his murderous hands, the blessed sacrifice of the Mass.

The death of the Lady Margaret, slain by lying tongues, and the sudden
sight of that evil man, Brother Thomas, raised to power and place, drove
me from France, and I was certain years with the King's ambassadors at
the Courts of Italy. There I heard how the Holy Inquisition had reversed
that false judgment of the English and false French at Rouen, which made
me some joy. And then, finding old age come upon me, I withdrew to my
own country, where I have lived in religion, somewhile in the Abbey of
Dunfermline, and this year gone in our cell of Pluscardine, where I now
write, and where I hope to die and be buried.

Here ends my tale, in my Latin Chronicle left untold, of how a Scots Monk
was with the Maid both in her victories and recoveries of towns, and even
till her death.

For myself, I now grow old, and the earthly time to come is short, and
there remaineth a rest for all souls Christian. Miscreants I have heard
of, men misbelieving and heretics, who deny that the spirit abides after
the death of the body, for in the long years, say they, the spirit with
the flesh wanes, and at last dies with the bodily death. Wherein they
not only make Holy Church a liar, but are visibly confounded by this
truth which I know and feel, namely, that while my flesh wastes hourly
towards old age, and of many things my memory is weakened, yet of that
day in Chinon I mind me as clearly, and see my love as well, and hear her
sweet voice as plain, as if she had but now left the room.

Herein my memory does not fail, nor does love faint, growing stronger
with the years, like the stream as it races to the fall. Wherefore,
being more strong than Time, Love shall be more strong than Death. The
river of my life speeds yearly swifter, the years like months go by, the
months like weeks, the weeks like days. Even so fleet on, O Time, till I
rest beside her feet! Nay, never, being young, did I more desire my
love's presence when we were apart than to-day I desire it, the memory of
her filling all my heart as fragrance of flowers fills a room, till it
seems as if she were not far away, but near me, as I write of her. And,
foolish that I am! I look up as if I might see her by my side. I know
not if this be so with all men, for, indeed, I have asked none, nor
spoken to any of the matter save in confession. For I have loved this
once, and no more; wherefore I deem me happier than mos