glance into the life that is dead and buried. Then imagine the contrast
between your sumptuous repast and the bread and sweet herbs with which
we keep our bodies alive. I fear it would not be wise to awaken
memories. No, I must not think of it. But to-night I shall dream that I
have been to a banquet and walked with you in quiet paths, taking sweet
counsel. Oh, I am tempted. What a break in my life to spend a whole day
with you, and become once more, as it were, a citizen of the world! But
I will make a compromise. If you go up the mountain to-morrow morning to
see the sun rise, I will accompany you. Though a fast day, I can do
this; and I may take a modest breakfast with you."

This decided us, and we agreed to remain: it would have been cruel to
deny him. He folded his camp-stool and prepared to depart.

"You will accompany me to my door," he said, somewhat wistfully, "though
to-day I may not ask you to pass beyond."

So we wended back through the arches in the narrow passage between the
hill and monastery, and the mountain shadows fell upon us. We reached
the great quadrangle, lonely and desert