Marjorie Bowen

“ BLAISE Ambrose of Menthon and his meek and humble follower rested at Châlons, on their way to Paris. For many weeks they had begged from door to door, sleeping in some hermit's cell or by the roadside when the severity of the bitter nights permitted, occasionally finding shelter in a wayside convent. So patient, so courageous before hardship, so truly sad and remorseful, so grateful for the distant chance of ultimate pardon was Dirk, that the saint grew to love the penitent vagabond. No one eager to look for it could have found any fault with his behaviour ”

“ The saint, rejoicing in his penitence, suggested that he should enter the convent whither they journeyed with the tidings of the holy youth's death, and Dirk consented with humble gratitude. And so they passed through Châlons, and rested in a deserted hut overlooking the waters of the Marne.
Having finished their scanty meal they were seated together under the rough shelter; the luxury of a fire was denied their austerity; a cold wind blew in and out of the ill-built doors, and a colourless light filled the mean bare place. ”

“ The priests stopped, the "amens" still trembling on their lips.
"Ambrose of Menthon lies within your gates a dying man," said Dirk meekly and sadly.
With little exclamations of awe and grief the grey-clad figures followed him to where the saint lay.
"He has done with his body," said an old monk, holding up the dying man. The flushed sky faded behind them; the saint stirred and half opened his eyes.
"Blaise," he whispered. "Blaise"—he tried to point to Dirk who knelt at his feet—"he will tell you." His eyes closed again, he strove to pray ”