He gazed with yearning at the colts in the pastures, the birds in
their nests, the insects on the flowers; but they all fled from
him at his approach and hid or flew away. So he sought solitude.
But the wind brought to his ears sounds resembling death-rattles;
the tears of the dew reminded him of heavier drops, and every
evening, the sun would spread blood in the sky, and every night,
in his dreams, he lived over his parricide.
He made himself a hair-cloth lined with iron spikes. On his knees,
he ascended every hill that was crowned with a chapel. But the
unrelenting thought spoiled the splendour of the tabernacles and
tortured him in the midst of his penances.
He did not rebel against God, who had inflicted his action, but he
despaired at the thought that he had committed it.
He had such a horror of himself that he took all sorts of risks.
He rescued paralytics from fire and children from waves. But the
ocean scorned him and the flames spared him. Time did not allay
his torment, which became so intolerable that he resolved to die.
One day, while he was stooping over a fountain to judge of its
depth, an old man appeared on the other side. He wore a white
beard and his appearance was so lamentable that Julian could not
keep back his tears.
Pages:
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62