It was midday at the monastery of Montserrat, and a monk, walking in
the garden, turned and paused in his meditative promenade to listen
to an unwonted noise. The silence of this sacred height is so
intense that many cannot sleep at night for the hunger of a sound.
There is no running water except the fountain in the patio. There
are no birds to tell of spring and morning. There are no trees for
the cool night winds to stir, nothing but eternal rock and the
ancient building so closely associated with the life of Ignatius de
Loyola. The valley, a sheer three thousand feet below, is thinly
enough populated, though a great river and the line of railway from
Manresa to Barcelona run through it. So clear is the atmosphere
that at the great distance the contemplative denizens of the
monastery may count the number of the railway carriages, while no
sound of the train, or indeed of any life in the valley, reaches
their ears.

What the monk heard was disturbing, and he hurried to the corner of
the garden, from whence a view of the winding road may be obtained.
Floating on the wind came the sound, as from another world, of
shouting, and the hollow rumble of wheels. The holy man peered down
into the valley, and soon verified his fears. It was the
diligencia, which had quitted the monastery a short hour ago, that
flew down the hill to inevitable destruction. Once before in the
recollection of the watcher the mules had run away, rushing down to
their death, and carrying with them across that frontier the lives
of seven passengers, devout persons, who, having performed the
pilgrimage to the shrine of our Lady of Montserrat, had doubtless
received their reward. The monk crossed himself, but, being human,
forgot alike to pray and to call his brethren to witness the scene.
It was like looking at a play from a very high gallery. The