gone over upon the west side of the ridge a little way, and between him and the pearl-tinged rampart of the Welsh mountains were many little hills and cup-like valleys; and in a valley of these a single ploughman ploughed. And the midday sun was hot.

The dreamer drew in his breath a long way, a-gazing; but then he lifted an arm straight out and pointed with his finger. Yon 's a man, he said, no name only, but a very man; my bloody brother. Now answer for me, Peter, that I do know thee, body and soul. Have I not dwelled with thee? Did I not cover up thy face when thou wert dead? Oh, here 's a very simple and true piece of God's handicraft I 've watched in the making. Little lad, an I chose to sing o' the ploughman thou 'lt never say puppet! An' I chose—An' I chose?—A-ah! Here 's no choosing! I see! I see!

And anon, in the glory of that vision, he forgot himself, and cried out: Lord, send a great singer to sing this song!

He stood with both his arms flung up to heaven, and his head went backward as at that other time when he had watched the lark. The brightness of the noonday sky, and something inward, made his face to shine. So, for a moment, he rested, and then plunged upward, forward, on the ridge again, swiftly, with a flying motion in his skirts. But for the rest of that day, until the hour came when he kneeled down to pray, his lips were sealed; only his wide, unwavering eyes spake the vision.

The sky thickened toward afternoon, and the dreamer, wandering in the valley to the southwest of the Long Hill, had got beyond the sound of the Priory bell. In the wood where he lay the ground was blue with hyacinths; the cuckoo called, and called, and called again; and the thrush quavered. When he came out into the open the sun hung low in the west, a dull red ball, mist-swathed; and presently it was snuffed out and the dreamer was circling up and up in the green trenches of the British camp. Night, and a struggling, cloud-baffled moon found him at the summit, on his knees, facing east; and now he prayed very earnestly.

Lord Jesus, Prince of poor men, let me be thy jongleur, for all poor men's sake! With their misfortune am I right well acquaint. I have dwelled in their cots. I have eat of their hard bread of pease. How shall the king know this, that sleepeth within silken curtains? But kings give ear to a poet; ladies weep over a sad tale in hall. Who shall sing this song if not I? Lord, I will go forth and learn a way to set these matters straight. I will sing this in my song: how to live well, so that poor men be not so cast down, as now they are. Sweet Jesu, I will not cease to sing this one song. I will tell my tale, and the king shall find a way to succour his poor men. Now glory be to God, and praise and thanksgiving, that He hath given me a vision. For my brother's sake I sing; he is dumb; he is so fast in prison that he cannot get forth; but I will sing beneath his window, and the Lord shall show him a way. The poor man shall kiss the king and eat at his high table. Thanks be to God, and glory and praise! O Jesu, God the Word, make my whisper a mighty voice! Bless me, Lord; bless thy singer!

And now the dreamer crossed himself and went down over the edge and lay in a trench, sleeping and waking the night through.

III

Kingdoms Not of This World

ROTHER Owyn sat in the cloister-garth in the shadow of the sun-dial, his little colour-pots on a flat stone beside him, his vellum on a board across his knees. A ring of narcissus-flowers, close-planted round the sun-dial, starred the edge of his black gown.

Brother Owyn was a poet, and the prior of Malvern had found this out. When less favoured brothers grumbled the abbot chid them with, What need hath a copy-clerk of sunshine and fair flowers to fresh his wit,—that hath no wit? But how may a true poet, and a right true romancer, make his melody with the din of a dozen schoolboys knocking at his ear? And for this cause did Brother Owyn sit with his feet among the narcissus-flowers.

Here he had written at the bidding of the prior—but this prior was a dull man—two homilies: the one concerning Chastity, which was a virtue wherein Brother Owyn excelled,—and this the prior knew, for he had confessed him; the other concerning Patience, wherein Brother Owyn excelled not at all, and none knew this better than himself,—albeit he passed for a patient man. But, indeed, there was little known of Brother Owyn among the brethren. They said that no man might so tell the stormy mishap of Jonah, except he had sailed the sea; and no man might so sing Belshazzar's Feast except he had dined in a king's palace; and when they had heard the tale of Sir Gawaine and the Green Knight, they averred that haply Brother Owyn came of Arthur's family, and some said that he was own great-grandson to Sir Gawaine. But Brother Owyn never said so. He was abashed that the brethren would hear this tale more often than the homilies.

I will do penance, said Brother Owyn, for that I divert the brethren.

Yea, quoth the prior, assuredly! Wherefore, copy out this romance, and paint in the beginning of each part an initial letter in gold and scarlet and blue.—The prior had his gleams in the midst of his dulness.

But the tale that Brother Owyn loved best he had not yet sung to the brethren.

To-day he painted a little picture of a maiden by a river-side, where shining cliffs rose up, and a city shone golden beyond. And these cliffs might well have been the white cliffs of Wales, but they were meant for a more holy place. And the maiden was clad in a white garment with a semblance of pearls at her girdle and on her fair forehead.

whispered Brother Owyn.

There was a trick of his tongue that ever betrayed him that he came out of the west,—and bending, he kissed the little picture where the paint had dried.

From the cloister floated the low, buzzing murmur of children conning a task. This, and the snip-snip of the gardener's shears, were the only sounds. At intervals, good Brother Paul went past the cloister doorway in his slow pacing up and down behind the young scholars. Now and again a lad came out into the garth and crossed the grass to gain Brother Owyn's approval for an illuminated letter, or to have the hexameters lopped off his Latin hymn.

Then, around three sides of the cloister swift footsteps echoed, and the dreamer strode down the school, brushed past Brother Paul, looked out into the garth, and presently stood before Brother Owyn,—the light of the vision shining in his eyes, the mist of the Malverns clinging about his damp hair.

I go forth a pilgrimage to Truth, he said.

And the prior withhold not his blessing, added Brother Owyn, with a smile.

But the dreamer fell on his knees,—he was past smiling. He laid his hands prayerwise upon the little painting-board; and Brother Owyn, intent upon him wholly, with the loving, expectant eyes of one to whom these raptures were no new thing, yet slipped aside the vellum from the board, lest the picture come to harm from the dew-stained russet.

I am no monk of Malvern! cried the dreamer; neither shall the prior clap me in cloister. I have had