FullReads

“Look you, my friends,” said Winfried, “how sweet and peaceful is this convent to-night! It is a garden full of flowers in the heart of winter; a nest among the branches of a great tree shaken by the winds; a still haven on the edge of a tempestuous sea. And this is what religion means for those who are chosen and called to quietude and prayer and meditation.

“But out yonder in the wide forest, who knows what storms are raving to-night in the hearts of men, though all the woods are still? who knows what haunts of wrath and cruelty are closed tonight against the advent of the Prince of Peace? And shall I tell you what religion means to those who are called and chosen to dare, and to fight, and to conquer the world for Christ? It means to go against the strongholds of the adversary. It means to struggle to win an entrance for the Master everywhere. What helmet is strong enough for this strife save the helmet of salvation? What breastplate can guard a man against these fiery darts but the breastplate of righteousness? What shoes can stand the wear of these journeys but the preparation of the gospel of peace?”

“Shoes?” he cried again, and laughed as if a sudden thought had struck him. He thrust out his foot, covered with a heavy cowhide boot, laced high about his leg with thongs of skin.

“Look here,–how a fighting man of the cross is shod! I have seen the boots of the Bishop of Tours,–white kid, broidered with silk; a day in the bogs would tear them to shreds. I have seen the sandals that the monks use on the highroads,–yes, and worn them; ten pair of them have I worn out and thrown away in a single journey. Now I shoe my feet with the toughest hides, hard as iron; no rock can cut them, no branches can tear them. Yet more than one pair of these have I outworn, and many more shall I outwear ere my journeys are ended. And I think, if God is gracious to me, that I shall die wearing them. Better so than in a soft bed with silken coverings. The boots of a warrior, a hunter, a woodsman,–these are my preparation of the gospel of peace.

“Come, Gregor,” he said, laying his brown hand on the youth’s shoulder, “come, wear the forester’s boots with me. This is the life to which we are called. Be strong in the Lord, a hunter of the demons, a subduer of the wilderness, a woodsman of the faith. Come.”

The boy’s eyes sparkled. He turned to his grandmother. She shook her head vigorously.

“Nay, father,” she said, “draw not the lad away from my side with these wild words. I need him to help me with my labours, to cheer my old age.”

“Do you need him more than the Master does?” asked Winfried; “and will you take the wood that is fit for a bow to make a distaff?”

“But I fear for the child. Thy life is too hard for him. He will perish with hunger in the woods.”

“Once,” said Winfried, smiling, “we were camped on the bank of the river Ohru. The table was set for the morning meal, but my comrades cried that it was empty; the provisions were exhausted; we must go without breakfast, and perhaps starve before we could escape from the wilderness. While they complained, a fish-hawk flew up from the river with flapping wings, and let fall a great pike in the midst of the camp. There was food enough and to spare! Never have I seen the righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging bread.”

“But the fierce pagans of the forest,” cried the abbess,–“they may pierce the boy with their arrows, or dash out his brains with their axes. He is but a child, too young for the danger and the strife.”