The hermit stood and looked at him with terror and sadness, for he felt that he was looking at his own soul.  The face he saw was thin and tired, and though it kept a smile or a grin for the people, it seemed very sad to the hermit.  Soon the man felt the hermit’s eyes; he could not go on with his tricks.  And when he had stopped and the crowd had left, the hermit went and drew the man aside to a place where they could rest; for he wanted more than anything else on earth to know what the man’s soul was like, because what it was, his was.

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 wickedest 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.”