The last flare of the sunset was falling on the walls of Jerusalem, staining them crimson, and flooding all the enchanting circle of the hills that lie round the city with rosy light.  Low down in one of the depressions, where the long sun-rays could not reach, and the olive-trees looked grey in the twilight, stood the grim, white Monastery of the Holy Virgin.  The air was sweet and cool here, far from the pollution of the city, and the evening sky stretched fair and radiant above the purple hills.  Unbroken quiet reigned, and only one thing in the landscape moved—­the figure of a girl ascending swiftly a narrow, stony road under the shadow of the wall.  She seemed burdened with many things that she was carrying, and oppressed with some haunting fear, for she looked back frequently, and then pressed on with redoubled speed.  The stony track brought her at last to the corner of the enclosure of olive-trees belonging to the monastery; it branched here, one path leading straight to the gates of the building, the other skirting the olive-wood plantation, and then passing on out into the barren hills and open country towards Jericho.  The girl took the second track, and here, under the friendly shade of the sheltering trees, she walked more erect and easily.  When she reached the farther corner of the plantation she stopped and listened, gazing round her.  There was no sound, the light was failing, the hush deepening.  “Nicholas,” she breathed in a clear whisper, leaning on the low stone plantation wall, “are you there?” A rustling of some long robe against bushes answered her—­the olive branches were pushed aside, and the figure of a Greek priest came from between them.  With a smile of intense joy on his face he leant over the wall, and clasped the girl’s two soft hands in his.

“Esther!” he whispered back, “you have come; you have decided then, you are ready?”

“I am quite ready,” answered the girl, pressing close to the wall and lifting her face; the last gleam of gold light from the rising ridge to the west touched it, and showed it was very fair.  “If you are sure it is right, if you have faith in Jehovah to lead us.”

The priest’s face, pale and emaciated, with the rapt look of the visionary stamped upon it, lighted up suddenly with a new exaltation.

“I am quite sure.  Last night when I was praying, still in doubt, before the great crucifix, I heard a voice from above saying:  ’Nicholas, you are absolved from further prayer and penance here.  Go forth with the maiden you love and serve Me in the world.  The joy of human hearts singing to Me in grateful praise is more pleasing to Me than these groans and tears and prayers.  I have created the blue sky and the laughing seas and the green hills; go forth and see my works, and praise Me.’”

The Jewish girl had listened intently, her face as rapt as his while he spoke, the fire of joy glowing in her eyes.

“Come, then, at once,” she murmured in an ardent whisper, and Nicholas stepped over the low boundary into the hill road, now wrapped in darkness.  Before them still glimmered dimly the white outlines of the monastery behind the trees.  The man stood motionless, gazing at them, the girl’s hand tightly clasped in his and held against his breast.