Robber Mother, who lived in Robbers' Cave up in Göinge forest, went down to the village one day on a begging tour. Robber Father, who was an outlawed man, did not dare to leave the forest, but had to content himself with lying in wait for the wayfarers who ventured within its borders. But at that time travellers were not very plentiful in Southern Skåne. If it so happened that the man had had a few weeks of ill luck with his hunt, his wife would take to the road. She took with her five youngsters, and each youngster wore a ragged leathern suit and birch-bark shoes and bore a sack on his back as long as himself. When Robber Mother stepped inside the door of a cabin, no one dared refuse to give her whatever she demanded; for she was not above coming back the following night and setting fire to the house if she had not been well received. Robber Mother and her brood were worse than a pack of wolves, and many a man felt like running a spear through them; but it was never done, because they all knew that the man stayed up in the forest, and he would have known how to wreak vengeance if anything had happened to the children or the old woman.

Now that Robber Mother went from house to house and begged, she came one day to Övid, which at that time was a cloister. She rang the bell of the cloister gate and asked for food. The watchman let down a small wicket in the gate and handed her six round bread cakes—one for herself and one for each of the five children.

While the mother was standing quietly at the gate, her youngsters were running about. And now one of them came and pulled at her skirt, as a signal that he had discovered something which she ought to come and see, and Robber Mother followed him promptly.

The entire cloister was surrounded by a high and strong wall, but the youngster had managed to find a little back gate which stood ajar. When Robber Mother got there, she pushed the gate open and walked inside without asking leave, as it was her custom to do.

Övid Cloister was managed at that time by Abbot Hans, who knew all about herbs. Just within the cloister wall he had planted a little herb garden, and it was into this that the old woman had forced her way.

At first glance Robber Mother was so astonished that she paused at the gate. It was high summertide, and Abbot Hans' garden was so full of flowers that the eyes were fairly dazzled by the blues, reds, and yellows, as one looked into it. But presently an indulgent smile spread over her features, and she started to walk up a narrow path that lay between many flower-beds.

In the garden a lay brother walked about, pulling up weeds. It was he who had left the door in the wall open, that he might throw the weeds and tares on the rubbish heap outside.

When he saw Robber Mother coming in, with all five youngsters in tow, he ran toward her at once and ordered them away. But the beggar woman walked right on as before. She cast her eyes up and down, looking now at the stiff white lilies which spread near the ground, then on the ivy climbing high upon the cloister wall, and took no notice whatever of the lay brother.

He thought she had not understood him, and wanted to take her by the arm and turn her toward the gate. But when the robber woman saw his purpose, she gave him a look that sent him reeling backward. She had been walking with back bent under her beggar's pack, but now she straightened herself to her full height. "I am Robber Mother from Göinge forest; so touch me if you dare!" And it was obvious that she was as certain she would be left in peace as if she had announced that she was the Queen of Denmark.

And yet the lay brother dared to oppose her, although now, when he knew who she was, he spoke reasonably to her. "You must know, Robber Mother, that this is a monks' cloister, and no woman in the land is allowed within these walls. If you do not go away, the monks will be angry with me because I forgot to close the gate, and perhaps they will drive me away from the cloister and the herb garden."

But such prayers were wasted on Robber Mother. She walked straight ahead among the little flower-beds and looked at the hyssop with its magenta blossoms, and at the honeysuckles, which were full of deep orange-colored flower clusters.

Then the lay brother knew of no other remedy than to run into the cloister and call for help.

He returned with two stalwart monks, and Robber Mother saw that now it meant business! With feet firmly planted she stood in the path and began shrieking in strident tones all the awful vengeance she would wreak on the cloister if she couldn't remain in the herb garden as long as she wished. But the monks did not see why they need fear her and thought only of driving her out. Then Robber Mother let out a perfect volley of shrieks, and, throwing herself upon the monks, clawed and bit at them; so did all the youngsters. The men soon learned that she could overpower them, and all they could do was to go back into the cloister for reinforcements.

As they ran through the passage-way which led to the cloister, they met Abbot Hans, who came rushing out to learn what all this noise was about.

Then they had to confess that Robber Mother from Göinge forest had come into the cloister and that they were unable to drive her out and must call for assistance.

But Abbot Hans upbraided them for using force and forbade their calling for help. He sent both monks back to their work, and although he was an old and fragile man, he took with him only the lay brother.

When Abbot Hans came out in the garden, Robber Mother was still wandering among the flower-beds. He regarded her with astonishment. He was certain that Robber Mother had never before seen an herb garden; yet she sauntered leisurely between all the small patches, each of which had been planted with its own species of rare flower, and looked at them as if they were old acquaintances. At some she smiled, at others she shook her head.

Abbot Hans loved his herb garden as much as it was possible for him to love anything earthly and perishable. Wild and terrible as the old woman looked, he couldn't help liking that she had fought with three monks for the privilege of viewing the garden in peace. He came up to her and asked in a mild tone if the garden pleased her.

Robber Mother turned defiantly toward Abbot Hans, for she expected only to be trapped and overpowered. But when she noticed his white hair and bent form, she answered peaceably, "First, when I saw this, I thought I had never seen a prettier garden; but now I see that it can't be compared with one I know of."

Abbot Hans had certainly expected a different answer. When he heard that Robber Mother had seen a garden more beautiful than his, a faint flush spread over his withered cheek. The lay brother, who was standing close by, immediately began to censure the old woman. "This is Abbot Hans," said he, "who with much care and diligence has gathered the flowers from far and near for his herb garden. We all know that there is not a more beautiful garden to be found in all Skåne, and it is not befitting that you, who live in the wild forest all the year around, should find fault with his work."

"I don't wish to make myself the judge of either him or you," said Robber Mother. "I'm only saying that if you could see the garden of which I am thinking you would uproot all the flowers planted here and cast them away like weeds."

But the Abbot's assistant was hardly less proud of the flowers than the Abbot himself, and after hearing her remarks he laughed derisively. "I can understand that you only talk like this to tease us. It must be a pretty garden that you have made for yourself amongst the pines in Göinge forest! I'd be willing to wager my soul's salvation that you have never before been within the walls of an herb garden."

Robber Mother grew crimson with rage to think that her word was doubted, and she cried out: "It may be true that until to-day I had never been within the walls of an herb garden; but you monks, who are holy men, certainly must know that on every Christmas Eve the great Göinge forest is transformed into a beautiful garden, to commemorate the hour of our Lord's birth. We who live in the forest have seen this happen every year. And in that garden I have seen flowers so lovely that I dared not lift my hand to pluck them."

The lay brother wanted to continue the argument, but Abbot Hans gave him a sign to be silent. For, ever since his childhood, Abbot Hans had heard it said that on every Christmas Eve the forest was dressed in holiday glory. He had often longed to see it, but he had never had the good fortune. Eagerly he begged and implored Robber Mother that he might come up to the Robbers' Cave on Christmas Eve. If she would only send one of her children to show him the way, he could ride up there alone, and he would never betray them—on the contrary, he would reward them, in so far as it lay in his power.

