There was once a city of Gaul named
Ilitro, a heathen city. It was encircled by a
strong wall, with towers and a moat. There was
a drawbridge, for carts to enter the city, which was
drawn up at night, for the country was often disturbed
by warlike bands; beside the great drawbridge was
a little bridge, which could be lowered and drawn up
as well; the great bridge was hauled up at sundown,
and no cart might enter the city after that time;
but the little bridge could be lowered till midnight
for a traveller, if he was honest.
The tower was kept by a porter named
Cerda, a rough, strong man, who had an impediment
in his speech, and spake with few; he lived all alone
in the tower. There were two rooms; in the lower
room were the weights which drew up the bridge, and
a wheel which wound up the chains, with another wheel
for the smaller bridge, and a fireplace where the
porter cooked his food; in the room above, which was
approached by a ladder, there was a table and a chair,
and a bed of boards with straw upon it, where he slept.
The windows were guarded by shutters, and in winter
time it was sorely cold in the tower; but the porter
heeded it not, for he was a strong and rough man; he
had a wild air, and his long shaggy locks fell on
his shoulders. But though he spake little and
few spoke to him, he had a loving heart full of tender
thoughts which he could not put into words. He
was fond of flowers and green trees, and would sometimes
walk in the woods that came up to the castle wall,
in springtime, with a secret joy in the scent of the
flowers and their soft bright heads; he liked to watch
the wild animals, and the birds had no fear of him,
for he fed them often with crumbs and grain; and they
would come on his window-ledge and chirp for food.
Sometimes a child who passed the bridge would smile
at him, and he would smile back and be glad; to some
children whom he knew he would shyly give simple presents carts
carved out of wood, or a wooden sword; but he was
so rough and uncouth a man that their elders were
not pleased that he should speak with them; and indeed
most people spoke of him as of one who could be trusted
indeed to do hard toil punctually like a beast of
burden, but whose mind was not wholly sound, but like
that of a dog or ox. But he did his duty so faithfully,
and was moreover so strong and fearless, if there was
any troublesome comer to deal with, that he was held
to be useful in his place. He had no courtesy
for grown men, who heeded him no more than if he had
been a machine; but he was kind and gentle with women
and maidens, and would carry their burdens for them
into the city, as far as he might for he
was forbidden to go out of sight of the bridge.
One day, indeed, he had some talk
to a grave, quiet man, a traveller, who came like
a merchant to the city, and yet seemed to have no
business to do. He was indeed a Christian priest,
who was on his way to the West; for there were then
a few scattered congregations of Christians in Gaul,
though the faith was not yet known through the land.
And the priest, seeing something wistful in the rude
porter’s eye, something that seemed dumbly to
ask for love, asked him if he prayed; and the porter
with a stammering tongue said some words of the gods
of the land; but the priest, who loved to let the good
seed fall even by the wayside, told him of the Father
of all, and of the Divine Son who came to teach the
world the truth, and was slain by wicked men.
Cerda felt a strange hope in his heart,
half pity and half joy; and the priest told him that
any man in any place could speak to the Father when
he would, and he repeated to him a prayer that he might
say; but Cerda forgot all the prayer except the first
two words, Our Father, and, indeed, he did
not understand the rest. But he would say those
words over and over as he went about his work, and
he would add, out of his own mind, a wish that he
might see the Father; for he thought that He might
some day come to the city, to see His sons there for
the priest had told him that all men were His sons.
So the porter kept watch for the Father’s coming;
and he hoped that he might know Him if He came.
Now one day there was a great storm
of rain and wind. The wind beat on the tower,
and the rain rustled in the moat; and Cerda at sundown
drew up the dripping bridges, and made all safe, knowing
that he would not be disturbed again that night.
