The prior was old and wasted; for fifty years he had lived in the desert Castilian plain in the little monastery--all through his youth and manhood, through his age; and now he was older than anyone at San Lucido. White haired and wrinkled, but with a clear, rosy skin like a boy's; his soft blue eyes had shone with light, but a cataract had developed, and gradually his sight had left him till he could barely see the crucifix in his cell and the fingers of his hand; at last he could only see the light. But the prior did not lose the beautiful serenity of his life; he was always happy and kind; and feeling that his death could not now be very distant, he was filled with a heavenly joy that he would shortly see the face of God. Long hours he sat in his chair looking at the light with an indescribably charming smile hovering on his lips. His voice broken by sobs, Brother Jasper told his story, while the prior gently stroked the young man's hands and face. 'Oh, father, make me believe!' 'One cannot force one's faith, my dear. It comes, it goes, and no man knows the wherefore. Faith does not come from reasoning; it comes from God.... Pray for it and rest in peace.' 'I want to believe so earnestly. I am so unhappy!' 'You are not the only one who has been tried, my son. Others have doubted before you and have been saved.' 'But if I died to-night--I should die in mortal sin.' 'Believe that God counts the attempt as worthy as the achievement.' 'Oh, pray for me, father, pray for me! I cannot stand alone. Give me your strength.' 'Go in peace, my son; I will pray for you, and God will give you strength!' Jasper went away. Day followed day, and week followed week; the spring came, and the summer; but there was no difference in the rocky desert of San Lucido. There were no trees to bud and burst into leaf, no flowers to bloom and fade; biting winds gave way to fiery heat, the sun beat down on the plain, and the sky was cloudless, cloudless--even the nights were so hot that the monks in their cells gasped for breath. And Brother Jasper brooded over the faith that was dead; and in his self-torment his cheeks became so hollow that the bones of his face seemed about to pierce the skin, the flesh shrunk from his hands, and the fingers became long and thin, like the claws of a vulture. He used to spend long hours with the prior, while the old man talked gently, trying to bring faith to the poor monk, that his soul might rest. But one day, in the midst of the speaking, the prior stopped, and Jasper saw an expression of pain pass over his face. 'What is it?' 'Nothing, my son,' he replied, smiling.... 'We enter the world with pain, and with pain we leave it!' 'What do you mean? Are you ill? Father! father!' The prior opened his mouth and showed a great sloughing sore; he put Jasper's fingers to his neck and made him feel the enlarged and hardened glands. 'What is it? You must see a surgeon.'