Robber Mother said no at first, for she was thinking of Robber Father and of the peril which might befall him should she permit Abbot Hans to ride up to their cave. At the same time the desire to prove to the monk that the garden which she knew was more beautiful than his got the better of her, and she gave in.

"But more than one follower you cannot take with you," said she, "and you are not to waylay us or trap us, as sure as you are a holy man."

This Abbot Hans promised, and then Robber Mother went her way. Abbot Hans commanded the lay brother not to reveal to a soul that which had been agreed upon. He feared that the monks, should they learn of his purpose, would not allow a man of his years to go up to the Robbers' Cave.

Nor did he himself intend to reveal his project to a human being. And then it happened that Archbishop Absalon from Lund came to Övid and remained through the night. When Abbot Hans was showing him the herb garden, he got to thinking of Robber Mother's visit, and the lay brother, who was at work in the garden, heard Abbot Hans telling the Bishop about Robber Father, who these many years had lived as an outlaw in the forest, and asking him for a letter of ransom for the man, that he might lead an honest life among respectable folk. "As things are now," said Abbot Hans, "his children are growing up into worse malefactors than himself, and you will soon have a whole gang of robbers to deal with up there in the forest."

But the Archbishop replied that he did not care to let the robber loose among honest folk in the villages. It would be best for all that he remain in the forest.

Then Abbot Hans grew zealous and told the Bishop all about Göinge forest, which, every year at Yuletide, clothed itself in summer bloom around the Robbers' Cave. "If these bandits are not so bad but that God's glories can be made manifest to them, surely we cannot be too wicked to experience the same blessing."

The Archbishop knew how to answer Abbot Hans. "This much I will promise you, Abbot Hans," he said, smiling, "that any day you send me a blossom from the garden in Göinge forest, I will give you letters of ransom for all the outlaws you may choose to plead for."

The lay brother apprehended that Bishop Absalon believed as little in this story of Robber Mother's as he himself; but Abbot Hans perceived nothing of the sort, but thanked Absalon for his good promise and said that he would surely send him the flower.

Abbot Hans had his way. And the following Christmas Eve he did not sit at home with his monks in Övid Cloister, but was on his way to Göinge forest. One of Robber Mother's wild youngsters ran ahead of him, and close behind him was the lay brother who had talked with Robber Mother in the herb garden.

Abbot Hans had been longing to make this journey, and he was very happy now that it had come to pass. But it was a different matter with the lay brother who accompanied him. Abbot Hans was very dear to him, and he would not willingly have allowed another to attend him and watch over him; but he didn't believe that he should see any Christmas Eve garden. He thought the whole thing a snare which Robber Mother had, with great cunning, laid for Abbot Hans, that he might fall into her husband's clutches.

While Abbot Hans was riding toward the forest, he saw that everywhere they were preparing to celebrate Christmas. In every peasant settlement fires were lighted in the bath-house to warm it for the afternoon bathing. Great hunks of meat and bread were being carried from the larders into the cabins, and from the barns came the men with big sheaves of straw to be strewn over the floors.

As he rode by the little country churches, he observed that each parson, with his sexton, was busily engaged in decorating his church; and when he came to the road which leads to Bösjo Cloister, he observed that all the poor of the parish were coming with armfuls of bread and long candles, which they had received at the cloister gate.

When Abbot Hans saw all these Christmas preparations, his haste increased. He was thinking of the festivities that awaited him, which were greater than any the others would be privileged to enjoy.

But the lay brother whined and fretted when he saw how they were preparing to celebrate Christmas in every humble cottage. He grew more and more anxious, and begged and implored Abbot Hans to turn back and not to throw himself deliberately into the robber's hands.

Abbot Hans went straight ahead, paying no heed to his lamentations. He left the plain behind him and came up into desolate and wild forest regions. Here the road was bad, almost like a stony and burr-strewn path, with neither bridge nor plank to help them over brooklet and rivulet. The farther they rode, the colder it grew, and after a while they came upon snow-covered ground.

It turned out to be a long and hazardous ride through the forest. They climbed steep and slippery side paths, crawled over swamp and marsh, and pushed through windfall and bramble. Just as daylight was waning, the robber boy guided them across a forest meadow, skirted by tall, naked leaf trees and green fir trees. Back of the meadow loomed a mountain wall, and in this wall they saw a door of thick boards. Now Abbot Hans understood that they had arrived, and dismounted. The child opened the heavy door for him, and he looked into a poor mountain grotto, with bare stone walls. Robber Mother was seated before a log fire that burned in the middle of the floor. Alongside the walls were beds of virgin pine and moss, and on one of these beds lay Robber Father asleep.

"Come in, you out there!" shouted Robber Mother without rising, "and fetch the horses in with you, so they won't be destroyed by the night cold."

Abbot Hans walked boldly into the cave, and the lay brother followed. Here were wretchedness and poverty! and nothing was done to celebrate Christmas. Robber Mother had neither brewed nor baked; she had neither washed nor scoured. The youngsters were lying on the floor around a kettle, eating; but no better food was provided for them than a watery gruel.

Robber Mother spoke in a tone as haughty and dictatorial as any well-to-do peasant woman. "Sit down by the fire and warm yourself, Abbot Hans," said she; "and if you have food with you, eat, for the food which we in the forest prepare you wouldn't care to taste. And if you are tired after the long journey, you can lie down on one of these beds to sleep. You needn't be afraid of oversleeping, for I'm sitting here by the fire keeping watch. I shall awaken you in time to see that which you have come up here to see."

Abbot Hans obeyed Robber Mother and brought forth his food sack; but he was so fatigued after the journey he was hardly able to eat, and as soon as he could stretch himself on the bed, he fell asleep.

The lay brother was also assigned a bed to rest upon, but he didn't dare sleep, as he thought he had better keep his eye on Robber Father to prevent his getting up and capturing Abbot Hans. But gradually fatigue got the better of him, too, and he dropped into a doze.

When he woke up, he saw that Abbot Hans had left his bed and was sitting by the fire talking with Robber Mother. The outlawed robber sat also by the fire. He was a tall, raw-boned man with a dull, sluggish appearance. His back was turned to Abbot Hans, as though he would have it appear that he was not listening to the conversation.

Abbot Hans was telling Robber Mother all about the Christmas preparations he had seen on the journey, reminding her of Christmas feasts and games which she must have known in her youth, when she lived at peace with mankind. "I'm sorry for your children, who can never run on the village street in holiday dress or tumble in the Christmas straw," said he.

At first Robber Mother answered in short, gruff sentences, but by degrees she became more subdued and listened more intently. Suddenly Robber Father turned toward Abbot Hans and shook his clenched fist in his face. "You miserable monk! did you come here to coax from me my wife and children? Don't you know that I am an outlaw and may not leave the forest?"

