oke of the demons that men
had worshipped for centuries in the wilderness, and whose malice they
invoked against the stranger who ventured into the gloomy forest. Gods,
they called them, and told weird tales of their dwelling among the
impenetrable branches of the oldest trees and in the caverns of the
shaggy hills; of their riding on the wind-horses and hurling spears of
lightning against their foes. Gods they were not, but foul spirits
of the air, rulers of the darkness. Was there not glory and honour
in fighting them, in daring their anger under the shield of faith, in
putting them to flight with the sword of truth? What better adventure
could a brave man ask than to go forth against them, and wrestle with
them, and conquer them?

"Look you, my friends," said Winfried, "how sweet and peaceful is this
convent to-night! It is a garden full of flowers in the heart of winter;
a nest among the branches of a great tree shaken by the winds; a still
haven on the edge of a tempestuous sea. And this is what religion
means for those who are chosen and called to quietude and prayer and
meditation.

"But out yonder in the wide forest, who knows what storms are raving
to-night in the hearts of men, though all the woods are still? who knows
what haunts of wrath and cruelty are closed tonight against the advent
of the Prince of Peace? And shall I tell you what religion means to
those who are called and chosen to dare, and to fight, and to conquer
the world for Christ? It means to go against the strongholds of the
adversary. It means to struggle to win an entrance for the Master
everywhere. What helmet is strong enough for this strife save the helmet
of salvation? What breastplate can guard a man against these fiery darts
but the breastplate of righteousness? What shoes can stand the wear of
these journeys but the preparation of the gospel of peace?"

"Shoes?" he cried again, and laughed as if a sudden thought had struck
him. He thrust out his foot, covered with a heavy cowhide boot, laced
high about his leg with thongs of skin.

"Look here,--how a fighting man of the cross is shod! I have seen the
boots of the Bishop of Tours,--white kid, broidered with silk; a day
in the bogs would tear them to shreds. I have seen the sandals that the
monks use on the highroads,--yes, and worn them; ten pair of them have
I worn out and thrown away in a single journey. Now I shoe my feet with
the toughest hides, hard as iron; no rock can cut the