I came to Nazareth, and was led from the convent to the sanctuary.  Long fasting will sometimes heat my brain and draw me away out of the world—­will disturb my judgment, confuse my notions of right and wrong, and weaken my power of choosing the right:  I had fasted perhaps too long, for I was fevered with the zeal of an insane devotion to the heavenly queen of Christendom.  But I knew the feebleness of this gentle malady, and knew how easily my watchful reason, if ever so slightly provoked, would drag me back to life.  Let there but come one chilling breath of the outer world, and all this loving piety would cower and fly before the sound of my own bitter laugh.  And so as I went I trod tenderly, not looking to the right nor to the left, but bending my eyes to the ground.

The attending friar served me well; he led me down quietly and all but silently to the Virgin’s home.  The mystic air was so burnt with the consuming flames of the altar, and so laden with incense, that my chest laboured strongly, and heaved with luscious pain.  There—­there with beating heart the Virgin knelt and listened.  I strived to grasp and hold with my riveted eyes some one of the feigned Madonnas, but of all the heaven-lit faces imagined by men there was none that would abide with me in this the very sanctuary.  Impatient of vacancy, I grew madly strong against Nature, and if by some awful spell, some impious rite, I could—­Oh most sweet Religion, that bid me fear God, and be pious, and yet not cease from loving!  Religion and gracious custom commanded me that I fall down loyally and kiss the rock that blessed Mary pressed.  With a half consciousness, with the semblance of a thrilling hope that I was plunging deep, deep into my first knowledge of some most holy mystery, or of some new rapturous and daring sin, I knelt, and bowed down my face till I met the smooth rock with my lips.  One moment—­one moment my heart, or some old pagan demon within me, woke up, and fiercely bounded; my bosom was lifted, and swung, as though I had touched her warm robe.  One moment, one more, and then the fever had left me.  I rose from my knees.  I felt hopelessly sane.  The mere world reappeared.  My good old monk was there, dangling his key with listless patience, and as he guided me from the church, and talked of the refectory and the coming repast, I listened to his words with some attention and pleasure.

CHAPTER X—­THE MONKS OF PALESTINE

Whenever you come back to me from Palestine we will find some “golden wine” {24} of Lebanon, that we may celebrate with apt libations the monks of the Holy Land, and though the poor fellows be theoretically “dead to the world,” we will drink to every man of them a good long life, and a merry one!  Graceless is the traveller who forgets his obligations to these saints upon earth; little love has he for merry Christendom if he has not rejoiced with great joy to find in the very midst of water-drinking infidels those lowly monasteries, in which the blessed juice of the grape is quaffed in peace.  Ay! ay! we will fill our glasses till they look like cups of amber, and drink profoundly to our gracious hosts in Palestine.