The pilgrim, who possessed nothing in the world
except his rags, asked for a bowl of milk, but obtained none. He
went begging from door to door, but was hunted away. Every time that
he received a refusal he seemed to be surprisingly cheerful. The
fact was, he had come hither from a distant land in order to be able
to realise how his Saviour had suffered, and now he was graciously
allowed to experience it on the holy soil itself. He passed through
the village, and found another sea of flowers outside it. He bathed
his feet in a brook, and felt refreshed. But now at mid-day a wind
from the sea arose, and clouds passed over the land. The violent
rain beat down the fragile lilylike plants, the wind rooted them up
or tore them in two, and collected them in heaps, which rolled along
increasing in size as they went, and crushing other flowers in their
path.
Towards evening the rain ceased, but the wind continued to blow, and
the darkness came. The weary and hungry traveller prepared himself a
bed with a heap of flowers which he kept in its place with some
stones. After he had hollowed out the heap till it looked like an
eagle's nest, he spread another pile of flowers over himself, and
went to sleep, pleasantly narcotised by all the sweet scents. For
several years he had tasted no wine and never been intoxicated,
but this was a good substitute for it.
Pages:
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219