Abbot Hans looked him fearlessly in the eyes. "It is my purpose to get a letter of ransom for you from Archbishop Absalon," said he. He had hardly finished speaking when the robber and his wife burst out laughing. They knew well enough the kind of mercy a forest robber could expect from Bishop Absalon!

"Oh, if I get a letter of ransom from Absalon," said Robber Father, "then I'll promise you that never again will I steal so much as a goose."

The lay brother was annoyed with the robber folk for daring to laugh at Abbot Hans, but on his own account he was well pleased. He had seldom seen the Abbot sitting more peaceful and meek with his monks at Övid than he now sat with this wild robber folk.

Suddenly Robber Mother rose. "You sit here and talk, Abbot Hans," she said, "so that we are forgetting to look at the forest. Now I can hear, even in this cave, how the Christmas bells are ringing."

The words were barely uttered when they all sprang up and rushed out. But in the forest it was still dark night and bleak winter. The only thing they marked was a distant clang borne on a light south wind.

"How can this bell ringing ever awaken the dead forest?" thought Abbot Hans. For now, as he stood out in the winter darkness, he thought it far more impossible that a summer garden could spring up here than it had seemed to him before.

When the bells had been ringing a few moments, a sudden illumination penetrated the forest; the next moment it was dark again, and then the light came back. It pushed its way forward between the stark trees, like a shimmering mist. This much it effected: The darkness merged into a faint daybreak. Then Abbot Hans saw that the snow had vanished from the ground, as if some one had removed a carpet, and the earth began to take on a green covering. Then the ferns shot up their fronds, rolled like a bishop's staff. The heather that grew on the stony hills and the bog-myrtle rooted in the ground moss dressed themselves quickly in new bloom. The moss-tufts thickened and raised themselves, and the spring blossoms shot upward their swelling buds, which already had a touch of color.

Abbot Hans' heart beat fast as he marked the first signs of the forest's awakening. "Old man that I am, shall I behold such a miracle?" thought he, and the tears wanted to spring to his eyes. Again it grew so hazy that he feared the darkness would once more cover the earth; but almost immediately there came a new wave of light. It brought with it the splash of rivulet and the rush of cataract. Then the leaves of the trees burst into bloom, as if a swarm of green butterflies came flying and clustered on the branches. It was not only trees and plants that awoke, but crossbeaks hopped from branch to branch, and the woodpeckers hammered on the limbs until the splinters fairly flew around them. A flock of starlings from up country lighted in a fir top to rest. They were paradise starlings. The tips of each tiny feather shone in brilliant reds, and, as the birds moved, they glittered like so many jewels.

Again, all was dark for an instant, but soon there came a new light wave. A fresh, warm south wind blew and scattered over the forest meadow all the little seeds that had been brought here from southern lands by birds and ships and winds, and which could not thrive elsewhere because of this country's cruel cold. These took root and sprang up the instant they touched the ground.

When the next warm wind came along, the blueberries and lignon ripened. Cranes and wild geese shrieked in the air, the bullfinches built nests, and the baby squirrels began playing on the branches of the trees.

Everything came so fast now that Abbot Hans could not stop to reflect on how immeasurably great was the miracle that was taking place. He had time only to use his eyes and ears. The next light wave that came rushing in brought with it the scent of newly ploughed acres, and far off in the distance the milkmaids were heard coaxing the cows—and the tinkle of the sheep's bells. Pine and spruce trees were so thickly clothed with red cones that they shone like crimson mantles. The juniper berries changed color every second, and forest flowers covered the ground till it was all red, blue, and yellow.

Abbot Hans bent down to the earth and broke off a wild strawberry blossom, and, as he straightened up, the berry ripened in his hand.

The mother fox came out of her lair with a big litter of black-legged young. She went up to Robber Mother and scratched at her skirt, and Robber Mother bent down to her and praised her young. The horned owl, who had just begun his night chase, was astonished at the light and went back to his ravine to perch for the night. The male cuckoo crowed, and his mate stole up to the nests of the little birds with her egg in her mouth.

Robber Mother's youngsters let out perfect shrieks of delight. They stuffed themselves with wild strawberries that hung on the bushes, large as pine cones. One of them played with a litter of young hares; another ran a race with some young crows, which had hopped from their nest before they were really ready; a third caught up an adder from the ground and wound it around his neck and arm.

Robber Father was standing out on a marsh eating raspberries. When he glanced up, a big black bear stood beside him. Robber Father broke off an osier twig and struck the bear on the nose. "Keep to your own ground, you!" he said; "this is my turf." Then the huge bear turned around and lumbered off in another direction.

New waves of warmth and light kept coming, and now they brought with them seeds from the star-flower. Golden pollen from rye fields fairly flew in the air. Then came butterflies, so big that they looked like flying lilies. The bee-hive in a hollow oak was already so full of honey that it dripped down on the trunk of the tree. Then all the flowers whose seeds had been brought from foreign lands began to blossom. The loveliest roses climbed up the mountain wall in a race with the blackberry vines, and from the forest meadow sprang flowers as large as human faces.

Abbot Hans thought of the flower he was to pluck for Bishop Absalon; but each new flower that appeared was more beautiful than the others, and he wanted to choose the most beautiful of all.

Wave upon wave kept coming until the air was so filled with light that it glittered. All the life and beauty and joy of summer smiled on Abbot Hans. He felt that earth could bring no greater happiness than that which welled up about him, and he said to himself, "I do not know what new beauties the next wave that comes can bring with it."

But the light kept streaming in, and now it seemed to Abbot Hans that it carried with it something from an infinite distance. He felt a celestial atmosphere enfolding him, and tremblingly he began to anticipate, now that earth's joys had come, the glories of heaven were approaching.

Then Abbot Hans marked how all grew still; the birds hushed their songs, the flowers ceased growing, and the young foxes played no more. The glory now nearing was such that the heart wanted to stop beating; the eyes wept without one's knowing it; the soul longed to soar away into the Eternal. From far in the distance faint harp tones were heard, and celestial song, like a soft murmur, reached him.

Abbot Hans clasped his hands and dropped to his knees. His face was radiant with bliss. Never had he dreamed that even in this life it should be granted him to taste the joys of heaven, and to hear angels sing Christmas carols!

But beside Abbot Hans stood the lay brother who had accompanied him. In his mind there were dark thoughts. "This cannot be a true miracle," he thought, "since it is revealed to malefactors. This does not come from God, but has its origin in witchcraft and is sent hither by Satan. It is the Evil One's power that is tempting us and compelling us to see that which has no real existence."

From afar were heard the sound of angel harps and the tones of a Miserere. But the lay brother thought it was the evil spirits of hell coming closer. "They would enchant and seduce us," sighed he, "and we shall be sold into perdition."

