“When daylight came at last,” he said, “the shadow had left your lips. I think that night was the worst; it was then that you were nearer ... nearer than at any other time.” Christian Vellacott was strong enough now to take his usual interest in outward things. With the writer's instinct he went through the world looking round him, always studying men and things, watching, listening, and storing up experience. The Provincial interested him greatly, but he did not dare to show his curiosity; he hesitated to penetrate the darkness that surrounded the man's life, past, present, and future. In a minor degree the taciturn sub-prior arrested his attention. The old monk was in a communicative humour, and the Englishman led him on a little without thinking much about the fairness of it. “Did your brother die?” he asked sympathetically. “He died,” was the reply. “Yes, my son, he died--died cursing the tyrant's bullet in his lungs. He threw away his life in a vain attempt to alter human nature, to set straight that which is crooked and cannot be set straight. He sought to bring about at once that which cometh not until the lion shall eat straw like an ox. See, my son, that you do not attempt the same.” “I think,” said Christian, after a pause, “that we all try a little, and perhaps some day a great accumulation of little efforts will take place. You, my father, have tried as well!” The monk slowly shook his head, without, however, any great display of conviction. “I was not always a monk,” he said, as if seeking to excuse a bygone folly. It was nearly dark now. The birds were silent, and only the whispering of the crisp, withering leaves broke the solemn hush of eventide. The two men sat side by side without speaking. They had learnt to know each other fairly well during the last weeks--so well that between them silence was entirely restful. At length Christian moved restlessly. He had reached that stage of convalescence where a position becomes irksome after a short time. It was merely a sign of returning strength. “Where is the Abbé Drucquer,” he asked abruptly. “He left us some time ago,” was the guarded reply. “He spoke of going abroad,” said Christian, deliberately ignoring the sub-prior's tone. “The Father Provincial told me that the Abbé had gone abroad--to India--to spread there the Holy Light to such as are still in darkness.” The young journalist thought that he detected again a faint suggestion of antagonism in the sub-prior's voice. The manner in which the information was imparted was almost an insult to the Provincial. It was a repetition of his words, given in such a manner that had the speaker been a man of subtle tongue it would have implied grave doubt.