I did not touch you. Who knows what hands pulled you away? I prayed, that was all I did. I prayed very hard that you might awake. If I had not, you might have died. I wonder what it all meant? The unicorns—what did the French monk tell me?—strength they meant, virginal strength, a rushing, lasting, tireless strength. MARTIN. They were strong. Oh, they made a great noise with their trampling. FATHER JOHN. And the grapes, what did they mean? It puts me in mind of the psalm, _Et calix meus inebrians quam præclarus est_. It was a strange vision, a very strange vision, a very strange vision. MARTIN. How can I get back to that place? FATHER JOHN. You must not go back, you must not think of doing that. That life of vision, of contemplation, is a terrible life, for it has far more of temptation in it than the common life. Perhaps it would have been best for you to stay under rules in the monastery. MARTIN. I could not see anything so clearly there. It is back here in my own place the visions come, in the place where shining people used to laugh around me, and I a little lad in a bib. FATHER JOHN. You cannot know but it was from the Prince of this world the vision came. How can one ever know unless one follows the discipline of the Church? Some spiritual director, some wise learned man, that is what you want. I do not know enough. What am I but a poor banished priest, with my learning forgotten, my books never handled and spotted with the damp! MARTIN. I will go out into the fields where you cannot come to me to awake me. I will see that townland again; I will hear that command. I cannot wait, I must know what happened, I must bring that command to mind again. FATHER JOHN. [_Putting himself between MARTIN and the door._] You must have patience as the saints had it. You are taking your own way. If there is a command from God for you, you must wait His good time to receive it. MARTIN. Must I live here forty years, fifty years ... to grow as old as my uncles, seeing nothing but common things, doing work ... some foolish work? FATHER JOHN. Here they are coming; it is time for me to go. I must think and I must pray. My mind is troubled about you. [_To THOMAS as he and ANDREW come in._] Here he is; be very kind to him for he has still the weakness of a little child. [_Goes out._ THOMAS. Are you well of the fit, lad? MARTIN. It was no fit. I was away—for awhile—no, you will not believe me if I tell you. ANDREW. I would believe it, Martin. I used to have very long sleeps myself and very queer dreams. THOMAS. You had, till I cured you, taking you in hand and binding you to the hours of the clock. The cure that will cure yourself, Martin, and will waken you, is to put the whole of your mind on to your golden coach; to take it in hand and to finish it out of face. MARTIN. Not just now. I want to think—to try and remember what I saw, something that I heard, that I was told to do. THOMAS.