The angel throng was so near now that Abbot Hans saw their bright forms through the forest branches. The lay brother saw them, too; but back of all this wondrous beauty he saw only some dread evil. For him it was the devil who performed these wonders on the anniversary of our Saviour's birth. It was done simply for the purpose of more effectually deluding poor human beings.

All the while the birds had been circling around the head of Abbot Hans, and they let him take them in his hands. But all the animals were afraid of the lay brother; no bird perched on his shoulder, no snake played at his feet. Then there came a little forest dove. When she marked that the angels were nearing, she plucked up courage and flew down on the lay brother's shoulder and laid her head against his cheek.

Then it appeared to him as if sorcery were come right upon him, to tempt and corrupt him. He struck with his hand at the forest dove and cried in such a loud voice that it rang throughout the forest, "Go thou back to hell, whence thou art come!"

Just then the angels were so near that Abbot Hans felt the feathery touch of their great wings, and he bowed down to earth in reverent greeting.

But when the lay brother's words sounded, their song was hushed and the holy guests turned in flight. At the same time the light and the mild warmth vanished in unspeakable terror for the darkness and cold in a human heart. Darkness sank over the earth, like a coverlet; frost came, all the growths shrivelled up; the animals and birds hastened away; the rushing of streams was hushed; the leaves dropped from the trees, rustling like rain.

Abbot Hans felt how his heart, which had but lately swelled with bliss, was now contracting with insufferable agony. "I can never outlive this," thought he, "that the angels from heaven had been so close to me and were driven away; that they wanted to sing Christmas carols for me and were driven to flight."

Then he remembered the flower he had promised Bishop Absalon, and at the last moment he fumbled among the leaves and moss to try and find a blossom. But he sensed how the ground under his fingers froze and how the white snow came gliding over the ground. Then his heart caused him even greater anguish. He could not rise, but fell prostrate on the ground and lay there.

When the robber folk and the lay brother had groped their way back to the cave, they missed Abbot Hans. They took brands with them and went out to search for him. They found him dead upon the coverlet of snow.

Then the lay brother began weeping and lamenting, for he understood that it was he who had killed Abbot Hans because he had dashed from him the cup of happiness which he had been thirsting to drain to its last drop.

When Abbot Hans had been carried down to Övid, those who took charge of the dead saw that he held his right hand locked tight around something which he must have grasped at the moment of death. When they finally got his hand open, they found that the thing which he had held in such an iron grip was a pair of white root bulbs, which he had torn from among the moss and leaves.

When the lay brother who had accompanied Abbot Hans saw the bulbs, he took them and planted them in Abbot Hans' herb garden.

He guarded them the whole year to see if any flower would spring from them. But in vain he waited through the spring, the summer, and the autumn. Finally, when winter had set in and all the leaves and the flowers were dead, he ceased caring for them.

But when Christmas Eve came again, he was so strongly reminded of Abbot Hans that he wandered out into the garden to think of him. And look! as he came to the spot where he had planted the bare root bulbs, he saw that from them had sprung flourishing green stalks, which bore beautiful flowers with silver white leaves.

He called out all the monks at Övid, and when they saw that this plant bloomed on Christmas Eve, when all the other growths were as if dead, they understood that this flower had in truth been plucked by Abbot Hans from the Christmas garden in Göinge forest. Then the lay brother asked the monks if he might take a few blossoms to Bishop Absalon.

And when he appeared before Bishop Absalon, he gave him the flowers and said: "Abbot Hans sends you these. They are the flowers he promised to pick for you from the garden in Göinge forest."

When Bishop Absalon beheld the flowers, which had sprung from the earth in darkest winter, and heard the words, he turned as pale as if he had met a ghost. He sat in silence a moment; thereupon he said, "Abbot Hans has faithfully kept his word and I shall also keep mine." And he ordered that a letter of ransom be drawn up for the wild robber who was outlawed and had been forced to live in the forest ever since his youth.

He handed the letter to the lay brother, who departed at once for the Robbers' Cave. When he stepped in there on Christmas Day, the robber came toward him with axe uplifted. "I'd like to hack you monks into bits, as many as you are!" said he. "It must be your fault that Göinge forest did not last night dress itself in Christmas bloom."

"The fault is mine alone," said the lay brother, "and I will gladly die for it; but first I must deliver a message from Abbot Hans." And he drew forth the Bishop's letter and told the man that he was free. "Hereafter you and your children shall play in the Christmas straw and celebrate your Christmas among people, just as Abbot Hans wished to have it," said he.

Then Robber Father stood there pale and speechless, but Robber Mother said in his name, "Abbot Hans has indeed kept his word, and Robber Father will keep his."

When the robber and his wife left the cave, the lay brother moved in and lived all alone in the forest, in constant meditation and prayer that his hard-heartedness might be forgiven him.

But Göinge forest never again celebrated the hour of our Saviour's birth; and of all its glory, there lives to-day only the plant which Abbot Hans had plucked. It has been named Christmas Rose. And each year at Christmastide she sends forth from the earth her green stalks and white blossoms, as if she never could forget that she had once grown in the great Christmas garden at Göinge forest.

In the old and time-honored mosque, El Aksa, in Jerusalem, there is a long, winding path leading from the main entrance up to a very deep and wide window-niche. In this niche a very old and much worn rug is spread; and upon this rug, day in and day out, sits old Mesullam, who is a fortune-teller and dream-interpreter, and who for a paltry penny serves the visitors to the mosque by prying into their future destinies.

It happened one afternoon, several years ago, that Mesullam, who sat as usual in his window, was so ill-natured that he wouldn't even return the greetings of the passers-by. No one thought, however, of feeling offended at his rudeness, because every one knew that he was grieving over a humiliation which had been put upon him that day.

At that time a mighty monarch from the Occident was visiting Jerusalem, and in the forenoon the distinguished stranger with his retinue had wandered through El Aksa. Before his arrival the superintendent of the mosque had commanded the servants to scour and dust all the nooks and corners of the old building, at the same time giving orders that Mesullam should move out of his accustomed place. He had found that it would be simply impossible to let him remain there during the visit of the distinguished guest. It was not only that his rug was very ragged, or that he had piled up around him a lot of dirty sacks in which he kept his belongings, but Mesullam himself was anything but an ornament to the mosque! He was, in reality, an inconceivably ugly old negro. His lips were enormous, his chin protruded aggressively, his brow was exceedingly low, and his nose was almost like a snout; and in addition to these, Mesullam had a coarse and wrinkled skin and a clumsy, thick-set body, which was carelessly draped in a dirty white shawl. So one can't wonder that he was forbidden to show himself in the mosque while the honored guest was there!

Poor Mesullam, who knew well enough that, despite his ugliness, he was a very wise man, experienced a bitter disappointment in that he was not to see the royal traveller. He had hoped that he might give him some proofs of the great accomplishments which he possessed in occult things and in this way add to his own glory and renown. Since this hope had miscarried, he sat hour after hour in a queer position, and mourned, with his long arms stretched upward and his head thrown far back, as though he were calling upon heaven for justice.

