He examined this, then, looking carefully at all parts of the temptation. [Sir John appends at this point two or three paragraphs, distinguishing between the observing of a temptation of thought and the yielding to it.  He instances Christ’s temptation in the Garden of Gethsemane.]....

At the end Master Richard opened his eyes and looked steadily upon the young man’s face.

“Take this answer,” he said, “to those that sent you.  I will neither hear nor consider such words any more.  If I yield in this matter, and say one word to the King or to any other, by which any may understand that my message was a delusion, or that I spoke of myself and not from our Lord, then I pray that our Lord may blot my name out of the Book of Life.”

* * * * *

So Master Richard answered and closed his eyes to commune with God.  And the young man went away sighing but speaking no word.

Of the Dark Night of the Soul

De profundis clamavi ad te, Domine:  Domine exaudi vocem meam.

Out of the depths I have cried to Thee, O Lord:  Lord, hear my voice.—­Ps. cxxix. 1, 2.

XI

The third temptation was so fierce and subtle, that I doubt whether I wholly understood it when Master Richard tried to tell it to me.  He did not tell me all, and he could answer but few questions, and I fear that I am not able to tell even all that I heard from him.  It was built up like a house, he said, stone by stone, till it fenced him in, but he did not know what was all its nature till he saw my lord cardinal.

A soul such as was Master Richard’s must have temptations that seem as nothing to coarser beings such as myself:  as a bird that lives in the air has dangers that a crawling beast cannot have.  There are perils in the height that are not perils on the earth.  A bird may strike a tree or a tower; his wings may fail him; he may fly too near the sun till he faint in its heat; he cannot rest; if he is overtaken by darkness he cannot lie still. [Sir John enumerates at some length other such dangers to bird life.]....

* * * * *

Now Master Richard described the state into which he fell under a curious name that I cannot altogether understand.  He said that there be three nights through which the contemplative soul must pass or ever it come to the dawn.  The first two he had gone through during his life in the country; the first is a kind of long-continued dryness, when spiritual things have no savour; the second is an affection of the mind, when not even meditation [This is an exercise distinct from contemplation apparently.  I include this passage, in spite of its technicalities, for obvious reasons.] appears possible; the mind is like a restless fly that is at once weary and active.  This second is not often attained to by ordinary souls,