Thereafter I knew a season of peace.
It was, I then reasoned, as if the Devil having tried me with a
masterstroke of temptation, and having suffered defeat, had abandoned the
contest. Yet I was careful not to harbour that thought unduly, nor glory
in my power, lest such presumption should lead to worse. I thanked Heaven
for the strength it had lent me, and implored a continuance of its
protection for a vessel so weak.
And now the hill-side and valley began to put on the raiment of a new year.
February, like a benignant nymph, tripped down by meadow and stream, and
touched the slumbering earth with gentler breezes. And soon, where she had
passed, the crocus reared its yellow head, anemones, scarlet, blue and
purple, tossed from her lap, sang the glories of spring in their tender
harmonies of hue, coy violet and sweet-smelling nardosmia waved their
incense on her altars, and the hellebore sprouted by the streams.
Then as birch and beech and oak and chestnut put forth a garb of tender
pallid green, March advanced and Easter came on apace.
But the approach of Easter filled me with a staggering dread. It was in
Passion Week that the miracle of the image that I guarded was wont to
manifest itself. What if through my unworthiness it should fail? The fear
appalled me, and I redoubled my prayers.
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