He sat long that night listening to the wind, which
seemed to have a sad and homeless voice in it, and
then he remembered suddenly that he had not eaten,
and he began to prepare his food. He had a little
piece of meat in the house, which a citizen had given
him, and bread, and a few berries which he had gathered
in the wood; so he began to cook the meat; and it was
about midnight, and the storm was fiercer than ever;
when in a pause in the gust he thought he heard a
cry out of the wood across the moat. He listened,
but it came not again, and so he fell to his cooking.
Then all at once the wind stopped, and he heard the
rain whisper on the wall, when suddenly came the cry
again, a very faint cry, like the crying of a child.
He threw open the shutter of the window that looked
to the wood, and in the glimmering dark, for there
was a sickly light from the moon which laboured among
the clouds, he thought he saw a little figure stand
on the edge of the moat. It was dreary enough
outside, but he went to the wheel and let the small
bridge down, and then he went to the little gate and
crossed the slippery plank with care.
There, near the lip of the moat, stood
a little child, a boy that seemed to be about ten
years old, all drenched and shivering, with his face
streaming with rain. Cerda did not know the child,
but asked him, as well as he could for his stammering
speech, what he was doing there and what he desired.
The child seemed frightened, and covered his face
with his hands; but Cerda drew his hands away, not
unkindly, and felt how cold and wet the little arms
were. Then the child said that he had wandered
from the way, and that seeing a light he had come near,
and had found himself on the edge of the moat, and
had cried out in case any one might hear him.
Then Cerda asked him again what he was doing; and
the child said timidly that he was about his father’s
business. Cerda was vexed that a father should
be so careless of his child, but he could not understand
from the child what the business might be.
So at last he said that the child
must come into the tower with him, and that he would
give him shelter for the night, and that in the morning
he would make search for his father. But it was
not with a very good grace that he said it, because
he was now himself wetted; moreover, he was weary,
and would fain have eaten his meal and slept undisturbed.
Then the child shrank back from the slippery plank,
so Cerda lifted him in his arms and carried him across.
Then he pulled up the bridge again and shut the door,
but the child seemed ill at ease. So Cerda did
what he could to cheer him, wrung the water from his
clothes and hair and covered him with a cloak and made
him sit by the fire. Then he gave him of his
own meat and drink, and brought the berries, bidding
him see how fair they were. And the child ate
and drank, looking at Cerda with wide open eyes and
saying nought.
He looked to Cerda a frail and weakly
child, and his wonder and even anger increased at
those that had let such a child be about at that hour;
and then he saw that the child was weary, so he carried
him up the ladder, still wrapped in the cloak, and
laid him on his bed and bid him sleep; and then he
went down softly to satisfy his own hunger, and was
surprised to see that the food was not diminished but
rather seemed increased. So Cerda ate and drank,
once or twice ascending the ladder to see if the child
slept. And when at last he seemed to sleep, then
Cerda himself went up and sat in his chair and thought
that he would sleep too; but before sleep came upon
him he said his words of prayer many times over, and
added his further prayer that he might see the Father.
But while he did so it came into his
mind how often he had said the same thing, and yet
that nothing had happened to bless him; and he thought
that the old priest had told him that the Father always
listened to the voice of His sons; but then he bethought
him that the Father had so many sons, and so wide
a land to see to though he only pictured
the world as a few villages and towns like his own,
with a greater town called Rome somewhere in the East that
he comforted himself by thinking that the Father had
not had time to visit his city, and still less to
visit one so humble as himself; and then a fear came
into his mind that among the travellers who had passed
the Father might have passed and he had not recognised
him.
Then at last Cerda slept, his head
down upon his breast, and the wind died down outside
and left a breathless stillness, save for the drops
that fell from the eaves of the tower; and then he
dreamed a very strange dream. He thought that
he was walking in a wood, and came upon a great open
space, down into which descended a wide staircase out
of the sky. It was all dark and cloudy at the
top, but the clouds were lit with a fierce inner light
that touched the edges, as in a winter sunset, with
a hue of flame. From the cloud emerged a figure,
at first dim, like a wreath of cloud, but slowly defining
itself into the shape of a man, who came down slowly
and serenely, looking about him as he stepped with
a quiet greatness; when he came near the bottom of
the ladder he beckoned Cerda to approach, who came
trembling; but the other smiled so tenderly that Cerda
forgot his fears and fell on his knees at the staircase
foot; and the man went down to him and said, “Cerda,
thy prayers are heard, and thy patience is noted; and
thou shalt indeed see the Father.” And
as he said the words a great ray of light came from
the cloud and seemed to brighten all the place.
