"'Esurientes implevit bonis,'" said the Prior, as he laid him down,
blessing God.
A second novice died, then a third, and yet another; but there was
no need to call further help from the Monastery, for the Plague was
stayed. Never had cloistered monks spent such a strange season;
rarely such a blessed one.
The Feast of the Transfiguration was nigh at hand, and the Prior
was minded to return on that day to the waiting, anxious Convent,
for his work was done.
Great was the joy and preparation at the Monastery when the tidings
reached them; joy too for those who lay not in the shelter of the
cloister garth, but, as it were, on the battlefield where they had
given their lives for their brethren.
The holy day dawned without a cloud. A strong west wind bowed the
pines in the forest, and they worshipped and sang for joy, because
of the face of the Lord. The sun burnt bright in the great blue
dome, and earth shone with pale reflection of his glory.
The monks paced the cloister walks, and waited and watched to catch
the signal from the lay-brother posted without.
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