“I am glad you are come, Sir John; I have something to ask you.  I do not know what to do.  I will tell you all.”

I said nothing, for I knew what he wished; so I looked down across the meadow at the hazels and the pigeons that were coming down to the wood, and desired saint Giles to tell me what to say.

“It is this,” he said.  “Four days ago I was in contemplation, down there by the stream.  The sensible warmth of which I have told you was in my heart; as it has been for over one year now, ever since I passed from the way of illumination.  I think that it had never been so clear and strong.  It was our Lord who was with me, and I perceived Him within as He always shows Himself to me; I cannot tell you what He is like, but there were roses on His hands and feet, and above His heart and about His head.  I have not often perceived Him so clearly.  His Mother, I knew, was a little distance away, behind me, and I wondered why it was so, and the divine John was with her.  Then I understood that He was lonely, but no more than that:  I did not know why.  I said what I could, and then I listened, but He said nothing to me, and then, after a while, I understood that it was under another aspect that He was there; that there was one in his place, crowned with gold instead of roses, and I could not understand it.  I was astonished and troubled by that, and the warmth was not so strong at my heart.

“Then He was gone; and I saw the stream again beneath me, and the leaves overhead, and there was sweat on my forehead.

“When I stood up there was a knowledge in my heart—­I do not know whether from our Lord or the fiend—­that I must leave this place, and go to one whom I thought must be the King with some message; but I do not know the message.”

* * * * *

My children, it was a dreadful thing to hear that.  He had never spoken so since his coming four years before, except once when he was in the purgative way, and the fiend came to him under aspect of a woman.  But he had been in agony then, and he was quiet now.  Before I could speak he spoke again.

“I said that I could not go; that God Almighty had brought me here and caused me to build my house and given me the meadow and the water and the beasts as my friends—­that I was neither monk nor friar nor priest to be sent hither and thither—­that I could not go.  I cried on Him to help me and shew me His will; and then I went to dinner.

“Since that time, Sir John, the warmth has left me.  I see the flowers, but there is nothing behind them; and the sunlight, but there is no heavenly colour in it.  My mind is disquiet; I cannot rest nor contemplate as I should.  I have been up the stairs that I have told you of a thousand times; I have set myself apart from the world, which is the first step, until all things visible have gone; then I have set myself apart from my body and my understanding so that I was conscious of neither hands nor heart nor head, nor of aught but my naked soul; then I have left that, which is the third step; but the gate is always shut, and our Lord will not speak or answer.  Tell me what I must do, Sir John.  Is it true that this is from our Lord, and that I must go to see the King?”