“Yes,” he resumes, placing his breviary in his pocket and taking out the snuffbox; “not long ago one who lived in these parts—a young man from Baalbek he was, and he had his booth in the pine forest yonder—bought some cheese from one of these muleteer cheese-mongers, and after he had eaten of it fell sick. It chanced that I was passing by on my way to the abbey, when he was groaning and retching beneath that pine tree. It was the first time I saw that young man, and were I not passing by I know not what would have become of him. I helped him to the abbey, where he was ministered to by our physician, and he remained with us three days. He ate of our cheese and drank of our wine, and seemed to like both very much. And ever since, while he was here, he would come to the abbey with a basket or a tray of his own make—he occupied himself in making wicker-baskets and trays—and ask in exchange some of our cheese and olive oil. He was very intelligent, this fellow; his eyes sometimes were like the mouth of this pit, full of fire and smoke. But he was queer. The clock in him was not wound right—he was always ahead or behind time, always complaining that we monks did not reckon time as he did. Nevertheless, I liked him much, and often would I bring him some of our cookery. But he never accepted anything without giving something in exchange.”
Unmistakable signs.
“And his black turban,” continues the monk, “over his long flowing hair made him look like our hermit.” (Strange coincidence!) “On your way here have you not stopped to visit the hermit? Not far from the abbey, on your right hand coming here, is the Hermitage.”
We remember passing a pretty cottage surrounded by a vineyard in that rocky wilderness; but who would mistake that for a troglodyte’s cave? “And this young man from Baalbek,” we ask, “how did he live in this forest?”