air, a voice intoning.

"_Ave Maria, gratia plena._"

The bell-note boomed again.

"_Benedicta tu in mulieribus._"

Again the heavy clanging shook the air.

"_Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis,
Nunc et in hora mortis nostrae!_"

The voice drifted from him; yet the air seemed alive with the vibrations
of the words. "_Ora pro nobis!_" Who was the Mary full of grace who
could pray for one, to whom one could call as men called upon the gods?
Who but the Mother of Jesus, the Little Brother of the World, sweet
comrade of his black and bitter hour? He smiled as one who hears names
well known and well beloved. "_Nunc et in hora mortis nostrae!_" Who was
that mortal one for whom priests prayed in the silence before the
dawning, for whom the hour of death was striking in the tolling of the
bell? "In the hour of our death"--not one death only was prayed for, but
all deaths. But then the words took upon themselves new and startling
meaning. He knew that the hour had struck for him also in the great
bell's voice; was that prayer for his death among all others--for his,
the pagan's? With sudden lonely longing he wished it might be so, as one
who starts upon a journey wishes for a friendly voice, a handclasp, for
farewell. Would Mary pray for him; would the Little Brother bring him
solace as in that bitter time before? If this were so, could not one go
down into death, as one had gone through life, with a song upon his
lips? What, after all, was death? For the first time the question of
Life was launched at him from the vastness of infinity; and he, poor
atom of mortality, with his bright tongue and his groping heart, his
longings, his hopes and fears and ignorances, was called upon to answer.
Was it full of terrors, the terrors at which men hinted and dared not
speak? He knew that he was not afraid. Was it lonely? He did not feel
alone.

But his thoughts were fluttering from him like birds rising from the
grass; slowly darkness closed above him, in which he struggled as a
drowning man to keep his head above the waters. Again he stood upon the
edge of the gray twilight land, and saw that something was coming to
him--a mist of light, cool and pure as pearl. It grew, and out of it
there looked down on him a face, young and fair and tender, with holy
eyes. It was the face of his lost Lady, yet her face transfigured as his
eyes had never seen it,--the same and not the same. The mist grew
brighter and he saw t