The clown's head sank in his hands.
"Yes, holy father," he said, "I have been
something else. I was a thief! I once
belonged to the wickedest band of mountain
robbers that ever tormented the land, and
I was as wicked as the worst."
Alas! The hermit felt that his heart was
breaking. Was this how he looked to the
Heavenly Father,--like a thief, a cruel
mountain robber? He could hardly speak,
and the tears streamed from his old eyes,
but he gathered strength to ask one more
question. "I beg you," he said, "if you
have ever done a single good deed in
your life, remember it now, and tell it
to me;" for he thought that even one
good deed would save him from utter
despair.
"Yes, one," the clown said, "but it was
so small, it is not worth telling; my life
has been worthless."
"Tell me that one!" pleaded the hermit.
"Once," said the man, "our band broke
into a convent garden and stole away one
of the nuns, to sell as a slave or to keep for
a ransom. We dragged her with us over
the rough, long way to our mountain camp,
and set a guard over her for the night. The
poor thing prayed to us so piteously to
let her go! And as she begged, she looked
from one hard face to another with trusting,
imploring eyes, as if she could not
believe men could be really bad. Father,
when her eyes met mine something pierced
my heart! Pity and shame leaped up, for
the first time, within me.
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