Cerda woke with a start, the voice
still sounding in his ears; woke to find the room
all alight and he thought for a moment that
it was broad day, and that he had for the first time
neglected his duty and left the bridge unclosed.
But in a moment he saw that it was not the light of
day, but a very pure and white radiance, such as the
moon makes on the face of a still pool in woods, seen
afar from a height. The whole room was lit by
it, so that he could see the beams of the roof and
the rough stones of the wall. Then he saw that
the child had risen from the bed, and that the radiance
seemed brightest all about him; it was the same face,
but all brightened and glorified; and the child seemed
to be clad in a dim white robe of a soft and cloudlike
texture. And then all at once Cerda felt that
he was in the presence of a very high and holy mystery,
such as he had hardly dreamed the world contained,
and it came strangely into his mind, with a shock of
awe and almost horror, that this was the child to whom
he had spoken impatiently, whom he had fed and tended,
and whose body he had carried in his arms; and he
fell on his knees and hid his face and could not look
on the child’s face.
Then he heard a very low voice that
was yet so clear that Cerda felt it would be heard
all through the city, that said, “Cerda, good
and faithful servant of God, thou hast believed and
therefore hast thou seen,” and “He that
hath seen Me hath seen the Father.”
Then there came into Cerda’s
mind a great rush of beautiful thoughts; it was as
though the tower had burst forth into bloom and was
all filled with lilies and roses. He knew that
all men were sons of the Father, and that the Father
waited for them to come to Him; and he saw that each
man’s life was a path which led to the Father,
and that the rougher the path was the more surely
did it conduct them; and he saw too, though he could
not have said it to another, that it mattered not
how or where a man lived, or how humble or even hateful
his task might be, since the Father knew best what
each of His sons needed, and placed him where he could
best find the way; and he saw, too, that those who
seemed to wander in misery or even wickedness, were
being secretly drawn to the Father’s heart all
the time; all this he saw, and many other high and
holy things which it is not possible for human lips
to speak. But he knew in his heart that a peace
was given him which nothing, not even the heaviest
affliction, could ever trouble again. And then
the light died out; and looking up he saw the child
once more, but now very faintly, as though far off
but yet near; and then all was dark. And Cerda
slept the sleep of a little child. And in the
morning when he woke, he knew at once that the world
was a different place. Hunger, cold, and weariness
were but like clouds that hid the sun for a season;
but the vision was the truth. And he went about
his daily toil with so joyful a heart that it seemed
as though his feet were winged.
And that day there came by an old
citizen, whom Cerda had heard by report was held to
be a Christian; and he looked upon Cerda for a moment
in silence, with a kind of wonder in his face.
But Cerda could find no words to tell him what had
befallen him, till the old man said, “Can it
be, Cerda, that you know the truth? for there seems
to be something in your face which makes me ask you.”
And Cerda found words to say that though he knew but
little of Christ, yet he believed in Him. “Oh,
it matters not,” said the other, “what
we know of Christ, so long as we know Him;
but you, my brother,” he added, “look
as you might look if you had seen the Lord face to
face.” “I think I have,” said
Cerda. And the old man doubted not, but went away
pondering, knowing that the wise and prudent might
not know what was revealed unto babes. But no
man ever knew why for the rest of his days (for he
died as a porter) Cerda slept only in his chair, and
never lay down upon his bed; or why, before he closed
the little gate, he always knelt for a moment to pray
where the feet of the child had stood upon the brink
of the moat.