ddenly the friar said
quietly: "I touched the ground."

"Impossible, father," said Gerard. "We are more than a hundred yards
from shore. Prythee, leave not our faithful mast."

"My son," said the friar, "you speak prudently. But know that I have
business of Holy Church on hand, and may not waste time floating, when I
can walk in her service. There, I felt it with my toes again! Thy
stature is less than mine; keep to the mast; I walk." He left the mast
accordingly, and extending his powerful arms, rushed through the water.
Gerard soon followed him. At each overpowering wave the monk stood like
a tower, and, closing his mouth, threw his head back to encounter it,
then emerged and ploughed lustily on. At last they came close to the
shore, and then the natives sent stout fishermen into the sea, holding
by long spears, and so dragged them ashore.

The friar shook himself, bestowed a short paternal benediction on the
natives, and went on to Rome, without pausing.

Gerard grasped every hand upon the beach. They brought him to an
enormous fire, left him to dry himself, and fetched clothes for him to
wear.

Next day, towards afternoon, Gerard--twice as old as last year, thrice
as learned in human ways, a boy no more, but a man who had shed blood in
self-defence, and grazed the grave by land and sea--reached the Eternal
City.

_III.--The Cloister_

Gerard stayed in Rome, worked hard, and got money for his illuminations.
He put by money of all he earned, and Margaret seemed nearer and nearer.
Then came the day when the forged letter reached him. "Know that
Margaret Brandt died in these arms on Thursday night last. The last
words on her lips was 'Gerard!' She said: 'Tell him I prayed for him at
my last hour, and bid him pray for me.'" The letter was signed with
Margaret Van Eyck's signature, sure enough.

Gerard staggered against the window sill and groaned when he read this.
His senses failed him; he ran furiously about the streets for hours.
Despair followed.

On the second day he was raving with fever on the brain, and on his
recovery from the fever a dark cloud fell on Gerard's noble mind.

His friend Fra Jerome, the same Dominican friar who had escaped from the
wreck with him, exhorted him to turn and consecrate his gifts to the
Church.

"Malediction on the Church!" cried Gerard. "But for the Church I should
not lie broken here, and she lie cold in Holland." Fra Jerome left him
at this.

Gerard's pure and