The monk Richard awoke, he knew not why. He woke widely, collectedly, his forces drawn to a point of expectation. “Awake, awake! Look!” seemed to echo in his soul that had suddenly grown quiet. When he had slept his cell was flooded by the moon. Still there was her silver light. He sat up. He was with absoluteness aware of a presence in the cell. Never before, in his pale visions, had he had this sense of startling, of reality,—not at Westforest, not here at Silver Cross. He knew that there was a being in his cell. Neither could he nor did he doubt it. A voice spoke to him, and it was golden-sweet and rich and wonderful. “Richard!”

He turned himself. Light that was not moonlight, though it blended with the moonlight, and in it, real, the Blessed among women!

Could he doubt? It was the great picture come alive! Could he doubt? She spoke—and he had not uttered that dart of thought. “Not that that painter could see me as I am in glory—but knowing that thou lovest me so, I come to thee so! I come to thee as thou canst see me, Richard!”

She was real, she was not tinted air. Real—oh, real! Soft playing light was about her feet, her form, her head, her outspread and glorious dark hair. Her eyes were books, her mouth upland meadows of flowers; the blue and red of her dress, her mantle, trembled and was alive. Life went out of her toward him, his life leaped to meet it. Life at last, life! life! He sprang from his pallet, he kneeled in his monk’s robe. He put his forehead to the stone.

The voice came again—oh, the voice! “Richard, list to me!”

All heaven was speaking to him and filling him—him, him who had been so unhappy!—with joy and power.

“Thou hast loved me well, and so thou hast drawn me, servant Richard, knight Richard, my poet Richard! I love all places—but now I love this place well and would do it good.”

He found daring to speak. “Star of me—Bringer of me into full being—”

“Thou canst not know all the counsel of heaven. I will come again, renewing thy joy. But now hearken what thou art to do, unquestioning, as thou lovest me! The morn comes. When rings the bell for lauds, when thy brethren flock into church, haste thou, haste! Stand before them. Cry, thou that lovest me. ‘This night hath the Blessed among women appeared to me, Richard Englefield!’ And she saith, ‘Speak to all of Silver Cross, and say thou for me, Of old I loved this place, and I will love it again, for I see it returning to its first strength and worship!’ Say thou, ‘I will give it room again in men’s minds. I will return and show a thing whereby multitudes shall be healed and glory shall come!’”

There was pause, then “Be thou he, Richard, who loveth me well, through whom I shall speak! Morn cometh. The bell begins to ring.”

The soft, the playing light withdrew. He felt her still—oh, real!—then in the darkness, into it, behind it as it were, she was gone. He knew that she was gone into utter light.

But here was vacancy, faint moonbeams, a cell of shadows. But the comfort and the passion and the splendour were in his heart, his veins, his blood, in the potent cells of his body! With power, with success, they summoned the brain to do them service. He believed like a child, and he was the impassioned lover.

He felt more than man. A great lightness and gaiety, a rest upon promise, held him one moment, and the next a longing, an agony,—and all was huge and resonant, deep, wide and high; and all was fine and small and subtle and profoundly at home! Time and space had radically changed for him.

He was yet kneeling when the bell for lauds began to ring. Rising, he saw through the window the setting moon,—then he was gone.

The candles were lighted. It was not Abbot Mark’s wont to be seated there, in Abbot’s stall, for lauds. But he was here, picked out by the light. The hollow of the church was all dark; the choir, the ranged monks, thinly dyed with amber. When he passed the tomb of the Lady of Montjoy he thought that a warmer light laved it, touching the stone almost to life. But the great picture—ah, the great picture! He lifted to it light-filled eyes. She was there—she was in heaven—she had stood in his cell. His being was in her hands; he lay with the Babe in her arms.

He would give her message rightly! It seemed almost that the church waited for it, the windows where the dawn was bringing faint, faint colours. A great wave of feeling swept him, affection and pity for Silver Cross. Once it had been saintly and a light for all wanderers. Dear would it be, dear and rich and sweet if it all could come again, the old, simple power!

With that he heard his own voice, as it were the voice of another, lifted but profound, too, a deep, a rushing music, since what he had to tell was heaven’s music. The Abbot summoned him to stand upon the step, lifted high above Silver Cross monks. He gave forth her words, and the world seemed to him an altar, and the candles suns, and he felt himself that he spoke like a strong angel.

