cup an ethereal being sat, and this being was whiter than ivory, and more translucent than mist. And each tiny ethereal being kept time with its golden head, and bowed and nodded to the other flowers. And then they began to dance, as if a thousand bright butterflies were being cradled in the blossoms. Heaven bent nearer, the mountains grew loftier and lordlier. The river, which twisted between walls of rock, murmured as if in a dream, and the forbidding cliffs which watched it mirrored themselves in the golden sand and leaned nearer. The juniper bushes gleamed with a magical, emerald green. And each note—it was as if it found a brother! One found it in the tender tint of evening clouds, another in the silvered glory of the waves, and still another in the violet shadows of distant mountains. Every tone repeated itself in an echo which floated down through the crevasses of the old Cloister wall, wandering along the stained glass windows of the chapel, dancing over the graves of the monks who now slept in peace. And still Cœlestin played.
It seemed as if, by means of the music, all things that oppressed him fell away. His mood was the same as that morning when for the first time he
