“I stand like you all, convicted. We be but poor Christians all. I had thought to keep my soul pure by fleeing evil; but”—and his voice grew clear and strong—“I was wrong. I shall go back! I shall go back to serve my Lord Christ! And you, brothers? What of you all? Will ye go back with me to serve our Lord and our brothers?” He looked around the little circle. None answered for a moment; then the sorrowful man said, “I will go.” “And I,” said the thief; and the others nodded without speaking, all save the philosopher, who sat with head bent, deep in some soul struggle. “Come,” said the merchant briskly; “an I can break my chain, so canst thou.” “Nay, friend,” said the philosopher sadly; “it is not chains, but the absence of chains, that I feel. Could I but bind my soul to thy Christ—but how can I? Can a man force his soul to accept a mystery his mind rejects?” Then spoke the sorrowful man, with a new and more cheerful tone in his voice. “Ay, that he can! That have I done but now! Truly my mind cannot see heaven and mine own in heaven; but I am weary of guesswork. I will believe and hope. And thou—with all thy knowledge thou art no wiser as to God: thy mind saveth thee not: trust thou thy faith.” “That were wisdom,” said the hermit slowly. “We speak to thee, and thou dost not bid us explain ourselves before thou wilt hear: and the Christ speaketh to thee on this his Day. Wilt thou argue? Nay, but believe!” And the philosopher looked up at them again, and his brow cleared. “Why, good father, the world was not built in a day. I will be honest with thee: I cannot believe; but I will pray Christ to help me believe. Is it enough?” “I am but a poor fool,” spoke the beggar, “and thou a philosopher, and yet—if thou dost pray to Christ thou dost believe already.” “And that, again, is wisdom,” quoth the hermit. So they sat and talked while the shadows moved ’round the mountain and the sun began to sink over the sea to the west. “When the sun goeth down we journey into the world,” the hermit said. Toward twilight they heard the footsteps of the soldier, and his bronzed face appeared at the head of the path. He halted for a moment, surveying the scene. They were on their feet, girding themselves for the descent. “What now?” he cried, when he could get his breath. The philosopher spoke for all. “We have been to school, Sir Knight, as thou hast, and we have learned that on this Christmas Day which takes us back to the world. Wilt come?” “So,” said the knight, the old twinkle in his eye; “and what hast thou learned, O wise one?” “That the joy of the Christmas feast may be found in dried peas if faith be there at table.” “And thou, Sir Beggar?” “That the joy of the Christmas feast is his who hath honest sweat upon his brow.” “And thou, Sir Merchant?” “That the joy of the Christmas feast lieth not in the viands, but in finding joy for others.” “And thou, Sir Melancholy?”