John closed his eyes and saw once again the little niche in his mother's bedroom, where she had knelt to tell the good Virgin of her needs. The blue draped Virgin was still there, but no one knelt before her now. Not even Varnessa; she, too, prayed only to God. For an instant John longed for the sound of the bells of Noyon-la-Sainte, the touch of his mother's hand, the lilt of Charles's voice in the square raftered rooms, his father's bass tones rumbling to the canons, and the sight of the beloved bishop. But he had to follow the light. Unless God expected a man to believe the Holy Scriptures, why had He given them to him?

The white clad trees stood like specters in the February night. Snow buried the streets and covered the slanting rooftops, as John trudged toward St. Peter's. A carriage crunched by, its dim lights filtering through the gloom. The sharp wind slapped at him and his feet felt like ice as the snow penetrated the holes of his shoes, his only ones, now patched with folded parchment. The city had recently given him a small salary, but it was not enough to supply even necessities.

As he neared the square, a round figure muffled in a long, black cape whisked by. John recognized Ablard Corne and called out a greeting. How grateful he was to such men! There were several on the Council who tried to live like Christians. Despite their efforts, the problems seemed to grow graver all the time. Quickening his steps, John entered the vast church and climbed the tower steps to the bells. Underneath the big one, in the silent moonlight, lay a dead pigeon, and on the smaller bell, the Clemence, two gray and white birds slept huddled together in the cold winter air.