He passed through a terrible struggle that night.

Never had the night-office seemed so wearisomely barren.  The glamour that had lighted those dark walls and the double row of cowls and down-bent faces, the mystical beauty of the single flames here and there that threw patches of light on the carving of the stalls and the sombre habits, and gave visibility and significance to what without them was obscure, the strange suggestiveness of the high-groined roof and the higher vault glimmering through the summer darkness—­all this had faded and left him, as it seemed, sane and perceptive of facts at last.  Out there through those transepts lay the town where reasonable folk slept, husband and wife together, and the children in the great bed next door, with the tranquil ordinary day behind them and its fellow before; there were the streets, still now and dark and empty but for the sleeping dogs, where the signs swung and the upper stories leaned together, and where the common life had been transacted since the birth of the town and would continue till its decay.  And beyond lay the cool round hills, with their dark dewy slopes, over which he had ridden a year ago, and all England beyond them again, with its human life and affairs and interests; and over all hung the serene stars whence God looked down well pleased with all that He had made.

And, meanwhile, here he stood in his stall in his night shoes and black habit and cropped head, propped on his misericorde, with the great pages open before him, thumbed and greasy at their corners, from which he was repeating in a loud monotone formula after formula that had had time to grow familiar from repetition, but not yet sweet from associations—­here he stood with heavy eyelids after his short sleep, his feet aching and hot, and his whole soul rebellious.

* * * * *

He was sent by his novice-master next day to the Prior, with his father’s letter in his hand, and stood humbly by the door while the Prior read it.  Chris watched him under half-raised eye-lids; saw the clean-cut profile with its delicate mouth bent over the paper, and the hand with the enamelled ring turn the page.  Prior Crowham was a cultivated, well-bred man, not over strong-willed, but courteous and sympathetic.  He turned a little to Chris in his carved chair, as he laid the letter down.

“Well,” he said, smiling, “it is for you to choose whether you will offer yourself.  Of course, there is uneasiness abroad, as this letter says, but what then?”

He smiled pleasantly at the young man, and Chris felt a little ashamed.  There was silence for a moment.

“It is for you to choose,” said the Prior again, “you have been happy with us, I think?”

Chris pressed his lips together and looked down.

“Of course Satan will not leave you alone,” went on the monk presently.  “He will suggest many reasons against your profession.  If he did not, I should be afraid that you had no vocation.”