And he lifts his eyes heavenward, and sighs and rubs his hands in joyful satisfaction. To us, this Servitor of the Christ seemed not to have passed the climacteric. But truly, as he avowed, he was entering the fifth lustrum beyond it.
Such are the advantages of the ascetic life, and of such ascetics the Kingdom of Heaven. A man of sixty can carry twenty years in his pocket, and seem all honesty, and youth, and health, and happiness.
We then venture a question about the sackcloth, a trace of which was seen under his tunic sleeve. And fetching a deep sigh, he gazes on the drooping sweet basils in silence.
No, he likes not to speak of these mortifications of the flesh. After some meditation he tells us, however, that the sackcloth on the first month is annoying, torturing.
“But the flesh,” he continues naively, “is inured to it, as the pile, in the course of time, is broken and softened down.”
And with an honest look in his eyes, he smiled and sighs his assurance. For his Reverence always punctuates his speech with these sweet sighs of joy.
The serving-monk now comes to whisper a word in his ear, and we are asked to “scent the air” a while in the vineyard.
This lovely patch of terrace-ground the Hermit tills and cultivates alone.
And so thoroughly the work is done that hardly a stone can be seen in the soil. And so even and regular are the terrace walls that one would think they were built with line and plummet.