So, after a little, he asked the clown, very gently, what his life was, what it had been.  And the clown answered, very sadly, that it was just as it looked,—­a life of foolish tricks, for that was the only way of earning his bread that he knew.

“But have you never been anything different?” asked the hermit, painfully.

The clown’s head sank in his hands.  “Yes, holy father,” he said, “I have been something else.  I was a thief!  I once belonged to the most wicked band of mountain robbers that ever tormented the land, and I was as wicked as the worst.”

Alas!  The hermit felt that his heart was breaking.  Was this how he looked to the Heavenly Father—­like a thief, a cruel mountain robber?  He could hardly speak, and the tears streamed from his old eyes, but he gathered strength to ask one more question.  “I beg you,” he said, “if you have ever done a single good deed in your life, remember it now, and tell it to me”; for he thought that even one good deed would save him from utter despair.

“Yes, one,” the clown said, “but it was so small, it is not worth telling; my life has been worthless.”

“Tell me that one!” pleaded the hermit.

“Once,” said the man, “our band broke into a convent garden and stole away one of the nuns, to sell as a slave or to keep for a ransom.  We dragged her with us over the rough, long way to our mountain camp, and set a guard over her for the night.  The poor thing prayed to us so piteously to let her go!  And as she begged, she looked from one hard face to another, with trusting, imploring eyes, as if she could not believe men could be really bad.  Father, when her eyes met mine something pierced my heart!  Pity and shame leaped up, for the first time, within me.  But I made my face as hard and cruel as the rest, and she turned away, hopeless.

“When all was dark and still, I stole like a cat to where she lay bound.  I put my hand on her wrist and whispered, ’Trust me, and I will take you safely home.’  I cut her bonds with my knife, and she looked at me to show that she trusted.  Father, by terrible ways that I knew, hidden from the others, I took her safe to the convent gate.  She knocked; they opened; and she slipped inside.  And, as she left me, she turned and said, ‘God will remember.’

“That was all.  I could not go back to the old bad life, and I had never learned an honest way to earn my bread.  So I became a clown, and must be a clown until I die.”

“No! no! my son,” cried the hermit, and now his tears were tears of joy.  “God has remembered; your soul is in his sight even as mine, who have prayed and preached for forty years.  Your treasure waits for you on the heavenly shore just as mine does.”

“As yours?  Father, you mock me!” said the clown.

But when the hermit told him the story of his prayer and the angel’s answer, the poor clown was transfigured with joy, for he knew that his sins were forgiven.  And when the hermit went home to his mountain, the clown went with him.  He, too, became a hermit, and spent his time in praise and prayer.