L'ENVOI 225 



would see his studio by moonlight, we 

 still have more than time." So out we 

 tumbled, Jean Pierre hitching up the 

 reins and following me up the stone- 

 flagged pathway. 



The door swung inwards. In the 

 darkness above us something stirred, some 

 frightened owl or night-hawk ; its flapping 

 wings swept past us in the gloom. The 

 air was misty and damp-laden. Jean's 

 sabots clattered across the uneven floor, 

 waking the echoes in the raftered roof. 

 The place was shrouded in deep velvet 

 shadows, save where, beyond the rood- 

 screen, the light glowed through the 

 stained glass of the east window, filling 

 the air with soft and coloured radiance. 

 Instinctively on entering I moved to bare 

 my head, when Jean Pierre's voice 

 arrested me : ''fa fait lien, monsieur; fa 

 fait rien. Le Bon Dieu nest pas ici cette 

 nuit. II est au Kloar" Through painted 

 window the moonlight flowed over the 

 altar — bare ; over niches in the wall — 

 empty. Then I understood. To-morrow 

 was the saint's day ; to-niglit St. Herbot, 

 with other carved and gilded saints, slept 



15 



