There were no chanting monks with flaming tapers, but the returning sun spoke to them of nature--awake again after its long sleep--and of little brown seeds, hidden away in the ground all winter, now bursting forth into beauty and fragrance, every seed having its own body. "I am the resurrection and the life"--how glorious those words sounded as echoed by a thousand voices in that grand cathedral of God’s own handiwork! Every budding branch, every flower, every tiny blade of grass the mourners crushed beneath their feet was to them a witness of that fact. We, who have all our lives been used to the consolation which the pure gospel gives to all thoughts connected with death, can hardly imagine what were the Benedictine’s feelings when he stood by that little grave, and read that glorious funeral anthem, the fifteenth chapter of Corinthians, for the first time in his mother tongue. It was all new and striking to him. He had now no need to let his mind dwell on a fearful purgatory, from which the departed soul could only be released by the prayers and penances of living friends. He now knew that all connection had ceased between the disembodied spirit and those it had left behind. In due time they might go to it, but it was at that very moment safe in its Saviour’s bosom, whence none could pluck it away. The soothing effect of the scene and the simple service was felt in every heart; and when at last they saw Bertrand arrange the last sod that covered the dear one from their eyes, there were no outbursts of grief; for the peace which is not of this world, and therefore over which the prince of this world has no power, was upon them, and rested in each soul. No tombstone marked the spot; they did not even dare to raise a mound, lest the precious remains should be desecrated; but each, as he passed by, laid on it a handful of the sweet spring flowers. Those who loved him knew where he lay, and God would guard the ashes of his saint.