Christ, and to that of saint Christopher, saint Anthony, hermit, and
saint Agnes, virgin, and lastly to that of saint Giles and saint Denis,
remembering me. Then he said compline with _paternoster, avemaria_, and
_credo_, signed himself with the cross, and lay down on his
kirtle--_specialissimus_, darling of God--and drew the second kirtle
over his body for fear of the dews and the night vapours; and so went to
sleep, striving not to think of where he had slept last night. (He told
me all this, as I have told you.)

He awoke at dawn in an extraordinary sweetness within and without, and
as he walked in his white habit beneath the solemn beech-trees, his soul
opened wide to salute the light that rose little by little, pouring down
on him through the green roof. The air was like clear water, he said,
running over stories, brightening without concealing their colours; and
he drank it like wine. He had that morning in his contemplation what
came to him very seldom, and I do not know if I can describe it, but he
said it was the sense that the air he breathed was the essence of God,
that ran shivering through his veins, and dropped like sweet myrrh from
his fingers. There was the savour of it on his lips, piercing and
delicate, and in his nostrils.

He set out a little later after he had washed, following the road, and
came to a timber chapel standing by itself. I do not know which it is,
but I think it must have been the church of saint Pancras that was
burned down six years after. The door was locked, but he sat to wait,
and after an hour came a priest in his gown to say mass. The priest
looked at him, but answered nothing to his good-day (there be so many of
these idle solitaries about that feign to serve God, but their heart is
in the belly). I do not blame the priest; it may be he had been deceived
often before.