ing for secular influence had
stolen into many a monastery. Many shunned the labour which the saint
enjoined upon his disciples, and the old jugs were often filled with new
wine, which he, Benedictus, never tasted, and which the saint rejected as
poison. He was no longer young and strong enough to let his grief and
indignation rage like a purifying thunderstorm amidst these abuses.

But Heinz Schorlin!

If this youth of noble blood, equally gifted in mind and person, whom
Heaven itself had summoned with lightning and thunder, devoted himself
from sincere conviction, with a heart full of youthful enthusiasm, to his
sacred cause--if Heinz, consecrated by him, and fully aware of the real
purposes of the saint, who, also untaught and rich only in knowledge of
the heart, had begun a career so momentous in consequences, announced
himself as a fearless champion of St. Francis's will, then the St. George
had been found who was summoned to slay the dragon, and with his blood
instil new life at last into the monasteries of Germany, then perhaps the
fresh prosperity which he desired for the order was at hand. The larger
number of its recruits came from the lower ranks of the people. Sir Heinz
Schorlin's example would perhaps bring it also, as an elevating element,
the sons of his peers.

So, bathed in perspiration, and often on the point of fainting, he
followed Heinz through the dust of the highway.

Often, when his strength failed, and he sat down by the roadside to take
breath, his soul-life gained a loftier aspiration.

After Heinz rode by without seeing him he continued his way until his
feet grew so heavy that he was forced to sit down beside the road. Then
he imagined that the Saviour Himself came towards him, gazed lovingly
into his face, and turned to beckon some one, Benedictus did not know
whom, heavenward. Suddenly the clouds that had covered the sky parted,
and the old man fancied he heard the song of the troubadour whose soul
had been subdued by love for God, which his friend and master had
addressed to his Redeemer. It must come from the lips of his angels on
high, but he longed to join in the strain. True, his aged lips, rapidly
as they moved, uttered no sound, but he fancied he was sharing in this
song of the soul, glowing with fervent, consuming flames of love,
dedicated to the Saviour, the source of all love:

"Love's flames my kindling heart control,
Love for my Bridegroom fair,
Wh