When it drew on toward evening, Mesullam was wakened from his state of all-absorbing grief by a cheery voice calling him. It was a Syrian who, accompanied by another traveller, had come up to the soothsayer. He told him that the stranger whom he was conducting wished for a proof of Oriental wisdom, and that he had spoken to him of Mesullam's ability to interpret dreams.

Mesullam answered not a word to this, but maintained his former attitude rigidly. When the guide asked him again if he would not listen to the dreams the stranger wished to relate to him and interpret them, his arms dropped and he crossed them on his breast. Assuming the attitude of a wronged man, he answered that this evening his soul was so filled with his own troubles that he couldn't judge anything clearly which concerned another.

But the stranger, who had a buoyant and commanding personality, didn't seem to mind his objections. As there was no chair handy, he kicked aside the rug and seated himself in the window-niche. Then he began, in a clear and vibrant voice, to narrate a few dreams, which later were translated for the soothsayer by the guide.

"Tell him," said the traveller, "that a few years ago I was at Cairo, in Egypt. Since he is a learned man, naturally he knows there is a mosque there, called El Azhar, which is the most celebrated institution of learning in the Orient. I went there one day to visit it, and found that the whole colossal structure—all its rooms and arcades, all its entrances and halls were filled with students. There were old men who had devoted their entire lives to the quest for knowledge, and children who were just learning to form their letters. There were giantesque negroes from the heart of Africa; lithe, handsome youths from India and Arabia; far-travelled strangers from Barbary, from Georgia, from every land where the natives embrace the doctrines of the Koran. Close to the pillars—I was told that in El Azhar there were as many teachers as there were pillars—the instructors were squatted on their rugs, while their students, who were arranged in a circle around them, eagerly followed their lectures, which were accompanied by swaying movements of their bodies. And tell him that, although El Azhar is in no way comparable to the great Occidental seats of learning, I was nevertheless astonished at what I saw there. I remarked to myself: 'Ah, this is Islam's great stronghold and defence! From here Mohammed's young champions go out. Here, at El Azhar, the potions of wisdom that keep the Koran's doctrines healthy and vigorous are blended.'"

All of this the traveller said almost in one breath. Now he made a pause, so that the guide would have an opportunity to interpret for the soothsayer. Then he continued:

"Now tell him that El Azhar made such a powerful impression upon me that on the following night I saw it again in a dream. I saw the white marble structure and the many students dressed in white mantles and white turbans—as is the custom at El Azhar. I wandered through halls and courts and was again astonished at what a splendid fortress and wall of protection this was for Mohammedanism. Finally—in the dream—I came to the minaret upon which the prayer-crier stands to inform the faithful that the hour of prayer has struck. And I saw the stairway which winds up to the minaret, and I saw a prayer-crier walking up the steps. He wore a black mantle and a white turban, like the others, and as he went up the stairs I could not at first see his face, but when he had made a few turns on the spiral stairway, he happened to turn his face toward me, and then I saw that it was Christ."

The speaker made a short pause, and his chest was expanded for a deep inhalation. "I shall never forget, although it was only a dream," he exclaimed, "what an impression it made upon me to see Christ walking up the steps to the minaret in El Azhar! To me it seemed so glorious and significant that he had come to this stronghold of Islam to call out the hours of prayer that I leaped up in the dream and awaked."

Here the traveller made another pause to let the guide interpret for the soothsayer. But this appeared to be well-nigh useless labor. Mesullam sat all the while, with his hands on his sides, rocking back and forth, and with his eyes half closed. He seemed to want to say: "Inasmuch as I cannot escape these importunate people, at least I will let them see that I don't care to listen to what they have to say. I'll try and rock myself to sleep. It will be the best way to show them how little I care about them."

The guide intimated to the traveller that all their trouble would be in vain and they wouldn't hear a sensible word from Mesullam while he was in this mood. But the European stranger seemed to be entranced by Mesullam's indescribable ugliness and extraordinary behavior. He looked at him with the pleasure of a child when it is watching a wild animal in a menagerie, and he desired to continue the interview.

"Tell him that I wouldn't have troubled him to interpret this dream," he said, "had it not, in a certain sense, come to me again. Let him know that two weeks ago I visited the Sophia Mosque at Constantinople, and that I, after wandering through this magnificent building, stepped up on a minaret in order to get a better view of the auditorium. Tell him, also, that they allowed me to come into the mosque during a service, when it was filled with people. Upon each of the innumerable prayer rugs which covered the whole floor of the main hall, a man was standing and saying his prayers. All who took part in the service simultaneously made the same movements. All fell upon their knees and threw themselves on their faces and raised themselves, at the same time whispering their prayers very low; but from the almost imperceptible movements of so many lips came a mysterious murmur, which rose toward the high arches and died away, time and again. Then there came melodious responses from remote passages and galleries. It was so strange altogether that one wondered if it was not the Spirit of God that poured into the old sanctuary."

The traveller made another pause. He observed Mesullam carefully, while the guide interpreted his speech. It actually appeared as if he had tried to win the negro's approbation with his eloquence. And it seemed, too, as though he would succeed, for Mesullam's half-closed eyes flashed once, like a coal that is beginning to take fire. But the soothsayer, stubborn as a child that will not let itself be amused, dropped his head on his breast and began an even more impatient rocking of his body.

"Tell him," resumed the stranger, "tell him that I have never seen people pray with such fervor! To me it seemed as if it was the sublime beauty of this marvellous structure which created this atmosphere of ecstasy. Verily this is still an Islam bulwark! This is the home of devoutness! From this great mosque emanate the faith and enthusiasm which make Islam a mighty power."

Here he paused again, noting carefully Mesullam's play of features during its interpretation. Not a trace of interest was discernible in them. But the stranger was evidently a man who liked to hear himself talk. His own words intoxicated him; he would have become ill-natured had he not been allowed to proceed.

"Well," said he, when it was his turn again to speak, "I cannot rightly explain what happened to me. Possibly the faint odor from the hundreds of oil lamps, together with the low murmurings of the devotees, lulled me into a kind of stupefaction. I could not help but close my eyes as I stood leaning against a pillar. Soon sleep, or rather insensibility, overcame me. Probably it did not last more than a minute, but during this interval I was entirely removed from reality. While in this trance I could see the whole Sophia Mosque before me, with all the praying people; but now I saw what I had not hitherto observed. Up in the dome were scaffoldings, and on these stood a number of workmen with paint pots and brushes.

