202 The Little Bedesman of Christ

right, with the blood red in the five wounds
of his crucifixion, he waits in a heavenly
trance for the sound of the last trumpet,
when the nations of the earth shall see in
the clouds Him whom they have pierced.

Long after his death it was the custom for
the brethren of a certain house of his Order
to go chanting in procession at midnight
once in the year to his resting-place. But
the way was long and dark; the weather
often bleak and stormy. Little by little
devotion cooled, and the friars fell away, till
there remained but one old monk willing to
go on this pilgrimage. As he went into the
dark and the storm, the road among the
woods and rocks grew luminous, and in place
of the cross and torches and canticles of the
former days, great flocks of birds escorted
him on his way, singing and keeping him
company. The little feathered brothers and
sisters had not abated in their love of the
Little Bedesman who had caressed and
blessed them.