ABBOT HILARY came riding through Thorn Wood when the morning was yet young. Matters ecclesiastic having taken him from Dieuporte three days previously, he was now returning to it. Going leisurely enough, conning his breviary as he rode, he found time to sniff the good morning air, mark the chequered lights and shadows on the moss and on the tree trunks.

A portly man this Abbot, shrewd-eyed and kindly. Big-voiced, you heard his tones quaking an’ they thundered forth reproof: solemn in absolution, you heard them like a deep-toned bell guiding you to harbourage from storm. With a heart as big as his voice, he loved mankind hugely; found excuse for the sinner even while he denounced the sin. His brain, alert within his massive head, was quick to detect lying and fraud. This he hated very deeply, as generous men hate such dealings. He loved the open air and God’s sunshine, his mind as healthy as his robust body.

Riding now leisurely enough, muttering Latin psalm the while he rode, his eye roving now and again from the open page of his breviary to the dappled sunlight around him, he checked his horse on a sudden, bringing the Latin phrase on his tongue to a like halt.

At the foot of a tree he saw a white-faced boy stretched upon the ground. His attitude showed exhaustion; the whiteness of his face faintness possibly akin to death.

Abbot Hilary was off his horse in a trice, despite the somewhat unwieldiness of his size. Hitching the bridle to a crooked branch of a tree he made over to the boy, came down on his knees beside him. Slipping his fingers beneath the doublet he satisfied himself that life was not extinct, and thereupon fell to chafing the child’s hands. A crackling in the bushes behind him stayed this business for a moment, brought his head round to see who was approaching.

From out the trees came a tall man garbed in motley, bearing a broad leaf carefully in his hands. On seeing the figure by the boy, Peregrine came quickly forward. Heeding the bearing of the leaf less well the water it contained trickled from it to the ground.

“Let the child be!” cried Peregrine very sternly.

The Abbot got to his feet, faced him, a big man astounded.

“Truly,” he said on a tone conciliatory, “I meant the boy no ill. Seeing him lying there fainting and alone, I but sought to restore him to consciousness.”

“I crave your pardon,” said Peregrine quickly, very apologetic, “I thought ’twas another knelt beside him: one with whose company we may very well dispense.” He looked now ruefully at his leaf. “And like a fool I’ve spilled the water,” he remarked.

“You fetched it from the stream yonder,” said the Abbot, knowing Thorn Wood well, every inch on it. “Methinks ’twere simpler matter to carry the child to the stream than bring the stream to the child. In the first case we can be more lavish with our restorative.”

Peregrine laughed. “You speak very truly,” quoth he.

The Abbot picked up the fainting boy from the ground, lifting him as though he lifted a mere featherweight, and straightway made off in strides among the trees, Peregrine following in his wake.

Down by the water,—a narrow silver stream flowing among ferns and mosses,—they laved the boy’s temples and wrists, got drops between his lips. Anon he came to himself, sat up somewhat feebly.

“I will come on the instant,” he cried faintly, his mind back at the place he had left.

“Tut, tut,” spoke Peregrine soothingly, “never trouble yourself, child. There’s no more coming and going for you at that scoundrel’s bidding.”

“Ah, I forgot,” cried the boy fetching a deep breath of relief. “Who else is here?” he asked on a sudden.

“Rightly speaking,” said Peregrine smiling at the Abbot, “I know not myself. But assuredly ’tis one who has befriended you very well.”

The Abbot laughed, big-voiced and hearty. “I am one Hilary at your service, Abbot of Dieuporte,” said he. “Methinks ’twere well you both accompanied me thither, that this child may there gain rest from evident over-fatigue.”

This proposal fell well enough on Peregrine’s ears as far as it concerned the boy. For his own part he had yet further to travel, though he was willing enough to accompany them to the place, wherever it might chance to be. Keeping his own plans silent for the moment, however, he acceded readily enough to the Abbot’s suggestion. Picking up the boy again, the Abbot led the way back to his horse.

“Do you mount,” said he to Peregrine, “and take the lad before you. Methinks you, too, have done walking enough for the present.”

Here Peregrine demurred somewhat, being loth to take such summary possession of the other’s horse; but the Abbot pressed his point. Presently mounted they moved on at walking pace among the trees. Lulled by the movement the boy fell asleep, lying snug in Peregrine’s arms.

“An’ it be not impertinence,” said the Abbot, “might I ask whither you two were faring when I chanced on you?”

“’Tis no impertinence,” laughed Peregrine, “yet it is a question to which I can find no answer, since truly I knew not myself.”

“Hmm!” mused the Abbot, drawing down his eyebrows.

Peregrine, seeing the boy sleeping, now began to talk more openly.

“This child,” said he, “has been in the possession of a very evil scoundrel. It is true that I have been heartily gulled by him myself. Now I know him in his true colours, which are certainly very black and filthy. Two nights agone we made our escape from him; since, we have wandered the woods, eating blackberries to stay our hunger. I can fend well enough for myself. For the boy it is another matter. Therefore I see very clearly that Providence sent you in our path.”

“Truly,” said the Abbot, “I see His guidance in all ways.”

“I do not,” returned Peregrine very frankly. “But then it is not probable that you have followed paths like to those I have traversed.”

The Abbot smiled, humorous, though grave. “I meant I saw His guidance in the paths He bids us follow. An’ stiff necked we follow those of our own choosing, methinks ’tis the Devil leads the way.”

Peregrine rubbed his chin. “There I am with you very freely. But how about this child? He found himself in paths where truly I can see none of God’s guidance, and would hesitate to say I saw the Devil’s leading, since assuredly the path was no choice of the boy’s.”

