Herds
of fat cattle grazed on the hills. A flock of a thousand sheep were
nipping the fresh sweet grass in the valley. They passed a big flour
mill, whose lazy wheel swung in rhythmic unison with the laughing waters
of the creek that watered the rich valley. The monks were vowed to
poverty and self-denial. But their Order was rich in slaves and land, in
mills and herds and flocks and generous harvests.
As the sun sank in a smother of purple and red behind the hills, they
saw the church and monastery. The bells were chanting their call to
evening prayer.
The Boy held his breath in silent ecstasy. He had never heard anything
like it before. It was wonderful--those sweet notes echoing over hill
and valley in the solemn hush of the gathering twilight.
They waited for the priests to emerge from the chapel before making
their presence known. Through the open windows the deep solemn throb of
the organ pealed. The soul of the Boy rose enchanted on new wings whose
power he had never dreamed. Hidden depths were sounded of whose
existence he could not know. There was no organ in the little bare log
church the Baptists had built near his father's farm in Mississippi. His
father and mother were Baptists and of course he was going to be a
Baptist some day.
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