With supplication and praise the Mass went forward. At the Elevation of the Sacred Host, Michael raised his head a moment. He could not see the White Disc held high in the Abbot’s hands. But, with the inner sight of faith, he saw a Figure standing before the altar, saw the gleaming Robe, the Grave Eyes, and the Wound upon the Generous Hand stretched out to him.... Truly, as Brother Hilary had said, it was his birthday. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER XXV AN ORCHARD EGOIST WHEN Peregrine left Dieuporte he struck straight through the valley between the wooded slopes of the hills. The autumn morning was very fair, as we have seen. This, added to his recent escape from blackness, lent zest to his spirit. For the first time for many a long month he found his heart going out to Nature. It winged freely to meet her, as a bird escaped from a cage. He welcomed the breath of the wind upon his forehead, he exulted in the sunshine, in the good clean smell of the earth around him. Extraordinarily light-hearted, he pursued his way, giving gay greeting to peasants as he passed them at cottage doors. The intoxication of the morning caught him; he was drunk with its beauty and brightness. Around him lay orchards aglow with red and russet apples. In one, a girl was standing on a rough ladder, gathering the fruit into a blue apron. As she worked she sang: “_When Autumn brings her goodly store Of fruit and corn to ev’ry door, We garner all with care. Then bird and beast and man always, Throughout the colder, bleaker days, The harvesting shall share._ “_When Autumn purple, gold, and red, Brings to us Winter’s daily bread In glowing croft and field, We bless the rain that watered earth, The sun that brought the crops to birth, A gracious store to yield._ “_When Autumn bids the brown leaves fall, When earth half drowsing hears her call To sleep through Winter days, We gather all there is of good, Of earth’s most bounteous wholesome food, Give God the heartfelt praise._” She sang in a low round contralto, a voice as ripe as her beauty. Peregrine, plucking the tabor from beneath his cloak, joined in with the last verse. She turned her head at the sound, gave him a gay good-morning at the end of words and music. “So you are a musician,” quoth she. “Of a sort,” smiled Peregrine. “No bad sort,” she returned with a motherly air which sat well on her. “Sing you to me.” “What should I sing?” demanded Peregrine. “That which likes you,” returned the girl. “We ever perform best that which pleases us most.”