distance in an indistinct point, and when the torches upon
it were lighted it recalled the tail of the comet which appeared in
Vervignole to announce the death of King Comus. The holy St. Nicolas sat
at the upper end. There he entertained the principal folk of the town
and of the kingdom, and a multitude of clergy and laymen. But on his
right there was always reserved a seat for the poor man who might come
begging for his bread at the door.

Children, particularly, aroused the solicitude of the good St. Nicolas.
He delighted in their innocence, and he felt for them with the heart of
a father and the bowels of a mother. He had the virtues and the morals
of an apostle. Yearly, in the dress of a simple monk, with a white staff
in his hand, he would visit his flock, desirous of seeing everything
with his own eyes; and in order that no adversity or disorder should
escape his notice he would traverse, accompanied by a single priest, the
wildest parts of his diocese, crossing, in winter, the flooded rivers,
climbing mountains, and plunging into the thick forests. One day, having
ridden since dawn upon his mule, in company with the Deacon Modernus,
thorny thickets through which his mount with difficulty forced a winding
path. The Deacon Modernus followed him with much difficulty on his mule,
which carried the baggage.

Overcome with hunger and fatigue, the man of God said to Modernus:

"Let us halt here, my son, and if you still have a little bread and wine
we will sup here, for I feel that I hardly have the strength to proceed
further, and you, although the younger, must be nearly as tired as I."

"Monseigneur," answered Modernus, "there remains neither a drop of wine
nor a crumb of bread; for, by your orders, I gave all to some people on
the road, who had less need of it than ourselves."

"Without a doubt," replied the Bishop, "had there been a few scraps
left in your wallet we should have eaten them with pleasure, for it
is fitting that those who govern the Church should be nourished on the
leavings of the poor. But since you have nothing left it is because God
has desired it so, and He has surely desired it for our good and profit.
It is possible that He will for ever hide from us the reason of this
favour: perhaps, on the other hand, He will quickly make it manifest.
Meanwhile, I think the only thing left for us is to push on until we
find some arbutus berries and blackberries for our own nourishment, and
some grass f