June vanished, July rode in heat, August had golden armour, September was russet clad and walked through crimson orchards and by wine presses. In Italy, by wine presses!

In the Abbey of Silver Cross more and more did note fall upon Englefield. He was unaware of that. He had entered upon a stretch of the inward way where the landscape was absorbing,—the inner landscape and the inner encounters. Outwardly he grew more and more conformed to the Abbey idea of fledgling saint, but he hardly held it in consciousness that he did so. He was rapt to the inner land where he hunted the Word, where he sought for the Grail. But he put his body in the attitudes that the great adventurers, where they were monks, seemed to have worn. He wished their assurances and blisses, and he imitated.

Not having come to monastery from indolence and softness, he found in this no especial difficulty. First artisan, then artist, he well enough knew hard and spare living, vigil, concentered action, swift, deep and still. He had that over many an one who would be saint, but must first develop muscle. He had will, he had mind, though both were restive beings, with wings that seemed between Lucifer’s and Gabriel’s. Richard Englefield’s problem was to draw all the Lucifer into Gabriel. As a detail in the achievement he conformed, with what absoluteness was possible at Silver Cross, to the first hard discipline of the Order. Where for long had been relaxation, his procedure here astonished and here rebuked, pleased and displeased. He went on, in a preoccupation too great to note that watching, hunting the Word. “Blessed among women, help me toward it!”

The great picture was become integral to his life. “Beauty like that—Beauty with Holiness—I would Beauty and I would Holiness! I would Power to make my Beauty and Holiness come true!”

He prayed to the Blessed among women. “Blessed among women, show me how! Bring me sunshine for my growth!”

He worked in his stone room, with the precious metals that they gave him. The furnace glowed. His long, strong and skilful fingers moved with their old skill, as on a lute. But he worked scarce seeing the beauty of what he made, with the taller man in him gone elsewhere, gone out hunting, gone hawking for pure Wisdom, pure Beauty, pure Power. He prayed in the church and the monks watched him. When he turned toward the picture light seemed to pass from it to him.

The Abbot noted him. The sub-prior brought the Abbot refectory talk, talk of the brethren’s common room. He brought comment of Brother Norbert whose cell was next Brother Richard’s. The Abbot heaved a sigh. “Well, we have need of a saintly monk!”

He was not silent upon the growing saintliness of Brother Richard. Visitors of high degree, pausing at Silver Cross, heard him say, “Even as Friar Paul of Saint Leofric’s—”Visitors pursuing their road, going, it might well chance, straight to Saint Leofric’s, made mention of this monk. The vale of Wander spoke of him. The Prior of Westforest said in chapter house, “Had we one brother like Brother Richard of Silver Cross—” Not only to his monks, but he said it to the country around, “Brother Richard of Silver Cross—”

Montjoy said “Brother Richard of Silver Cross,” but he said it very differently from the Abbot and the Prior. He said with a kind of passionate reverence and hope. He wished there to be true saints; he wished there to arise one out of Silver Cross. He wished a saint, a saint kneeling beside Isabel, kneeling with Isabel beneath the great picture, whose form, whose face in which God was dawning, was like Isabel. Isabel like Her, though maybe in that degree from Her—that was Morgen Fay from Isabel whom surely, too, she resembled.

Middle Forest had rumour of the monk at Silver Cross.

Prior Hugh spoke of him at Saint Leofric’s but he spoke in scorn and drew plans for greater and greater guest houses.

Sir Robert Somerville, having need to see Silver Cross as to a bit of debatable ground touching Abbey fields and manor wood, rode into Abbey close upon a misty, pearly day. He had his talk in the Abbot’s most comfortable parlour, sub-prior at hand to aid memory. The land certainly leaned to the Abbey side of the wall, or had been brought skilfully to lean by Abbey lawyers. Somerville saw that it were wisest to leave it debatable, awaiting some more fortunate aspect of manor stars. He slid from the subject, but with a sparkle in his eye. That glint always came when he ticketed a grudge and put it somewhere for safe keeping until it could be paid.

And as he thought it would be unpleasing to the Abbot, he began presently to talk of Saint Leofric’s, to whom by now great fame had cleaved, by whose wall was building a town—

“Friar Paul—his visions—!” exclaimed the Abbot and broke off. There was no good, as Montjoy had proved, in casting pebble or boulder of discredit. The people were besotted, joined to their idol, this very Dagon that Hugh had set up! If Contrariousness were not already in possession then the hermit Gregory’s death in July had set her high on throne! The Abbot covered his eyes with his hand, then said, “There is a monk here that I hold to be holy as any living Dominican!”

“Hath he vision?”

“Yea,” said the Abbot, then in his heart. “He must have!”

“It is not sufficient!” said Somerville. “Nothing now but revelations and healings following will even Silver Cross! Greater revelations, greater healings than Saint Leofric. You can’t go down the stair in such things. You must go up.”

