Gaston, who was the freshest of the little band, eagerly pressed onward with his message.  His tired horse, seeing signs of habitation, pricked up his ears, and broke into an eager gallop.  The youth quickly disappeared from the eyes of his companions along the road; but when they reached the monastery gate they saw that his errand had been accomplished.  A tall monk, holding in his hand a crucifix, advanced to meet them, with a word of blessing which bared all heads; and advancing to the side of the woodman’s horse, he took the apparently inanimate form of the boy in his arms, and looking into the wan face, said: 

“Peace be with thee, my son.  Into the care of Holy Church I receive thee.  Let him who can prevail against the Church of God pluck thee from that keeping!”

CHAPTER XI.  A QUIET RETREAT.

Little did Raymond de Brocas think, as he stepped across the threshold of that quiet monastic home, that the two next years of his own life were to be spent beneath that friendly and hospitable roof.  And yet so it was, and to the training and teaching he received during his residence there he attributed much of the strength of mind and force of character that distinguished him in days to come.

The small community to which they had brought the persecuted victim of the sorcerer’s evil practices belonged to the order of the Cistercians, who have been described as the Quakers of their day.  At a time when many of the older orders of monks were falling from their first rigid simplicity —­ falling into those habits of extravagance which in days to come caused their fall and ultimate suppression —­ the Cistercians still held to their early regime of austere simplicity and plainness of life; and though no longer absolutely secluding themselves from the sight or sound of their fellow men, or living in complete solitude, they were still men of austere life and self-denying habits, and retained the reputation for sanctity of life that was being lost in other orders, though men had hardly begun to recognize this fact as yet.

From the first moment that Raymond’s eyes fell upon the wonderful face of Father Paul, his heart was touched by one of those strange attractions for which it is difficult to account, yet which often form a turning point in the history of a human life.  It was not the venerable appearance of the holy man alone; it was an indescribable something that defied analysis, yet drew out all that was best and highest in the spirit of the youth.  But after the first glance at the monk, as he came forward and received the inanimate form of the woodman’s son in his strong arms, Raymond’s attention was differently occupied; for on looking round at his companions, he saw that John’s face was as white as death, and that he swayed in his saddle as though he would fall.

It then occurred to the boy for the first time that this long and tiring night’s ride was an undertaking for which John was little fit.  He had but recently recovered from a bout of sickness that had left him weak and fit for little fatigue, and yet the whole night through he had been riding hard, and had only yielded to exhaustion when the object for which the journey had been taken had been accomplished.