Lord on the Cross. It was a malicious coveitous Devil wrathed by us, rended the lovely image of the glasse. We saw the iron clutches of the fiend pick the window, and a face flaming red like fire in a basket did glower down on us. Our hearts melted away, our legs broke, we thought to die. The breath of the wretch filled the chapel.
“But our dear Saint, etc., etc., came hastening down heaven to defend us. The fiend began to groan and bray—he was daunted and beat off.
“When the sun uprose, and it was morning, some went out in dread upon the thin snow. There the figure of our Saint was broken and thrown down, whilst in the window was a wicked hole as from the Holy Wounds the Blessed Blood was run out at the touch of the Fiend, and on the snow was the Blood, sparkhng like gold. Some gathered it up for the joy of this House. . . .”
“Interesting,” I said. “Where’s it from?”
“Beauvale records—fifteenth century.”
“Beauvale Abbey,” I said; “they were only very few, the monks. What frightened them, I wonder.”
“I wonder,” he repeated.
“Somebody climbed up,” I supposed, “and attempted to get in.”
“What?” he exclaimed, smiling.
“Well, what do you think?”
“Pretty much the same,” he replied. “I glossed it out for my book.”
“Your great work? Tell me.”
He put a shade over the lamp so that the room was almost in darkness.
“Am I more than a voice?” he asked.
