Pax in terra hominibus bonoe voluntatis,

Was so ineffably sweet that the tears rolled down his cheeks in streams.

This was the end of the imaginary music.  The next morning he woke up conscious—­himself again.  His first return to consciousness was an impression of a voice: 

“Dearest brother, thou art better, art thou not?”

“I am quite free from pain, only a hungered.”

“What food dost thou desire to enter thy lips first?”

“The Bread of Life.”

“But not as the Viaticum {20}, thank God.  Wait awhile, I go to fetch it from the altar.”

And the successor of Adam de Maresco, the new head of the Oxford House, left the youth and went into their plainly-furnished chapel, where, in a silver dove, the only silver about the church, the reserved sacrament of the Body and Blood of Christ was always kept for the sick in case of need.  It hung from the beams of the chancel, before the high altar.

First the prior knelt and thanked God for having preserved the life of the youth they all loved.

“Thou hast yet great things for him to do on earth ere it come to his turn to rest,” he murmured.  “To Thee be all the glory.”

Then he returned and gave the young novice his communion.  Martin received it, and said, “I have found Him whom my soul loveth.  I will hold Him and will not let Him go.”

From that time the patient was able to take solid nourishment, and grew rapidly better, until at last he could leave his room and sit in the sunny cloisters: 

Restored to life, and power, and thought.

And one day he sat there, dreamily watching old Father Thames, as he murmured and bubbled along, outside the stone boundary.

“Onward till he lose himself in the ocean, so do flow our lives till they merge into eternity,” said the prior.  “Now with impetuous flow, now in gentler ripple, but ever onward as God hath ordained; so may our souls, when the work of life is accomplished, lose themselves in God.”

Martin moved his lips in silent acquiescence.

It was intense, the enjoyment of that sweet spring day, a day when all the birds seemed singing songs of gladness, and the air was balmy beyond description.  Life seemed worth living.

“My son, when thou art better thou must travel for change of air.”

“Whither?” said Martin.

“Where wouldst thou like to go?”

“Oh, may I go to my kindred and teach them the holy truths of the Gospel?”

“Thou shalt.  Brother Ginepro shall go with thee, and ere thou startest thou shalt be admitted to the privileges and duties of the second order, and be Brother Martin.”

“And when shall I be ordained?”

“That may not be, yet.  Thou art not twenty years of age.  Thou mayst win many souls to Christ while a lay brother, as did Francis himself, our great master.  He did not seek the priesthood also, too great a burden for a humble soul like his, and certes, if men understood what a priest is and what he should be, there would be fewer but perchance holier priests than there are now.”