Yet
was she distressed that her inmost spirit failed to respond, acclaiming
the words as divine. She knew they must be divine, yet could not feel
that they were so.
As dawn crept into the cell, she found herself repeating again and
again "A sign, a sign! Thy will was hid from me; yet I accept its
revelation through this babe. But I ask a sign which shall speak to
mine own heart, also! A sign, a sign!"
She rose and opened wide the casement, not of the oriel window, but of
one to the right of the group of the Virgin and child, and near by it.
She was worn out both in mind and body, yet could not bring herself to
leave the shrine or to seek her couch.
She remembered the example of that reverend and holy man, Bishop
Wulstan. She had lately been reading, in the Chronicles of Florence,
the monk of Worcester, how "in his early life, when appointed to be
chanter and treasurer of the Church, Wulstan embraced the opportunity
of serving God with less restraint, giving himself up to a
contemplative life, going into the church day and night to pray and
read the Bible. So devoted was he to sacred vigils that not only would
he keep himself awake during the night, but day and night also; and
when the urgency of nature at last compelled him to sleep, he did not
pamper his limbs by resting on a bed or coverings, but would lie down
for a short time on one of the benches of the Church, resting his head
on the book which he had used for praying or reading.
Pages:
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242