“Yes, I did,” Arkos said, than asked evenly: “Tell me, have you ever thought about death?”

“Frequently, m’Lord Abbot.”

“You pray to Saint Joseph that your death will not be an unhappy one?”

“Umm — often, Reverend Father.”

“Then I suppose you’d not care to be suddenly stricken? To have someone use your guts to string a fiddle? To be fed to the hogs? To have your bones be buried in unconsecrated ground? Eh?”

“Nnn-noo, Magister meus.”

“I thought not, so be very careful about what you say to Monsignor Aguerra.”

“I — ?”

“You.” Arkos rubbed his chin and seemed lost in unhappy speculation. “I can see it too clearly. The Leibowitz cause is shelved. Poor Brother is struck down by a falling brick. There he lies, moaning for absolution. In the very midst of us, mind you. And there we stand, looking down in pity — clergy among us — watching him croak his last, without even a last blessing on the lad. Hellbound. Unblessed. Unshrived. Under our very noses. A pity, eh?”

“M’Lord?” Francis squawked.

“Oh, don’t blame me. I’ll be too busy trying to keep your brothers from carrying out their impulse to kick you to death.”

“When?”

“Why not at all, we hope. Because you are going to be careful, aren’t you? — about what you say to the monsignor. Otherwise I may let them kick you to death.”

“Yes, but—”

“The postulator wants to see you at once. Please stifle your imagination, and be certain about what you say. Please try not to think.”

“Well, I think I can.”

“Out, son, out.”

Francis felt fright when he first tapped at Aguerra’s door, but he saw quickly that the fright was unfounded. The prothonotary was a suave and diplomatic elder who seemed keenly interested in the small monk’s life.

After several minutes of preliminary amenities, he approached the slippery subject: “Now, about your encounter with the person who may have been the Blessed Founder of—”

“Oh, but I never said he was our Blessed Leibo…”

“Of course you didn’t, my son. Of course you didn’t. Now I have here an account of the incident — gathered purely from hearsay sources, of course — and I’d like for you to read it, and then either confirm it or correct it.” He paused to draw a scroll from his case; he handed it to Brother Francis.

“This version is based on traveler’s stories,” he added. “Only you can describe what happened — first hand — so I want you to edit it most scrupulously.”

“Certainly, Messér. But what happened was really very simple—”

“Read, read! Then we’ll talk about it, eh?”

The fatness of the scroll made it apparent that the hearsay account was not “really very simple.” Brother Francis read with mounting apprehension. The apprehension soon grow to the proportions of horror.

“You look white, son,” said the postulator. “Is something troubling you?”

“Messér, this — it wasn’t like this at all!”

“No? But indirectly at least, you must have been the author of it. How could it have been otherwise? Weren’t you the only witness?”

Brother Francis closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. He had told the simple truth to fellow novices. Fellow novices had whispered among themselves. Novices had told the story to travelers. Travelers had repeated it to travelers. Until finally — this! Small wonder that Abbot Arkos had enjoined discussion. If only he had never mentioned the pilgrim at all!

“He only spoke a few words to me. I saw him just that once. He chased me with a stick, asked me the way to the abbey, and made marks on the rock where I found the crypt. Then I never saw him again.”

“No halo?”

“No, Messér.”

“No heavenly choir?”

“No!”

“What about the carpet of roses that grew up where he walked?”

“No, no! Nothing like that, Messér,” the monk gasped.

“He didn’t write his name on the rock?”

“As God is my judge, Messér, he only made those two marks. I didn’t know what they meant.”

“Ah, well,” sighed the postulator. “Travelers’ stories are always exaggerated. But I wonder how it all got started. Now suppose you tell me how it really happened.”

Brother Francis told him quite briefly. Aguerra seemed saddened. After a thoughtful silence, he took the fat scroll, gave it a parting pat, and dropped it into the waste-bin.

“There goes miracle number seven,” he grunted.

Francis hastened to apologize.

The advocate brushed it aside. “Don’t give it a second thought. We really have enough evidence. There are several spontaneous cures — several cases of instantaneous recovery from illness caused by the intercession of the Beatus. They’re simple, matter of fact, and well documented. They’re what cases for canonization are built on. Of course they lack the poetry of this story, but I’m almost glad it’s unfounded — glad for your sake. The devil’s advocate would have crucified you, you know.”

“I never said anything like—”

“I understand, I understand! It all started because of the shelter. We reopened it today, by the way.”

Francis brightened. “Did — did you find anything more of Saint Leibowitz’?”

“Blessed Leibowitz, please!” monsignor corrected. “No, not yet. We opened the inner chamber. Had a devil of a time getting it unsealed. Fifteen skeletons inside and many fascinating artifacts. Apparently the woman — it was a woman, by the way-whose remains you found was admitted to the outer chamber, but the inner chamber was already full. Possibly it would have provided some degree of protection if a falling wall hadn’t caused the cave-in. The poor souls inside were trapped by the stones that blocked the entrance. Heaven knows why the door wasn’t designed to swing inward.”

“The woman in the antechamber, was she Emily Leibowitz?”

Aguerra smiled. “Can we prove it? I don’t know yet. I believe she was, yes — I believe  — but perhaps I’m letting hope run away with reason. We’ll see what we can uncover yet; we’ll see. The other side has a witness present. I can’t jump to conclusions.”

Despite his disappointment at Francis’ account of the meeting with the pilgrim, Aguerra remained friendly enough. He spent ten days at the archaeological site before returning to New Rome, and he left two of his assistants behind to supervise further excavation. On the day of his departure, he visited Brother Francis in the scriptorium.

“They tell me you were working on a document to commemorate the relics you found,” said the postulator. “Judging by the descriptions I’ve heard, I think I should very much like to see it.”

The monk protested that it was really nothing, but he went immediately to fetch it, with such eagerness that his hands were trembling as he unpacked the lambskin. Joyfully he observed that Brother Jeris was looking on, while wearing a nervous frown.

The monsignor stared for many seconds. “Beautiful!” he exploded at last. “What glorious color! It’s superb, superb. Finish it — Brother, finish it!”

Brother Francis looked up at Brother Jeris and smiled questioningly.

The master of the copyroom turned quickly away. The back of his neck grew red. On the following day, Francis unpacked his quills, dyes, gold leaf, and resumed his labor on the illuminated diagram.