“My son,” said the friar, “you speak prudently.  But know that I have business of Holy Church on hand, and may not waste time floating, when I can walk in her service.  There, I felt it with my toes again!  Thy stature is less than mine; keep to the mast; I walk.”  He left the mast accordingly, and extending his powerful arms, rushed through the water.  Gerard soon followed him.  At each overpowering wave the monk stood like a tower, and, closing his mouth, threw his head back to encounter it, then emerged and ploughed lustily on.  At last they came close to the shore, and then the natives sent stout fishermen into the sea, holding by long spears, and so dragged them ashore.

The friar shook himself, bestowed a short paternal benediction on the natives, and went on to Rome, without pausing.

Gerard grasped every hand upon the beach.  They brought him to an enormous fire, left him to dry himself, and fetched clothes for him to wear.

Next day, towards afternoon, Gerard—­twice as old as last year, thrice as learned in human ways, a boy no more, but a man who had shed blood in self-defence, and grazed the grave by land and sea—­reached the Eternal City.

III.—­The Cloister

Gerard stayed in Rome, worked hard, and got money for his illuminations.  He put by money of all he earned, and Margaret seemed nearer and nearer.  Then came the day when the forged letter reached him.  “Know that Margaret Brandt died in these arms on Thursday night last.  The last words on her lips was ‘Gerard!’ She said:  ’Tell him I prayed for him at my last hour, and bid him pray for me.’” The letter was signed with Margaret Van Eyck’s signature, sure enough.

Gerard staggered against the window sill and groaned when he read this.  His senses failed him; he ran furiously about the streets for hours.  Despair followed.

On the second day he was raving with fever on the brain, and on his recovery from the fever a dark cloud fell on Gerard’s noble mind.

His friend Fra Jerome, the same Dominican friar who had escaped from the wreck with him, exhorted him to turn and consecrate his gifts to the Church.

“Malediction on the Church!” cried Gerard.  “But for the Church I should not lie broken here, and she lie cold in Holland.”  Fra Jerome left him at this.

Gerard’s pure and unrivalled love for Margaret had been his polar star.  It was quenched, and he drifted on the gloomy sea of no hope.  He rushed fiercely into pleasure, and in those days, more than now, pleasure was vice.  The large sums he had put by for Margaret gave him ample means for debauchery, and he sought for a moment’s oblivion in the excitements of the hour.  “Ghysbrecht lives; Margaret dies!” he would try out.  “Curse life, curse death, and whosoever made them what they are!”

His heart deteriorated along with his morals, and he no longer had patience for his art, as the habits of pleasure grew on him.