Suddenly through the darkness a great white radiance streamed through the vastness of the aisles; the moon, that was at her height, had broken through the clouds, the snow had ceased to fall, the light reflected from the snow without was clear as the light of dawn.  It fell through the arches full upon the two pictures above, from which the boy on his entrance had flung back the veil:  the Elevation and the Descent of the Cross were for one instant visible.

Nello rose to his feet and stretched his arms to them:  the tears of a passionate ecstasy glistened on the paleness of his face.  “I have seen them at last!” he cried aloud.  “O God, it is enough!”

His limbs failed under him, and he sank upon his knees, still gazing upward at the majesty that he adored.  For a few brief moments the light illumined the divine visions that had been denied to him so long,—­light clear and sweet and strong as though it streamed from the throne of Heaven.  Then suddenly it passed away:  once more a great darkness covered the face of Christ.

The arms of the boy drew close again the body of the dog.  “We shall see His face—­there,” he murmured; “and He will not part us, I think.”

On the morrow, by the chancel of the cathedral, the people of Antwerp found them both.  They were both dead:  the cold of the night had frozen into stillness alike the young life and the old.  When the Christmas morning broke and the priests came to the temple, they saw them lying thus on the stones together.  Above, the veils were drawn back from the great visions of Rubens, and the fresh rays of the sunrise touched the thorn-crowned head of the Christ.

As the day grew on there came an old, hard-featured man who wept as women weep.  “I was cruel to the lad,” he muttered, “and now I would have made amends—­yea, to the half of my substance—­and he should have been to me as a son.”

There came also, as the day grew apace, a painter who had fame in the world, and who was liberal of hand and of spirit.  “I seek one who should have had the prize yesterday had worth won,” he said to the people,—­“a boy of rare promise and genius.  An old wood-cutter on a fallen tree at eventide,—­that was all his theme.  But there was greatness for the future in it.  I would fain find him, and take him with me and teach him Art.”

And a little child with curling fair hair, sobbing bitterly as she clung to her father’s arm, cried aloud, “O Nello, come!  We have all ready for thee.  The Christ-child’s hands are full of gifts, and the old piper will play for us; and the mother says thou shalt stay by the hearth and burn nuts with us all the Noel week long,—­yes, even to the Feast of the Kings!  And Patrasche will be so happy!  O Nello, wake and come!”

But the young pale face, turned upward to the light of the great Rubens with a smile upon its mouth, answered them all, “It is too late.”

For the sweet, sonorous bells went ringing through the frost, and the sunlight shone upon the plains of snow, and the populace trooped gay and glad through the streets, but Nello and Patrasche no more asked charity at their hands.  All they needed now Antwerp gave unbidden.