"A vow will not bear any postponement!" said the old man, and with the
new-born child in his arms he quitted the room where its mother's body
was lying. The baby was torn from its mother's breast, torn from the
source of its life; and as if the unconscious child felt the sorrowful
parting it struggled and cried and fought against the bony, masculine
arm that carried it. The old man stepped out of the convent; once more
the heath received the outcast and homeless infant with wild cries from
the storm; the snowfall was over and an icy blast had frozen the
endless expanse of snow quite hard. The old monk's steps crunched upon
it, and the evanescent crystals sparkled with a million rays where the
flare of the torch fell, so that he made his onward way through the
darkness, in the midst of a glory of light. He felt as if it were
Christmas Evening, and as if the angel who guided the three kings were
leading him too on the way, to conduct the child to his Holy Companion
in the manger--to the Child above all children and the city of
salvation. The star on the angel's brow threw a soft light in his path,
he felt the mighty fanning of his wings on his hoary temples, and he
sang joyful praise to the Lord in his heart while he marched stoutly
forward through that stormy, glorious night of wonders.