He paused for a moment. The philosopher’s eyes had fallen; his sneer was gone; he had not a word to say. The hermit turned to the thief, who sat next in the circle, and shot his next words at him. “And thou, I know thine ailment, and why thou hast no Christmas joy in thy feast! Thou hast stolen money in thy scrip and a bad conscience in thy breast.” The man with the shifty eyes gripped his wallet tight and turned pale under his tan. “Nay, friend thief,” said the hermit more gently, “this is no court of law. There is no judge here but thy God. Thou art afraid to meet the Christ-child when thou comest to judgment; that is why thou hast no joy in this Christmas-tide. Clear conscience doth make glad heart. Get thee back and restore what thou hast stolen!” His eyes sought those of him of the melancholy countenance, but the man would not look up. Nevertheless the hermit addressed him, knowing that he heard. “And thou, Sir Melancholy, methinks I know thy sorrow. Thou dost think thyself disillusioned. Sorrow has come thy way, and loneliness. Thy friends have proven no friends at all. And because thou hast lost faith in man, thou hast lost faith in God, and thou hast forgotten the faith of thy childhood. Thou hast drunk wormwood and therefore thou dost curse God.” The man had lifted his head and was gazing at him, his embittered hungry soul in his eyes. The hermit’s tone softened. “Oh, thou poor soul!” he said, “thou hast done the very opposite to what thou shouldst have done. For instead of false friends thou hast a Friend divine. Thy house is empty; yet thy Friend but keeps thy dear ones for thee till thou comest. Thou hast looked only at the things which are seen; but lift thine eyes! look thou at the things which are not seen, the eternal things of God! Then hast thou, even thou, bereaved and lonely, joy in the Birthday of thy Lord!” He ceased speaking. Suddenly the other bowed his head upon his arms and was shaken by great tearing sobs. They sat in silence until he raised his head and said, brokenly, and trying to smile, “Thou hast wrought a miracle, father! These be the first tears mine eyes have known in many a year.” “I guessed as much,” the hermit said, “and tears be often the forerunners of a new joy.” The Crusader sat next in the circle. With the help of the beggar he had undone the thongs on his armor and stripped himself of his shining coat of mail. In his woolen shirt, worn and marked with rust, he was a picture of stalwart strength, with knotted muscles and heavy shoulders. “Thou,” began the hermit, “thou, Sir Knight, hast been to Jerusalem, across yonder waters, to protect the sepulcher of thy Lord Christ, whose Birthday this is. And thou dost not know thy Lord; wherefore thou hast no joy in Him.” “Not know my Lord!” cried the knight.