It was on the evening of Saturday, after
vespers; the abbot had been present at the office, and, as he went
forth from the oratory, he bade Basil follow him. They entered the
tower, and Benedict, who walked feebly, sat for some moments silent
in his chair, as if he had need of repose before the effort of
speaking. Through the window streamed a warm light, illumining the
aged face turned thither with eyes which dreamt upon the vanishing
day.
'So you are no longer impatient to be gone?' were the abbot's first
words, spoken in a voice which had not lost its music, though
weakness made it low.
'My father,' answered Basil, 'I have striven with myself and God has
helped me.'
He knew that it was needless to say more. The eyes bent upon him
read all his thoughts; the confessions, the pleadings, he might have
uttered, all lay open before that calm intelligence.'
'It is true, dear son,' said Benedict, 'that you have fought
bravely, and your countenance declares that, in some measure,
victory has been granted you. That it is not the complete victory of
those who put the world for ever beneath their feet, shall not move
me to murmur.
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