"Tell him, if he does not already know it," continued the narrator, "that Sophia Mosque was once a Christian church, and that its arches and dome are covered with sacred Christian mosaics, although the Turks have painted out all these pictures with plain yellow paint. And it appeared to me as if the yellow paint in the dome had peeled off in a couple of places and that the painters had clambered up on the scaffolding to touch up the picture. But, look! when one of them raised his brush to fill in the color, another large piece scaled off, and suddenly one saw from behind it a beautiful painting of the Christ emerge. Again the painter raised his arm to paint out the picture, but the arm, which appeared to be numb and powerless, dropped down before this beautiful face; at the same time the paint dropped from the entire dome and arch, and Christ was visible there in all his glory, among angels and heavenly hosts. Then the painter cried out, and all the worshippers down on the floor of the mosque raised their heads. And when they saw the heavenly hosts surrounding the Saviour, they sent up a cry of joy, and when I witnessed this joy, I was seized with such strong emotion that I waked instantly. Then everything was like itself. The mosaics were hidden under the yellow paint and the devotees continued all the while to invoke Allah."

When the interpreter had translated this, Mesullam opened one eye and regarded the stranger. He saw a man who he thought resembled all other Occidentals that wandered through the mosque. "I don't believe the pale-faced stranger has seen any visions," thought he. "He has not the dark eyes that can see what is behind the veil of mystery. I think, rather, that he came here to make sport of me. I must beware lest on this accursed day I be overtaken by another humiliation."

The stranger spoke anon: "You know, O Dream Interpreter!" turning now direct to Mesullam, as if he thought that he could understand him, despite his foreign tongue—"you know that a distinguished foreigner is visiting Jerusalem at present, and on his account they have talked of opening the walled-up gate in Jerusalem's ring-wall—the one they call 'the Golden' and which is believed to be the gate through which Jesus rode into Jerusalem on Palm Sunday. They have actually been thinking of doing the distinguished traveller the honor of letting him ride into the city through a gate which has been walled up for centuries; but they were held back by an old prophecy which foretells that when this gate is opened the Occidentals will march in through it to take possession of Jerusalem.

"And now you shall hear what happened to me last night. The weather was superb; it was glorious moonlight, and I had gone out alone to take a quiet promenade around the Holy City. I walked outside the ring-wall on the narrow path that extends all round the wall, and my thoughts were borne so far back into distant ages that I scarcely remembered where I was. All of a sudden I began to feel tired. I wondered if I should not soon come to a gate in the wall, through which I might get into the city and thus return to my quarters by a shorter road. Well, just as I was thinking of this, I saw a man open a large gate in the wall directly in front of me. He opened it wide and beckoned to me that I might pass in through it. I was absorbed in my dreams and hardly knew how far I had been walking. I was somewhat surprised that there was a gate here, but I thought no more about the matter and walked through it. As soon as I had passed through the deep archway, the gate closed with a sharp clang. When I turned round, there was no opening visible, only a walled-up gate—the one called the Golden. Before me lay the temple place, the broad Haram plateau, in the centre of which Omar's Mosque is enthroned. And you know that no gate in the ring-wall leads thither but the Golden, which is not only closed but walled up.

"You can understand that I thought I'd gone mad; that I dreamed I had tried in vain to find some explanation of this. I looked around for the man who had let me in. He had vanished and I could not find him. But, on the other hand, I saw him all the plainer in memory—the tall and slightly bent figure, the beautiful locks, the mild visage, the parted beard. It was Christ, soothsayer, Christ once again.

"Tell me now, you who can look into the hidden, what mean my dreams? What, more than all, can be the meaning of my having really and truly passed through the Golden Gate? Even at this moment I do not know how it happened, but I have done so. Tell me, now, what these three things can mean!"

The interpreter translated this for Mesullam, but the soothsayer was all the while in the same suspicious and crabbed mood. "I am certain that this stranger wants to poke fun at me," he thought. "Perchance he would provoke me to anger with all this talk about Christ?"

He would have concluded not to answer at all; but when the interpreter insisted, he muttered a few words.

"What does he say?" asked the traveller eagerly.

"He says he has nothing to say to you but that dreams are dreams."

"Then tell him from me," retorted the stranger, somewhat exasperated, "that this is not always true. It depends entirely upon who dreams them."

Before these words had been interpreted to Mesullam, the European had arisen and with quick and elastic step had walked toward the long passage-way.

But Mesullam sat still and mused over his answer for five minutes. Then he fell upon his face, utterly undone. "Allah, Allah! Twice on the same day Fortune has passed by me without my having captured her. What hath thy servant done to displease thee?"

It happened at Rome in the early nineties. Leo XIII was just then at the height of his fame and greatness. All true Catholics rejoiced at his successes and triumphs, which in truth were sublime. And, even for those who could not grasp the great political events, it was plain that the power of the Church was again coming to the front. Any one at all could see that new cloisters were going up everywhere and that throngs of pilgrims were beginning to pour into Italy, as in olden times. In many, many places one saw the old, dilapidated churches in process of restoration, damaged mosaics being put in order, and the treasure-vaults of the churches being filled with golden relic-boxes and jewelled exhibits.

Right in the midst of this progressive period the Roman people were alarmed by the news that the Pope had been taken ill. He was said to be in a very precarious condition; it was even rumored that he was dying.

His condition was, too, in a great degree serious. The Pope's physicians issued bulletins which inspired but little hope. It was maintained that the Pope's great age—he was then eighty years old—made it seem almost incredible that he could survive this attack.

Naturally, the Pope's illness caused great unrest. In all the churches in Rome prayers were said for his recovery. The newspapers were filled with communications regarding the progress of the illness. The Cardinals were beginning to take steps and measures for the new Papal election.

Everywhere they bemoaned the approaching demise of the brilliant leader. They feared that the good fortune which had followed the Church's standard under Leo XIII might not be faithful to it under the leadership of his successor. There were many who had hoped that this Pope would succeed in winning back Rome and the Ecclesiastical States. Others, again, had dreamed that he would bring back into the bosom of the Church some of the large Protestant countries.

For each second that was passing, fear and anxiety grew apace. As night came on, in many homes the inmates would not retire. The churches were kept open until long past midnight, that the anxious ones might have an opportunity to go in and pray.

Among these throngs of devotees there was certainly more than one poor soul who cried out: "Dear Lord, take my life instead of his! Let him, who has done so much for Thy glory, live, and extinguish instead my life-flame, which burns to no one's use!"

But if the Angel of Death had taken one of these devotees at his word and had suddenly stepped up to him, with sword raised, to exact the fulfilment of his promise, one might wonder somewhat as to how he would have behaved. No doubt he would have recalled instantly such a rash proffer and begged for the grace of being allowed to live out all the years of his allotted time.

At this time there lived an old woman in one of the dingy ramshackle houses along the Tiber. She was one of those who have the kind of spirit that thanks God every day for life. Every morning she used to sit at the market-place and sell garden truck. And this was an occupation that was very congenial to her. She thought nothing could be livelier than a market of a morning. All tongues were wagging—all were harking their commodities, and buyers crowded in front of the stalls, selected and bargained, and many a good sally passed between buyer and seller. Sometimes the old woman was successful in making a good deal and in selling out her entire stock; but even if she couldn't sell so much as a radish, she loved to be standing amongst flowers and green things in the fresh morning air.

