The night was chill; under a glistening moon all the valley land was seen to be deep covered with far-spreading mist, whereamid the mount of the monastery and the dark summits round about rose like islands in a still, white sea.

When matins and lauds were over, many of the monks embraced and tenderly took leave of the departing guest.

The last to do so was Marcus, who led him aside and whispered: 'I see you have again put on your ring, as was right.

Let me, I beg of you, once more touch it with my lips.' Having done so with the utmost reverence, he clasped Basil in his arms, kissed him on either cheek, and said, amid tears: 'Lest we should never meet again, take and keep this; not for its worth, for God knows it has little, but in memory of my love.' The gift was a little book, a beautifully written copy of all the verses composed by the good Marcus in honour of Benedict and of the Sacred Mount of Casinum.
Holding it against his heart, Basil rode down into the mist..