The First Christmas Tree | Page 2

the smooth skin was
bronzed by wing and sun. His gray eyes, clear and kind, flashed like
fire when he spoke of his adventures, and of the evil deeds of the false
priests with whom he had contended.
What tales he had told that day! Not of miracles wrought by sacred
relics; nor of courts and councils and splendid cathedrals; though he
knew much of these things, and had been at Rome and received the

Pope's blessing. But to-day he had spoken of long journeyings by sea
and land; of perils by fire and flood; of wolves and bears and fierce
snowstorms and black nights in the lonely forest; of dark altars of
heaven gods, and weird, bloody sacrifices, and narrow escapes from
wandering savages.
The little novices had gathered around him, and their faces had grown
pale and their eyes bright as they listened with parted lips, entranced in
admiration, twining their arms about one another's shoulders and
holding closely together, half in fear, half in delight. The older nuns
had turned from their tasks and paused, in passing by, to hear the
pilgrim's story. Too well they knew the truth of what he spoke. Many a
one among them had seen the smoke rising from the ruins of her
father's roof. Many a one had a brother far away in the wild country to
whom her heart went out night and day, wondering if he were still
among the living.
But now the excitements of that wonderful day were over; the hours of
the evening meal had come; the inmates of the cloister were assembled
in the refectory.
On the dais sat the stately Abbess Addula, daughter of King Dagobert,
looking a princess indeed, in her violet tunic, with the hood and cuffs
of her long white robe trimmed with fur, and a snowy veil resting like a
crown on her snowy hair. At her right hand was the honoured guest,
and at her left hand her grandson, the young Prince Gregor, a big,
manly boy, just returned from school.
The long, shadowy hall, with its dark-brown raters and beams; the
double rows of nuns, with their pure veils and fair faces; the ruddy flow
of the slanting sunbeams striking upwards through the tops of the
windows and painting a pink glow high up on the walls,--it was all as
beautiful as a picture, and as silent. For this was the rule of the cloister,
that at the table all should sit in stillness for a little while, and then one
should read aloud, while the rest listened.
"It is the turn of my grandson to read to-day," said the abbess to
Winfried; "we shall see how much he has learned in the school. Read,

Gregor; the place in the book is marked."
The tall lad rose from his seat and turned the pages of the manuscript. It
was a copy of Jerome's version of the Scriptures in Latin, and the
marked place was in the letter of St. Paul to the Ephesians,--the passage
where he describes the preparation of the Christian as the arming of a
warrior for glorious battle. The young voice rang out clearly, rolling the
sonorous words, without slip or stumbling, to the end of the chapter.
Winfried listened, smiling. "My son," said he, as the reader paused,
"that was bravely read. Understandest thou what thou readest?"
"Surely, father," answered the boy; "it was taught me by the masters at
Treves; and we have read this epistle clear through, from beginning to
end, so that I almost know it by heart."
Then he began again to repeat the passage, turning away from the page
as if to show his skill.
But Winfried stopped him with a friendly lifting of the hand.
"No so, my son; that was not my meaning. When we pray, we speak to
God; when we read, it is God who speaks to us. I ask whether thou hast
heard what He has said to thee, in thine own words, in the common
speech. Come, give us again the message of the warrior and his armour
and his battle, in the mother-tongue, so that all can understand it."
The boy hesitated, blushed, stammered; then he came around to
Winfried's seat, bringing the book. "Take the book, my father," he cried,
"and read it for me. I cannot see the meaning plain, though I love the
sound of the words. Religion I know, and the doctrines of our faith, and
the life of priests and nuns in the cloister, for which my grandmother
designs me, though it likes me little. And fighting I know, and the life
of warriors and heroes, for I have read of it in Virgil and the ancients,
and heard a bit from the soldiers at Treves; and I would