blacksmith's hammer smote the sound of the Office bell.

Hilarius, at the gate, questioned the road again and again for sign
of the belated train. It was vexatious; the Prior's lips would
take a thinner line, for the mules were already some days overdue;
and it was ill to keep the Prior waiting. The soft June wind swept
the fragrance of Mary's lilies across to the lad; he turned his
dreamy, blue eyes from the highway to the forest. The scent of the
pinewoods rushed to meet his sudden thought. Should he, dare he,
break cloister, and taste the wondrous delight of an unwalled
world? It were a sin, a grave sin, in a newly-made novice,
cloister-bred. The sweet, pungent smell overpowered him; the trees
beckoned with their long arms and slender fingers; the voice of the
forest called, and Hilarius, answering, walked swiftly away, with
bowed head and beating heart, between the sunburnt pine-boles.

At last he ventured to stop and look around him, his fair hair
aflame in the sunlight, his eyes full of awe of this arched and
pillared city of mystery and wonder.

It was very silent. Here and there a coney peeped out and fled,
and a woodpecker toiled with sharp, effective stroke. Hilarius'
eyes shone as he lifted his head and caught sight of the sunlit
blue between the great, green-fringed branches: it was as if Our
Lady trailed her gracious robe across the tree-tops. Then, as he
bathed his thirsty soul in the great sea of light and shade, cool
depths and shifting colours, the sense of his wrong-doing slipped
from him, and joy replaced it--joy so great that his heart ached
with it. He went on his way, singing Lauda Syon, his eyes
following the pine-boles, and presently, coming out into an open