He spoke with fine malice. Abbot Mark glanced at him and said smoothly, “Very true, my son! but Heaven does not ask our will nor way in such matters! If it smiles, it smiles. Nor can it be limited to one handful. It may be that in this England we have touched a harvest week, as it were, and that many a sheaf will be thrown down.”

He rose. “Come! I will show you Brother Richard.”

He whom they sought was standing at the table in the room where he worked. Between his hands was a bowl of silver whereon he had wrought vine leaves and grapes. He put down his work and kneeled before the Abbot, then stood with crossed hands and lowered eyes. He was brown-blond, tall and still, with a face of dimmed power, dimmed beauty.

When they had gone away, said Somerville, “Lord Abbot, Friar Paul is twice as thin and pale as yonder monk, and hath eyes that burn like coals! He would never see within him nor bring forth, vine leaves around a silver bowl! He sees but saints and martyrs filling his cell and speaking to him out of glories!” He nodded as he finished.

The staccato of his voice drummed like a rude heel upon the Abbot’s now fevered desire. Said the Abbot’s will, deep down, “He shall see all that is necessary. Oh, Hugh. I will oust you yet!”

Somerville rode away. Halfway to his house, up the Wander, his mind perceived something that made him laugh. “I am not prophet, yet will I prophesy! Before spring there will be miracles at Silver Cross!”

It was a foggy day, a grey pearl, with shadows that were trees.

Somerville often made poems as he rode. Now he made this one.

The next day was foggy still, and the Abbot was not wont to ride abroad in fog. Yet he called for his white mule and for two Brothers to attend him, and rode, booted and wrapped warm, to Westforest.

There may be imagined a chessboard, and Prior Matthew, with Abbot Mark for backer, sitting studying, mouth covered by hand. He must play against Prior Hugh, invisible there, or perhaps against mere cosmic insensibility to advantages accruing from full streams of profit and glory, fuller than the Wander, flowing down Wander vale. Chess takes time and thought. If there come inspirational gleams take them as evidence that Nature begins to lean with you—but continue your study, mentally advancing now this piece and now that, going slow, going sure, making your combinations with more than grey spider’s skill! So Prior Matthew played. Abbot Mark was more impatient and would have things without working for them, which is to say without deserving them. In the mysterious cave of this world where all players must play, failure always impended. If it did not fall, that was because you were a good player. The Prior’s hollow cheek grew more hollow, his intent, small, deep-set eyes more intent.

On this day, folded as in wool, in the parlour that was warmed by blazing logs on stone hearth, that gave upon the autumn garden, much to-day like a ghost-garden, Prior indicated to Abbot move and then move and then move again.

“God pardon us!” breathed the Abbot. “That’s a bold thing!”

“Bolder than Hugh? I think not so. Or if it is we need to be bolder than he. Boldness hurts not, but the lack of skill in boldness. Attain the miracles, and Silver Cross arises re-gilt. Streams of pilgrims—nay, you may tap and dry up his stream of pilgrims! Abbey built and magnified for ages. Attain them not, and all is vain, for our lifetime at least! We may go sleep, fogged and obscured forever, in the vale of Wander! Both houses and in us the Order.”

“I know that we need to be bolder than Hugh.”

“We need more living colour to draw, and a louder drum.”

The Abbot took for his own, saying of Somerville’s, “You cannot go down the stair in such things. You must go up the stair. There’s too much risk.”

“Oh, yes, plenteous! So had Hugh risk. But when the fish had once bitten no mortal man could get hook from its mouth!”

“Meaning by the fish the people? Yes. But if Hugh and me and you, Matthew, be all three taken in mortal sin?”

“Has he hurt Saint Leofric? Or Saint Dominic his Order? Or the folk whose bodies are healed? Does not glory go up to heaven like incense?”

“It is true. If it be venial sin, then Our Lady, an altar of pure silver to thee!”

“That will be well! It will still more beautify the church. But cease,” said Matthew, “to have this monk work at thy gold and silver! It goes not with kneeling and fasting all day and vigil at night, with great and sole visions and voices, and favour from the Saints!”

“Very good. I will put him to his book and solitude.”

The Prior took quill and drew upon a leaf of paper a plot of cells and passageways. “You will empty these five cells.”

“Aye. They shall go back to dormitory.”

“Door is to be here and door there. To get it done, while masons are upon it—and for other reasons as well—give your monk penance for some fault, sending him out of Silver Cross to Westforest. Let me have him for a month, no less.”

“What will you do with him?”

“I will indoctrinate him with expectancy.”

“Do you know,” said Mark doubtfully, “he is one that might one day become true saint.”

“Think you so? Well, I wish him innocent and believing—even as I hold Friar Paul across river may be innocent and believing!”

“‘Innocent!’” The Abbot groaned. “But you and I and Hugh will not be innocent!”

“No. We shall be wise and bold for the glory of our heritage. Choose—and choose now—which you will have!”

The Abbot chose. The chess game went on. Outside the day folded in, fold on fold of white wool and grey wool, fog coming up from the sea.