Crushed by the Vicar of Jesus Christ, steeped in bitterness, overwhelmed by affliction, the holy Nicolas stepped down without regret from his illustrious seat, and departed, no more to return thither, from the city of Trinqueballe, which for thirty years had witnessed his pontifical virtues and apostolic labours.  There is in western Vervignole a lofty mountain, whose peals are covered with perpetual snow; from its flanks there descend, in spring, the foaming sonorous cascades that fill the valley torrents with a water as blue as the sky.  There, in a region where grow the larch, the arbutus, and the hazel, some hermits supported themselves on berries and milk.  This mountain is called that of the Saviour.  It was here that St. Nicolas resolved to take refuge, and, far from the world, to weep for his sins and those of man.

As he was climbing the mountain in search of some wild spot where he might establish his habitation, having emerged above the clouds which are almost always gathered about the flanks of the peak, he saw upon the threshold of a hut an old man sharing his bread with a tame hind.  His hair fell over his forehead, and nothing could be perceived of his face but the tip of his nose and a long white beard.

The holy Nicolas greeted him with these words: 

“Peace be with you, brother.”

“It delights to dwell upon this mountain,” answered the recluse.

“I also,” replied the holy Nicolas, “have come hither to end, in calm, days which have been disturbed by the tumult of the times and the malignity of men.”

As he was speaking in this wise, the hermit gazed at him attentively.

“Are you not,” he said at length, “the Bishop of Trinqueballe, that Nicolas whose work and virtues are extolled by men?”

When, by a sign, the holy pontiff admitted that he was that man, the hermit threw himself at his feet.

“Monseigneur, to you I owe the saving of my soul, if, as I hope, my soul is saved.”

Nicolas raised him with kindness, and asked him: 

“My brother, how have I had the happiness to work for your salvation?”

“Twenty years ago,” replied the recluse, “when I was an innkeeper at the edge of a wood, on a deserted road, I saw one day, in a field, three little children gleaning.  I lured them to my house, gave them wine to drink, cut their throats in their sleep, cut them up into small pieces, and salted them.  On seeing them emerge from the salting-tub I was frozen with terror; owing to your exhortations my heart melted; I experienced a salutary repentance, and, fleeing from men, I came to this mountain, where I consecrated my days to God.  He bestowed His peace upon me.”

“What,” cried the holy Bishop, “you are that cruel Garum, guilty of so heinous a crime!  I praise God that he has accorded you a peaceful heart, after the horrible murder of three children, whom you put in the salting-tub like pigs; but as for me, alas! for having drawn them out of it my life has been filled with tribulation, my soul steeped in bitterness, and my Bishopric laid wholly desolate.  I have been deposed, excommunicated by the common Father of the Faithful.  Why have I been so cruelly punished for what I did?”

“Let us worship God,” said Garum, “and let us not ask His motives.”

The great St. Nicolas, with his own hands, built a hut near that of Garum, and there, in prayer and penitence, he ended his days.