ne wall in the
vineyard. As he sees me, he hastens to put on his cloak that I might
not remark the sack-cloth he wore, and with a pious smile of
assurance and thankfulness, welcomes and embraces me, as is his wont.
We sit down in the corridor before the chapel door. The odorous vapor
of what was still burning in the censer within hung above us. The holy
atmosphere mantled the dread silence of the place. And the slow,
insinuating smell of incense, like the fumes of gunga, weighed heavy
on my eyelids and seemed to brush from my memory the cobwebs of time.
A drowsiness possessed me; I felt like one awaking from a dream. I
asked for the water jug, which the Hermit hastened to bring. And
looking through the door of the chapel, I saw on the altar a burning
cresset flickering like the planet Mercury on a December morning. How
often did I light such a cresset when a boy, I mused. Yes, I was an
acolyte once. I swang the censer and drank deep of the incense fumes
as I chanted in Syriac the service. And I remember when I made a
mistake one day in reading the Epistle of Paul, the priest, who was of
an irascible humour, took me by the ear and made me spell the words I
could not pronounce. And the boys in the congregation tittered
gleefully. In my mortification was honey for them. Such was my pride,
nevertheless, such the joy I felt, when, of all the boys that gathered
round the lectern at vespers, I was called upon to read in the
_sinksar_ (hagiography) the Life of the Saint of the day.

"I knew then that to steal, for instance, is a sin; and yet, I emptied
the box of wafers every morning after mass and shared them with the
very boys who laughed at my mistakes. One day, in the purest
intention, I offered one of these wafers to my donkey and he would
not eat it. I felt insulted, and never after did I pilfer a wafer.
Now, as I muse on these sallies of boyish waywardness I am impressed
with the idea that the certainty and daring of Ignorance, or might I
say Innocence, are great. Indeed, to the pure everything is pure. But
strange to relate that as I sat in the corridor of the Hermitage and
saw the light flickering on the altar, I hankered for a wafer, and was
tempted to go into the chapel and filch one. What prevented me? Alas,
knowledge makes sceptics and cowards of us all. And the pursuit of
knowledge, according to my Hermit, nay, the noblest pursuit, even the
serving of God, ceases to be a virtue the moment we begin to enjoy
it.