s, although Rechberg could not understand a
single word of their conversation, he imagined that it was probably a
discussion of some intricate problem of philosophy.

"What language is that?" he asked.

"Greek, Count," replied Severinus, in a low voice; "every known
language is spoken in our community; Latin and Greek, and Arabic and
Hebrew; they are perfectly familiar with all of them, and with
more still. I like to hear them talk Hebrew, it is such a strange
dialect,--so guttural, that it seems uttered rather by the throat than
by the tongue. I doubt, whether the Franks could articulate a single
syllable of it; but I think you will have a chance to judge for
yourself during our walk. Ah! here come two of your artists!--The very
ones of all whom I prefer, for they have heart and a soul; whereas some
learned men have nothing but intellect Look, how they argue. Let us go
a little nearer; I will wager that their discussion turns upon Homer,
Pindar, Apollo, or Horace."

Erwin listened.

"You deny then all value to pagan sciences, brother Odilon?"

"By no means. I simply remarked that religious faith was the true
domain of true science. The pagans had their own belief, and
consequently their own school of art; but a Christian's art is as far
superior to a pagan's as Christianity is to paganism."

"Do you think that our poetry is better than that of Horace?"

"Yes, inasmuch ours celebrates truth; his, only pagan errors. But,
brother Colomban, in all that relates to style, the pagans are our
masters, for Christian poetry is still in its infancy."

"We have admired together the statues lately received from Rome; do you
think we are capable of doing anything as perfect?"

"We must make a distinction here," replied Odilon. "The pagans attained
a rare perfection of form; but is the body the only, the real object of
art? No; the sculptor must give a spirituality to his work! The most
skilful pagan would never have been able to chisel out the pure image
of the Holy Virgin."

"I think I understand your meaning," said Colomban.

"It is the same with poetry. The fountain head of all sublimity, the
source of the beautiful is God; the nearer the poet approaches that,
the more truly artistic he becomes, and, in proportion as his ideas
diverge from the Divinity, so much farther is he from perfection."

The two monks disappeared at a turn of the path.

"Well, what think you? are not those men true lights of the faith?"
aske