And
then he talked of the wonders and glory of Rome on her seven hills by
the Tiber, of the Coliseum, the death of Christian martyrs in the
arena--of the splendors of St. Peter's, beside whose glory all other
churches pale into insignificance. He lifted the curtain of history and
gave the child's mind flashes of the Old World whose pageants stretch
down the ages into the mists of eternity.
Of books, the Boy learned little--but the monks kindled a light in his
soul the years could not dim.
To the other students the old man was not so gentle. They were tougher
and he set their tasks accordingly. They rebelled at last and decided on
revenge. The plot was hatched and all in readiness for its execution.
The only problem was how to put the light out in his room.
The Boy held the key to the citadel. He was on the inside. He could blow
the candle out and the thing was done. He refused at first, but the
rebels crowded around him and appealed to his sense of loyalty.
"They can force you to sleep in his room," pleaded the ringleader, "but,
by Gimminy, that don't make you a monk, does it?"
"No, of course not--"
"You're one of _us_--stand by us. You didn't ask to sleep in his old
room, did you?"
"No."
"Well, you're there--the right man in the right place, in the nick of
time.
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