small affairs were carried on, and in which he interested himself. God
had made horses and hawks, had provided materials for carriages and fine
clothes and cross-bows, had formed the sexes and allowed for love and
domestic matters, had created brains with their capacities of passion
and intellect; and so Ralph had taken these things as he found them,
hunted, dressed, lived, managed and mixed with men. At times in his cell
Chris saw that imposing figure in all its quiet bravery of dress, that
sane, clever face, those pitying and contemptuous eyes looking at him,
and heard the well-bred voice asking and commenting and wondering at the
misguided zeal of a brother who could give all this up, and seek to live
a life that was built on and sustained by illusions.

One event during his first six months of the novitiate helped to
solemnise him and to clear the confusion.

Old Dom Augustine was taken sick and died, and Chris for the first time
in his life watched the melting tragedy of death. The old monk had been
moved from the dortor to the sick-room when the end seemed imminent, and
one afternoon Chris noticed the little table set outside the door, with
its candles and crucifix, the basin of cotton-wool, and the other signs
that the last sacraments were to be administered. He knew little of the
old man, except his bleared face and shaking hands as he had seen them
in choir, and had never been greatly impressed by him; but it was
another matter when in the evening of the same day, at his master's
order he passed into the cell and knelt down with the others to see the
end.

The old monk was lying now on the cross of ashes that had been spread on
the floor; his features looked pinched and white in the candlelight; his
old mouth moved incessantly, and opened now and again to gasp; but there