Moreover the Bishop would as soon have thought of carrying a garment
from the body of a plague-stricken patient into the midst of a family
of healthy children, as of entering an assemblage with a jaded
countenance or a languorous manner.
Therefore: "He is never weary," said his friends.
"He knoweth not the meaning of fatigue," agreed his acquaintances.
"There is no merit in labour which is not in anywise a burden, but,
rather, a delight," pronounced those who envied his powers.
"He is possessed," sneered his enemies, "by a most energetic demon!
Were that demon exorcised, the Bishop would collapse, exhausted."
"He is filled," said his admirers, "by the Spirit of God, and is thus
so energized that he can work incessantly, without experiencing
ordinary human weakness."
And none knew that it was a part of his religion to Symon of Worcester,
to hide his weariness from others.
Yet once when, in her chamber, he sat talking with the Prioress, she
had risen, of a sudden, saying: "You are tired, Father. Rest there in
silence, while I work at my missal."
She had passed to the table; and the Bishop had sat resting, just as he
was sitting now, save that his eyes could then dwell on her face, as
she bent, absorbed, over the illumination.
After a while he had asked: "How knew you that I was tired, my dear
Prioress?"
Without lifting her eyes, she had made answer: "Because, my Lord
Bishop, you twice smiled when there was no occasion for smiling.
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