They were wandering through the forest in an endeavour to find the high road; the sun, nearly at its full strength, dazzled through the pines and traced figures of gold on the path they followed.

Theirry was silent; they were hungry, without money or any hope of procuring any, fatigued with the rough walking through the heat, and also, it seemed, lost; these facts were ever present to his mind; also, every step was taking him further away from Jacobea of Martzburg, and he longed to see her again, to make her notice him, speak to him; yet of his own desire he had left her castle ungraciously; these things held him bitterly silent.

But Dirk, though he was pale and weary, kept a light joyous heart; he had trust in the master he was serving.

“We shall be helped yet,” he said. “Were we not hopeless last night when one came and gave us shelter?”

Theirry did not answer.

The forest grew up the base of the mountain chain, and after a while, walking steadily, they came out upon a gorge some landslip had torn, uprooting trees and hurling aside rocks; over this bare space harshly cleared, water rippled and dripped, finding its way through fern-grown rocks and boulders until it fell into a little stream that ran across the open space of grass and was lost in the shadow of the trees.

By the side of it, on the pleasant stretch of grass, a small white horse was browsing, and a man sat near, on one of the uprooted pines.

The two students paused and contemplated him; he was a monk in a blue-grey habit; his face was infinitely sweet; with his hands clasped in his lap and his head a little raised he gazed with large, peaceful eyes through the shifting fir boughs to the blue sky beyond them.

“Of what use he!” said Theirry bitterly; since the Church had hurled him out the Devil was gaining such sure possession of his soul that he loathed all things holy.

“Nay,” said Dirk, with a little smile. “We will speak to him.”

The monk, hearing their voices, looked round and fixed on them a calm smiling gaze. “Dominus det nobis suam pacem,” he said.

Dirk replied instantly.

“Et vitam aeternam. Amen.”

“We have missed our way,” said Theirry curtly.

The monk rose and stood in a courteous, humble position.

“Can you put us on the high road, my father?” asked Dirk.

“Surely!” The monk glanced at the weary face of his questioner. “I am myself travelling from town to town, my son. And know this country well. Will you not rest a while?”

“Ay.” Dirk came down the slope and flung himself along the grass; Theirry, half sullen, followed.

“Ye are both weary and in lack of food,” said the monk gently. “Praise be to the angels that I have wherewithal to aid ye.”

He opened one of the leather bags resting against the fallen tree, took out a loaf, a knife and a cup, cut the bread and gave them a portion each, then filled the cup from the clear dripping water.

They disdained thanks for such miserable fare and ate in silence.

Theirry, when he had finished, asked for the remainder of the loaf and devoured that; Dirk was satisfied with his allowance, but he drank greedily of the beautiful water.

“Ye have come from Basle?” asked the monk.

Dirk nodded.

“And we go to Frankfort.”

“A long way,” said the monk cheerfully. “And on foot, but a pleasant journey, certes.” “Who are you, my father?” asked Theirry abruptly. “I saw you in Courtrai, surely.”

“I am Ambrose of Menthon,” answered the monk. “And I have preached in Courtrai. To the glory of God.”

Both students knew the name of Saint Ambrose.

Theirry flushed uneasily.

“What do you here, father?” he asked. “I thought you were in Rome.”

“I have returned,” replied the saint humbly. “It came to me that I could serve Christus”— he crossed himself —“better here. If God His angel will it I desire to build a monastery up yonder —— above the snow.”

He pointed through the trees towards the mountains; his eyes, that were blue-grey, the colour of his habit, sparkled softly.

“A house to God His glory,” he murmured. “In the whiteness of the snows. That is my intent.” “How will you attain it, holy sir?” questioned Theirry.

Saint Ambrose did not seem to notice the mocking tone.

“I have,” he said, “already considerable moneys. I beg in the great castles, and they are generous to God His poor servant. We, my brethren and I, have sold some land. I return to them now with much gold. Deo gratias.”

As he spoke there was such a pure sweetness in his fair face that Theirry turned away abashed, but Dirk, lying on his side and pulling up the grass, answered —

“Are you not afraid of robbers, my father?”

The saint smiled.

“Nay; God His money is sacred even unto the evildoer. Surely I fear nothing.”

“There is much wickedness in the heart of man,” said Dirk. And he also smiled.

“Judge with charity,” answered Ambrose of Menthon. “There is also much goodness. You speak, my son, with seeming bitterness which showeth a soul not yet at peace. The wages of the world are worthless, but God giveth immortality.”

He rose and began fastening the saddle bags on the pony; as his back was turned Theirry and Dirk exchanged a quick look.

Dirk rose from the grass and spoke.

“May we, my father, come with you, as we know not the way?”

“Surely!” The saint looked at them, his eyes fixed half yearningly on Theirry’s beautiful face. “Ye are most welcome to my poor company.”

The little procession started through the pine forest; Ambrose of Menthon, erect, spare, walking lightly with untroubled face and leading the white pony, burdened with the saddle bags containing the gold; Theirry, sombre, silent, striding beside him, and Dirk, a little behind, in his flame-coloured mantle, his eyes bright in a weary face.

Saint Ambrose spoke, beautifully, on common things; he spoke of birds, of St. Hieronymus and his writings, of Jovinian and his enemy Ambrose of Milan, of Rufinus and Pelagius the Briton, of Vigilantius and violets, with which flowers, he said, the first court of Paradise was paved.

Dirk answered with a learning, both sacred and profane, that surprised the monk; he knew all these writers, all the fathers of the Church and many others, he quoted from them in different tongues; he knew Pagan philosophies and the history of the old world; he argued theology like a priest and touched on geometry, mathematics, astrology.

“Ye have a vast knowledge,” said Saint Ambrose, amazed; and in his heart Theirry was jealous.

And so they came, towards evening, on to the road and saw in a valley beneath them a little town.

All three halted.

The Angelus was ringing, the sound came sweetly up the valley.

Saint Ambrose sank on his knees and bowed his head; the students fell back among the trees. “Well?” whispered Dirk.

“It is our chance,” frowned Theirry in the same tone. “I have been thinking of it all day —” “I also; there is much money...”

“We could get it without...blood?”

“Surely, but if need be even that.”

Their eyes met; in the pleasant green shade they saw each other’s excited faces.

“It is God His money,” murmured Theirry.

“What matter for that, if the Devil be stronger?”

“Hush! the Angelus ends.”

“Now — we join him.”