In the evening she had another and an even greater pleasure. Then her son came home and visited with her. He was a priest, but he had been assigned to a little church in one of the humble quarters. The poor priests who served there had not much to live upon, and the mother feared that her son was starving. But from this, also, she derived much pleasure, for it gave her the opportunity of stuffing him full of delicacies when he came to see her. He struggled against it, as he was destined for a life of self-denial and strict discipline, but his mother became so distressed when he said no that he always had to give in. While he was eating she trotted around in the room and chattered about all that she had seen in the morning during market hours. These were all very worldly matters, and it would occur to her sometimes that her son might be offended. Then she would break off in the middle of a sentence and begin to talk of spiritual and solemn things, but the priest couldn't help laughing. "No, no, mother Concenza!" he said, "continue in your usual way. The saints know you already, and they know what you are up to."

Then she, too, laughed and said: "You are quite right. It doesn't pay to pretend before the good Lord."

When the Pope was taken ill, Signora Concenza must also have a share in the general grief. Of her own accord it certainly never would have occurred to her to feel troubled about his passing. But when her son came home to her, she could neither persuade him to taste of a morsel of food nor to give her a smile, although she was simply bubbling over with stories and interpolations. Naturally she became alarmed and asked what was wrong with him. "The Holy Father is ill," answered the son.

At first she could scarcely believe that this was the cause of his downheartedness. Of course it was a sorrow; but she knew, to be sure, that if a Pope died, immediately there would come another. She reminded her son of the fact that they had also mourned the good Pio Nono. And, you see, the one who succeeded him was a still greater Pope. Surely the Cardinals would choose for them a ruler who was just as holy and wise as this one.

The priest then began telling her about the Pope. He didn't bother to initiate her into his system of government, but he told her little stories of his childhood and young manhood. And from the days of his prelacy there were also things to relate—as, for instance, how he had at one time hunted down robbers in southern Italy, how he had made himself beloved by the poor and needy during the years when he was a bishop in Perugia.

Her eyes filled with tears, and she cried out: "Ah, if he were not so old! If he might only be allowed to live many more years, since he is such a great and holy man!"

"Ah, if only he were not so old!" sighed the son.

But Signora Concenza had already brushed the tears from her eyes. "You really must bear this calmly," said she. "Remember that his years of life are simply run out. It is impossible to prevent death from seizing him."

The priest was a dreamer. He loved the Church and had dreamed that the great Pope would lead her on to important and decisive victories. "I would give my life if I could purchase new life for him!" said he.

"What are you saying?" cried his mother. "Do you really love him so much? But, in any case, you must not express such dangerous wishes. Instead, you should think of living a good long time. Who knows what may happen? Why couldn't you, in your turn, become Pope?"

A night and a day passed without any improvement in the Pope's condition. When Signora Concenza met her son the following day, he looked completely undone. She understood that he had passed the whole day in prayer and fasting, and she began to feel deeply grieved. "I verily believe that you mean to kill yourself for the sake of that sick old man!" said she.

The son was hurt by again finding her without sympathy, and tried to persuade her to sympathize a little with his grief. "You, truly, more than any one else, ought to wish that the Pope might live," he said. "If he may continue to rule, he will name my parish priest for bishop before the year shall have passed and, in that event, my fortune is made. He will then give me a good place in a cathedral. You shall not see me going about any more in a worn-out cassock. I shall have plenty of money, and I shall be able to help you and all your poor neighbors."

"But if the Pope dies?" asked Signora Concenza breathlessly.

"If the Pope dies, then no one can know—If my parish priest doesn't happen to be in favor with his successor, we must both remain where we now are for many years to come."

Signora Concenza came close to her son and regarded him anxiously. She looked at his brow, which was covered with wrinkles, and at his hair that was just turning gray. He looked tired and worn. It was actually imperative that he should have that place at the cathedral right away. "To-night I shall go to church and pray for the Pope," thought she. "It won't do for him to die."

After supper she bravely conquered her fatigue and went out on the streets. Great crowds of people thronged there. Many were only curious and had gone out because they wished to catch the news of the death at first hand; but many were really distressed and wandered from church to church to pray.

As soon as Signora Concenza had come out on the street, she met one of her daughters, who was married to a lithographer. "Oh, mother, but you do right to come out and pray for him!" exclaimed the daughter. "You can't imagine what a misfortune it would be if he were to die! My Fabiano was ready to take his own life when he learned that the Pope was ill."

She related how her husband, the lithographer, had but just struck off hundreds of thousands of the Pope's pictures. Now, if the Pope were to die, he wouldn't be able to sell half of them—no, not even a quarter of them. He would be ruined. Their entire fortune was at stake.

She rushed on to gather some fresh news, wherewith she might comfort her poor husband, who did not dare venture out, but sat at home and brooded over his misfortune. Her mother stood still on the street, mumbling to herself: "It won't do for him to die. It will never do for him to die!"

She walked into the first church she came to. There she fell upon her knees and prayed for the life of the Pope.

As she arose to leave, she happened to lift her eyes to a little votive tablet which hung on the wall just above her head. The tablet was a representation of Death raising a terrifying two-edged sword to mow down a young girl, while her mother, who had cast herself in his path, tries in vain to receive the blow in place of her child.

She stood long before the picture, musing. "Signor Death is a careful arithmetician," she remarked. "One has never heard of his agreeing to exchange an old person for a young one."

She remembered her son's words that he would be willing to die in the Pope's stead, and a shudder passed through her whole body. "Think, if Death were to take him at his word!"

"No, no, Signor Death!" she whispered. "You mustn't believe him. You must understand that he didn't mean what he said. He wants to live. He doesn't want to leave his old mother, who loves him."

For the first time the thought struck her that if any one should sacrifice himself for the Pope, it were better that she did it—she, who was already old and had lived her life.

When she left the church, she happened into the company of some nuns of the saintliest and most devout appearance, who lived in the northern part of the country. They had travelled down to Rome to obtain a little help from the Pope's treasury. "We are actually in the most dire need of aid," they told old Concenza. "Only think! our convent was so old and dilapidated that it blew down during the severe storm of last winter. We may not now present our case to him. If he should die, we must return home with an unaccomplished mission. Who can know if his successor will be the sort of man who will trouble himself to succor poor nuns?"

It seemed as if all the people were thinking the same thoughts. It was very easy to get into converse with any one. Each and all whom Signora Concenza approached let her know that the Pope's death would be for them a terrible misfortune.

The old woman repeated again and again to herself: "My son is right. It will never do for the Pope to die."

