But for me, my friend, though I doubt not that such things are, it is the day, and not the night, which brings revelations.' 'How, then ?' 'Because by day I can see to read that book which is written, like the Law given on Sinai, upon tables of stone, by the finger of God Himself.' Arsenius looked up at him inquiringly.

Pambo smiled.
'Thou knowest that, like many holy men of old, I am no scholar, and knew not even the Greek tongue, till thou, out of thy brotherly kindness, taughtest it to me.

But hast thou never heard what Anthony said to a certain Pagan who reproached him with his ignorance of books?
"Which is first," he asked, "spirit, or letter ?--Spirit, sayest thou?
Then know, the healthy spirit needs no letters.

My book is the whole creation, lying open before me, wherein I can read, whensoever I please, the word of God."' 'Dost thou not undervalue learning, my friend ?' 'I am old among monks, and have seen much of their ways; and among them my simplicity seems to have seen this--many a man wearing himself with study, and tormenting his soul as to whether he believed rightly this doctrine and that, while he knew not with Solomon that in much learning is much sorrow, and that while he was puzzling at the letter of God's message, the spirit of it was going fast and faster out of him.' 'And how didst thou know that of such a man ?' 'By seeing him become a more and more learned theologian, and more and more zealous for the letter of orthodoxy; and yet less and less loving and merciful--less and less full of trust in God, and of hopeful thoughts for himself and for his brethren, till he seemed to have darkened his whole soul with disputations, which breed only strife, and to have forgotten utterly the message which is written in that book wherewith the blessed Anthony was content' 'Of what message dost thou speak ?' 'Look,' said the old abbot, stretching his hand toward the Eastern desert, 'and judge, like a wise man, for thyself!' As he spoke, a long arrow of level light flashed down the gorge from crag to crag, awakening every crack and slab to vividness and life.

The great crimson sun rose swiftly through the dim night-mist of the desert, and as he poured his glory down the glen, the haze rose in threads and plumes, and vanished, leaving the stream to sparkle round the rocks, like the living, twinkling eye of the whole scene.