this for the glory of the world, we should have his praises in our
histories, we should have stories woven about him, the whole world
would cry "Bravo!" But he did it for God, and the world cannot
understand him at all: the world is silent.

An hour or so of that steady, tireless stride carried him well away
from Vienna. He slipped off his velvet and silk, put on his coarse
tunic - a shirt-like garment that came below his knees - girded
himself with a bit of rope, tied his stout shoes on his feet, and
took the road again. There were folk aplenty journeying from the
countryside to Vienna in the early morning. Stanislaus picked out
one of the poorest-looking peasants and handed him the gala dress he
had just taken off.

"I can't carry these with me, friend," he said. "Won't you please
take them? I have no use for them, and perhaps you can sell them in
the city."

And he was gone before the peasant, gaping in wonder at the rich
garments and dagger in his hands, could much more than catch a
glimpse of that bright face and those laughing eyes.

He tramped all day, and made his thirty miles. When he was hungry,
he asked some one he met for food. It is not likely that any one
would refuse the smiling, handsome boy, from whose face innocence
simply shone. But if any one had refused him, it would not have
annoyed Stanislaus. His good humor came from heaven, as well as
from his own cheery soul - and you cannot rebuff that kind of good
humor.