Abbot Hilary mused, looking down among the trees. “God has His Own methods,” he said presently. “At times He leads by strange paths, which, were they of our own choosing, would soil us sadly; but, since for some hidden purpose of His Own He takes us by them, He leads us through the mire undefiled.”

Peregrine nodded quick assent. “Here you have given clear tongue to the matter. The child that lies in my arms has been present with evil, yet he is not evil. Unwittingly he has taken part in the worst sacrilege, yet he is no sacrilegist. Thus much I have learned from him. How he came to such straights he knows not. He has no memory for aught but the place from which I brought him. An’ you can gain full speech from him as he gave it to me, and cleanse his mind from memory of past foulness, ’twill be well for his soul.”

For a few moments the Abbot made no answer. Then he said quietly, “What do you propose for the boy?”

“That he remain with you,” returned Peregrine on the instant. “In the first place, I am no fit company for him; in the second place, he is blind and needs safe harbourage; in the third place, he should learn forgetfulness of the past, which you can teach him.”

“And how for yourself?” replied the Abbot smiling.

Peregrine’s face fell to rigid lines.

“For myself, I have a quest before me; perchance a goal to reach. Twice I have been deluded, put off the track. It may be death will overtake me e’er the quest be fulfilled. That must be as will be. I only know I must pursue it.”

The Abbot was silent a while, his eyes bent upon the ground. Methinks, by the movement of his lips, he uttered some inward prayer. Anon he spoke kindly.

“You spoke of a goal perchance to be reached. How know you that same goal lies not at Dieuporte? For my part I have a very fair inkling that it is so.”

Peregrine shook his head. “You may be right, but I do not think it is. Yet, an’ you will take the boy, you will be doing a goodly deed.”

“That I will do readily enough,” replied the Abbot gravely.

Here a silence fell. And so they pursued their way among the trees. Great beech trees they were; the trunks grey and purple, flecked with green and silver; the leaves russet and brown, toned by the touch of autumn. Long shaded glades stretched on either hand. Now and again a rabbit scuttled down one of them. Small stirrings among the undergrowth bespoke the presence of dormice, squirrels, and other woodland creatures. The silence was occasionally broken by the harsh note of a pheasant.

Anon ascending somewhat, and the trees thinning, they had glimpse between them of a valley beyond lying in autumn sunlight. Here there were more woods, blue in the hazy distance. Coming from among the trees, Peregrine had sight of grey towers in the valley; judged, and rightly, it was Dieuporte lying in its peaceful shelter. Now they began to descend. The way led adown a lane bordered on either hand by blackberry bushes laden with dark luscious fruit. At the bottom a stream crossed it, stepping stones affording traverse for foot passengers. Now the road widened, lying between sedgy meadows, where cows stood in the shadow of the willows. After a mile or so it turned leftwards, and here Dieuporte lay straight before them.

The sight of its grey towers stirred Peregrine strangely. For a moment he found himself ready to believe the Abbot’s words, to see his goal within the quiet place. Now I know not precisely why he put the thought aside; but, methinks that being twice deluded by the words of men, he had no mind to find himself deluded a third time; thought rather to trust to his own self in the matter. Yet, for all that, the sight of the place moved him strangely, as I have said. He felt like a man travelling in very barbarous lands come within sight of a home. And further, felt that within that home dwelt one long desired, long needed, yet never attained. Some mighty power seemed to draw him to it even while his spirit rebelled.

Telling himself imagination and illusion were present with him, he set himself to combat it. Had not bitterness from past disappointment been present with him, perchance he might have read some omen in the still hush of the autumn air, have found in it a tenseness as of expectant waiting. The red-dyed leaves hung motionless on the trees above him as he rode, rusty, stained as though with blood. The combat within his soul was sharp and fierce. His own will gained the mastery. He strangled the thought, flung it aside as rank sentiment. A little breeze passed around him, stirring the leaves on the trees. It came like a breath of regret. Perchance Abbot Hilary recognized it unwittingly, for he sighed.

The boy moved in Peregrine’s arms, yawned, and presently awakened.

“Where are we?” he asked.

“At a place where you will be in safety and well tended,” returned Peregrine.

“You will be with me?” asked the child very anxious. And the Abbot waited for the answer.

“Nay,” responded Peregrine. “I have further to travel. But you need have no fear. An’ I were not assured of your welfare I would not leave you. You will bide here.”

There was finality in the words which the child did not gainsay. Too long had command been known to him for him to be unwitting of its tone. Peregrine felt him tremble in his arms, but no word came from his lips.

The Abbot knocked upon the Mercy Door. It opened, showing a lay brother standing within.

“Take the horse,” said the Abbot to him after a word of greeting.

The brother departed with it, the Abbot turned to Peregrine.

“You are determined to continue your journey?”

“I am determined,” replied Peregrine briefly.

“Ah, well,” returned the Abbot cheerfully, “God’s times are not always as ours. You will at least wait till I send food to you here. You have fasted long enough, methinks. Blackberries make but poor sustenance. You may rest assured of the boy’s welfare. You did good service when you rescued him. Farewell, my son, and God speed you on your quest.” He paused a moment, looked at him very searchingly. “An’ I were to prophesy,” he said smiling, “I should tell of your coming to your goal e’er long. Fare you well.” He passed across the courtyard, his hand on the child’s shoulder.

Anon, with a well-filled wallet, Peregrine turned his back on Dieuporte, made his way adown the valley.