there is no
heavenly colour in it. My mind is disquiet; I cannot rest nor
contemplate as I should. I have been up the stairs that I have told you
of a thousand times; I have set myself apart from the world, which is
the first step, until all things visible have gone; then I have set
myself apart from my body and my understanding so that I was conscious
of neither hands nor heart nor head, nor of aught but my naked soul;
then I have left that, which is the third step; but the gate is always
shut, and our Lord will not speak or answer. Tell me what I must do, Sir
John. Is it true that this is from our Lord, and that I must go to see
the King?"

* * * * *

I was sick at heart when I heard that, and I strove to silence what my
soul told me must be my answer.

"It has persevered ever since, my son Richard," I said?

He bowed his head.

"There is no savour in anything to me until I go," he answered. "This
morning as I looked from over the wall upon the sacrament, my eyes were
blinded: I saw nothing but the species of bread. I was forced to rest
upon the assent of my faith."

Again I attempted to silence what my soul told me. It was the very power
that Master Richard had taught me to use that was turning against what I
desired. I had not known until then how much I loved this quiet holy lad
with grave eyes--not until I thought I should lose him.

"There is no sin," I said, "that has darkened your eyes?"

I saw him smile sideways at that, and he turned his head a little.

"My sins are neither blacker nor whiter than they have always been," he
said; "you know them all, my father."

"And you wish to leave us?" I cried.

He unclasped his hands and laid one on my knee. I was terrified at its
purity, but his face was turned away, and he said nothing.

I had never heard the wood at that time of the evening so silent as it
was then. It was the time when, as the lax monks say, the birds say
mattins (but the strict observants call it compline), but there was
neither mattins nor compline then in the green wood. It was all in a
great hush, and the shadows from the trees fifty paces away had crept up
and were at our feet.

Then he spoke again.

"Tell me what your soul tells you," he said.

I put my hand on his brown head; I could not speak. Then he rose at
once, and stood smiling and looking on me, and the sunlight made a
splendour in his hair, as it were his heavenly crown.

"Thank you,