There were ejaculations, cries of praise, snatches of prayers. The Abbot kneeled—the sub-prior—all! The picture seemed to glow, to bend forward, to bless. In the faces of the simpler monks sat pure awe and belief. Some wept. There were two or three ecstatic faces. Those who had been lazy or proud or sensual or lying showed to his thinking smitten. He had not liked them, but now they were like poor faulty children to him, to be loved still, so brimming was his power!

Brother Norbert, whom certainly he had not liked, cried aloud, “Now Silver Cross shines again—shines brighter than the bones of Saint Leofric!”

Brother Norbert, too, stepped into the deep-throbbing inner Paradise. While there arose a cry of “Praise Our Lady!”—while the Abbot kneeled before her image—while, as though she had said “Sing!” the church filled with singing, Brother Richard knew bliss. The dawn was in the windows, the great sun struck through, there was golden day. But his thought was, “Will she come to-night?”

The day was on him, and it was unsupportable, with the fervour, with the talking, with the restlessness of the Abbey-fold. He had longing to go to his old workroom, to light the furnace, to take up work. But that had been long forbidden. It was March. Lay Brothers and tenants were plowing Abbey fields. He would have worked with them, but again was forbidden. But he had at least permission to go forth under open sky. He might walk in orchard or garden. Silence was enjoined. He felt no sorrow as to that; silence was needed to talk with Heaven.

The March day was bright, sunny, still, not cold. Two Abbey men were pruning the fruit trees. Richard Englefield signed that he would help. He worked for hours and the work was welcome. He must steady himself in order to feel again and again and steadily—in order to know every strange flower and divine essential thread!

Long day went slow-footed by, and yet were its moments gems and blossoms. He did not reason, he did not think; he only knew strange bliss and strange pain and expected both to continue.

Vespers—the picture— the Magnificat. Exalted as he was he knew that there was exaltation about him, in the church. Did he care to bring it before his mind he would have agreed that by now tidings of so great import must have gone here, gone there. No more than incense or music or light could it be kept at the starting point! Presently it would be far and near.

Prior Matthew of Westforest sat next the Abbot’s stall. That was to be expected, Silver Cross and Westforest being mother and daughter. The hollow of the church showed clusters of folk from Wander side. That, too, was to be looked for. The Lord of Montjoy stood beside the tomb of Isabel; often he came to Silver Cross, and it was not to be wondered at that he was here to-day, summoned doubtless by Abbot Mark. Montjoy’s dark face showed exaltation. It glowed; you would have said there was personal triumph. Richard Englefield felt for Montjoy sudden kinship and liking.

What faces were turned to him, what looks were cast upon him, what watchings, what judgments, hopes, he knew not. After the first habitual sweep of the eye, after the first movement of spirit toward Montjoy, he was the picture’s.

The church grew wide as earth. The chanting went up long coloured lanes to heaven’s gate. The setting sun sang, and the rising moon sang, and the stars, as through the dusk they strode nearer.

It was night. He was alone in his cell. Again he slept. He waked and knew that he was in her presence.

Softened glory, diminished that he might see her as he could see her. Her red and her blue, her form, her face, her voice—kneeling, he trembled with his joy as with a burden too great to bear. It was as ocean wave to a babe. Vast, crested, it curved above him. His life might go—he cared not for that, if on the other side of life he might still adore!

The voice! “Richard! Say thou for me to Silver Cross, ‘Go by the orchard, go by the hill where feed the sheep. Go to where shines a fir tree against the steep hill. Beside it you will find fallen earth and a little cave made bare, and in the stone over the cave my name. Let the Abbot of Silver Cross and the holiest among you enter. There shall you find a little well of clear water, and by token beside it a rose. The well hath been blessed by me and by all the host of heaven. Make you of the grot a chapel. Set my image there; make it a place that I may love. Make for the well a pool, and whosoever drinks of it and whosoever bathes therein, if he have faith he shall be completely healed, be he ill either of body or estate!’”

The music fell, then rose again. “That is my task for thee, Richard! That is the errand thou wilt do for me.”

The voice ceased. He thought that the light began to go away, her form to dim. He cried aloud, fear pushing him to wild utterance. “I will do it! But wilt thou come again? I may not live unless thou wilt come!”

There seemed pause, then said the voice like the balm of the world. “I will come once again—and perhaps thereafter, so thou servest me firmly!” And, as he bowed his head, as tears of sweetness, of exquisite rest in her word, rushed to his eyes, she was gone. Darkness—and again through the window the declining moon, and immediately the bell for the dawn office.