A nurse was standing among a group of people, talking in a loud voice. She was so affected that the tears streamed down her cheeks. She related how five years ago she had been ordered away, to serve at a leper hospital on an island at the other end of the globe. Naturally, she had to obey orders; but she did so against her wishes. She had felt a horrible dread of this mission. Before she left Rome, she was received by the Pope, who had given her a special blessing and had also promised her that if she came back alive she should have another audience with him. And it was upon this that she had lived during the five years she had been away—only on the hope that she might see the Holy Father once more in this life! This had helped her to go through all the horrors. And now, when she had got home at last, she was met by the news that he lay upon his death-bed! She could not even see him!

She was in extreme despair, and old Concenza was deeply moved. "It would really be much too great a sorrow for every one if the Pope were to die," thought she, as she wandered farther up the street.

When she observed that many of the passers-by looked perfectly exhausted from weeping, she thought with a sense of relief: "What a joy it would be to see everybody's happiness if the Pope should recover!" And she, like many others who have a buoyant disposition, was apparently no more afraid of dying than of living; so she said to herself: "If I only knew how it could be done, I would gladly give the Holy Father the years that are left to me of life."

She said this somewhat in jest, but back of the words there was also seriousness. She truly wished that she might realize something in that way. "An old woman could not wish for a more beautiful death," thought she. "I would be helping both my son and my daughter, and, besides, I should make great masses of people happy."

Just as this thought stirred within her, she raised the patched curtain which hung before the entrance of a gloomy little church. It was one of the very old churches—one of those which appear to be gradually sinking into the earth because the city's foundation has, in the intervening years, raised itself several metres all around them. This church in its interior had preserved somewhat of its ancient gloom, which must have come down through the dark ages during which it had sprung into existence. Involuntarily a shudder passed through one as one stepped in under its low arches, which rested upon uncommonly thick pillars, and saw the crudely painted saints' pictures that glimpsed down at one from walls and altars.

When Signora Concenza came into this old church, which was thronged with worshippers, she was seized with a mysterious awe and reverence. She felt that in this sanctuary there verily lived a Deity. Beneath the massive arches hovered something infinitely mighty and mysterious, something which inspired such a sense of annihilating superiority that she felt nervous about remaining in there. "Ah, this is no church where one goes to hear a mass or to confessional," remarked Signora Concenza to herself. "Here one comes when one is in great trouble, when one can be helped in no other way than through a miracle."

She lingered down by the door and breathed in this strange air of mystery and gloom. "I don't even know to whom this old church is dedicated; but I feel that here there must be some one who is able to grant us that which we pray for."

She sank down among the kneeling people, who were so many that they covered the floor from the altar to the door. All the while that she herself was praying, she heard around her sighs and sobs. All this grief went to her heart and filled it with greater and greater compassion. "Oh, my God, let me do something to save the old man!" she prayed. "In the first place, I ought to help my children, and then all the other people."

Every once in a while a thin little monk stole in among the praying and whispered something in their ears. The one to whom he was speaking instantly stood up and followed him into the sacristy.

Signora Concenza soon apprehended what there was in question. "They are of the kind who give pledges for the Pope's recovery," thought she.

The next time the little monk made his rounds, she rose up and went with him. It was a perfectly involuntary action. She fancied that she was being impelled to do this by the power which ruled in the old church.

As soon as she came into the sacristy, which was even more archaic and more mystical than the church itself, she regretted it. "What have I to do in here?" she asked herself. "What have I to give away? I own nothing but a couple of cartloads of garden truck. I certainly can't present the saints with a few baskets of artichokes!"

At one side of the room there was a long table at which a priest stood recording in a register all that was pledged to the saints. Concenza heard how one promised to present the old church with a sum of money, while a second promised to give his gold watch, and a third her pearl earrings.

Concenza stood all the while down by the door. Her last poor copper had been spent to procure a few delicacies for her son. She saw a number of persons who appeared to be no richer than herself buying wax candles and silver hearts. She turned her skirt pocket inside out, but she could not afford even that much.

She stood and waited so long that finally she was the only stranger in the sacristy. The priests walking about in there looked at her a little astonished. Then she took a step or two forward. She seemed at the start uncertain and embarrassed, but after the first move she walked lightly and briskly up to the table. "Your Reverence!" she said to the priest, "write that Concenza Zamponi, who was sixty last year, on Saint John the Baptist's Day, gives all her remaining years to the Pope, that the thread of his life may be lengthened!"

The priest had already begun writing. He was probably very tired after having worked at this register the whole night, and thought no more about the sort of things he was recording. But now he stopped short in the middle of a word and looked quizzically at Signora Concenza. She met his glance very calmly.

"I am strong and well, your Reverence," said she. "I should probably have lived out my allotted seventy years. It is at least ten years that I am giving to the Holy Father."

The priest marked her zeal and reverence and offered no objections. "She is a poor woman," thought he. "She has nothing else to give."

"It is written, my daughter," he said.

When old Concenza came out from the church, it was so late that the commotion had ceased and the streets were absolutely deserted. She found herself in a remote part of the city, where the gas lamps were so far apart that they dispelled only a very little of the darkness. All the same, she walked on briskly. She felt very solemn within and was certain that she had done something which would make many people happy.

As she walked up the street, she suddenly got the impression that a live being circled above her head. In the darkness, between the tall houses, she thought she could distinguish a pair of large wings, and she even fancied she heard the sound of their beating.

"What is this?" said she. "Surely it can't be a bird! It is much too big for that." All at once she thought she saw a face which was so white that it illuminated the darkness. Then an unspeakable terror seized her. "It is the Angel of Death hovering over me," thought she. "Ah, what have I done? I have placed myself in the dreaded one's power!"

She started to run, but she could hear the rustle of the strong wings and was convinced that Death was pursuing her.

She fled with breathless haste through several streets, thinking all the while that Death was coming nearer and nearer her. She already felt his wings brushing against her shoulder.

Suddenly she heard a whizzing in the air, and something heavy and sharp struck her head. Death's two-edged sword had reached her. She sank to her knees. She knew that she must lose her life.

A few hours later, old Concenza was found on the street by two workmen. She lay there unconscious, stricken with apoplexy. The poor woman was immediately removed to a hospital, where they succeeded in bringing her to, but it was apparent that she could not live very long.

There was time, at all events, to send for her children. When, in a state of despair, they reached her sick-bed, they found her very calm and happy. She couldn't speak many words to them, but she lay and caressed their hands. "You must be happy," said she, "happy, happy!" Evidently she did not like their crying. She also bade the nurses smile and show their joy. "Cheerful and happy," said she; "now you must be cheerful and happy!" She lay there with hunger in her eyes, waiting to see a little joy in their faces.

She grew more and more impatient with her children's tears and with the solemn faces of the nurses. She began to utter things which no one could comprehend. She said that in case they were not glad she might just as well have lived. Those who heard her thought she was raving.

Suddenly the doors opened, and a young physician came into the sick-room. He was waving a newspaper and calling in a loud voice: "The Pope is better. He will live. A change has taken place in the night."