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While in this mood there came to him on his hillside, several days later, a stranger in the dress of a pilgrim, returned, as he at first said, from Palestine. He was on his way to a distant home and in need of food.

Only too eagerly did Stephen share with him such food as he had, asking in return to be told of the wonders of the Holy Land and of the daring deeds of the heroes who had fallen there in battle. The stranger readily complied with this request and poured into the boy’s credulous ears tales well calculated to thrill and excite his already inflamed fancy. Then, watching Stephen closely as he spoke, the stranger said with solemn earnestness:

“But this is not all I have to tell, my lad. There is work for you to do,–for you, the Lord’s anointed, his chosen apostle, and in the name of Christ and his Holy Cross, I bid you arise and do his will.”

“Work?–for me? From whom comes this message?”

Stephen’s eyes were lit with the fire of excited desire and his voice trembled with emotion.

Very slowly the answering words fell from his companion’s lips:

“The message is brought by him who sends it. Behold, lad, the Christ of history and of truth! I bid you arise–rouse up the youth of our land! Lead them to that Holy Sepulchre! As prophet and as leader, go thou where they shall follow, and bring to pass that which nobles and soldiers have failed to accomplish. Go lad–go!”

Stephen’s breath came in quick gasps–his eyes were like coals of fire as he sank on his knees, crying:

“Oh bless me–bless me–I will go–Lord, I will go!”

A hand was laid gently on his head as the deep voice said, “In the name of Jesus, lad–in the name of the Crucified, lead thou thy troops to victory. Across the land, across the sea, lead them to victory!” Then in a less impassioned tone, the stranger added, “I leave with you a letter to the king of France. Haste thou to him with this proof of thy divine mission and he will aid thee in thy enterprise. In the name of Jesus, lad, arise and go!”

A letter was pressed into Stephen’s hand. He heard retreating footsteps, and before he had gained his composure and risen to his feet, his divine guest was gone. He was alone with his straying flock, not sure except for the letter, whether he had had a vision or a visitor.

And how was he to know, innocent peasant lad, of an ignorant and superstitious ancestry, brought up on miraculous tales of saints and seers, that the Christ of his visit was no other than that priest whose attention Stephen had attracted by his emotion at Chartres, who with crafty keenness had chosen the peasant boy to carry out his purpose of arousing the youth of the land to undertake a new Crusade? How was Stephen, all aflame as he was, to be supposed to penetrate the priest’s disguise, to realise his purpose, and throw off the thrill? He could not and he did not.

Leaving his flocks to ramble at will over the plains and neighbouring hills, with the divine letter clasped in his hand, Stephen ran homeward through the little village where he lived, past its dilapidated church, its quaint shops and rows of houses, over the old stone bridge by which the main street crosses the little river Loir, running in a southerly direction to join the beautiful Loire. The bridge is a pleasant place to linger on a summer day, and recalls many a historic memory of Joan of Arc, who once passed that way, on her way to Orleans–of Philip Augustus–of Richard Coeur-de-Lion–but on naught save his divine mission was the lad Stephen intent as he crossed the bridge on that April day.

Having reached home, he hastily called his parents from their labour, and gathering together such neighbours as could be summoned, he told of his talk with the Saviour, who had come to call him, Stephen, the shepherd boy, from tending his flocks, to rescue the Holy City and tomb from wicked hands, and in proof of the truth of his story he showed the letter from Jesus Christ to the King of France asking the king’s aid for Stephen in his holy mission.