56 The Hermit of the Pillar

Friday he wore an iron crown of thorns, in
painful memory of Christ’s passion and His
sorrowful death upon the tree. Once a day
he ate a little rye bread, and once he drank
a little water.

No man could say whether he was young
or aged; and the mother who had borne
him a little babe at her bosom, and had
watched him grow to boyhood, could not
have recognised him, for he had been burnt
black by the sun and the frost, and the
weather had bleached his hair and beard till
they looked like lichens on an ancient forest-
tree, and the crown of thorns had scarred
his brow, and the links of the chain had
galled his neck and shoulders.

For three summers and three winters he
endured this stricken life with cheerful forti-
tude, counting his sufferings as great gain if
through them he might secure the crown
of celestial glory which God has woven for
Flis elect. Remembering all his prayers
and supplications, and the long martyrdom
of his body, it was hard for him, at times,
to resist the assurance that he must have
won a golden seat among the blessed.

“For who, O Lord Christ!” he cried,