they looked into his benignant
face, and stood awed in his presence. Their rough manner, words and
tones were changed by his smile and even friendly greeting. He made no
resistance. His only motion was a wave of his hand. It was mightier than
sword or lance or bow. His only request was, "Take me to your captain."
Over-awed by the dignity of his manner and his calmness, the captors
obeyed their captive and silently led him to their chief. In an open
space the tall handsome young man was seated on his horse, wearing
bright armor and breastplate, and holding the spear of a warrior. At a
glance he recognized his old master, instructor and guide, who had been
to him as a father. His first thought was, "Why should this holy man
seek me?" He answered his own question, saying to himself, "He has come
with just and angry threatenings which I well deserve." John had been
called "a son of thunder." As such the trembling chief thought of him,
ready to hear him pronounce an awful woe. So with a mingled cry of fear
and anguish, he turned his horse and would have fled--a strange sound
and sight for his fellow-robbers.

But St. John had no thunder tones for him, no threats of coming
punishment. The kind shepherd had found the sheep that had been lost.
The father had found the prodigal, without waiting for the wanderer's
return. John sprang toward him. He held out his arms in an affectionate
manner. He called him by tender names. With earnest entreaty he
prevailed on him to stop and listen. As young Saul, when near Damascus
caught sight of Jesus and heard His voice, dropped from his horse to the
ground; so did the young chieftain at the sight and voice of St. John.
With reverence he kneeled before him, and in shame bowed his head to the
ground. Like Peter who had denied the same Lord, the young man wept
bitterly. His cries of self-reproach and his despair echoed strangely in
that rocky defile. As St. John had wept for him, he wept for himself.
Those were truly penitential tears. John still spoke encouragingly. The
young man lifted his head and embraced the knees of the Apostle,
sobbing out, "No hope, no pardon." Then remembering the deeds of his
right hand, defiled with blood, he hid it beneath his robe. St. John
fell on his knees before him and enfolded him in his arms. He grasped
the hand that had been hidden, and bathed it in tears as if he would
wash away its bloody stains, and then kissed it, in thought of the good
he said it shou