The train slowed down. She rose. The breath of the mountains was upon her now, solemn and mystic. Above her, in the dusk, they loomed massive and upright, like great giants. Past their base the footsteps of at least one saint had gone; the way was wet with the blood of pilgrims. The place of suffering—made by sufferers. Well, she had earned her right of entry. *CHAPTER IV* "The perfect beauty of the body and soul thou saved In thy passion for God’s sake, He who is Pity. Was the trial sore?—temptation sharp? Thank God a second time. Why comes temptation but for man to meet And master and make crouch beneath his foot, And so be pedestaled in triumph?"—R. B. BROWNING. A night of stupor, in which Evelyn lay wide-eyed, staring out into the darkness, feeling the close presence of the mountains, whose solemn force penetrated even her bare bedroom. A day of comparative peace followed; of quiet detachment. The tranquil life was broken only by the sound of the convent bell. At the back of the convent was a garden of roses which reminded her of the Valley of Vision in the Bible—roses, miraculously brought, said the legend, from a great distance. They had once bloomed white, but a drop of our Lord’s blood, flowing from the Cross at Calvary, had stained them red. The rosery was backed by long lines of hills, each separate hill converged to a point; there were terraces full of perfume and colour, supernatural in their silence. Everything about her breathed prayer and sacrifice. In the chapel, of course, the twin forces concentrated; one expected as much—but they were visible, too, in the quietude of the deep ravines, bordered with ilex and box, the huge gorges, and in the little hermitage, to which a way was found by means of a path most perilous. Here—at the Cueva de Garin—she found a painted figure on the wall depicting a hermit who, having travelled there on hands and knees, lived on in that position till his death. Only the greatest love, only the greatest suffering can be laid on the altar of Monserrato. It is like the corridor of Eternity; immortal life is only just beyond. The hours crawled by sluggishly, wearily; Evelyn scarcely knew how. The monks offered the actual lodging free, but near at hand there was a _fonda_ where simple fare could easily be obtained. It was not easy to think of the little ordinary conveniences of life in Monserrato; they scarcely seemed to matter; and Evelyn, setting out early next afternoon, began to make her pilgrimage towards the summit of the mountains, with labouring breath and faltering footsteps, unmindful of the fact that she had not tasted food for many hours.