When, his
devotions ended, he went to the dock, he saw only the sail of the
departing craft sinking below the horizon. Overcome by grief and
loneliness, he stood watching it, thinking of friends at home whom
he might never again see, when a horseman reined in his steed and
bade him mount with him; he would see him on his way. Andrew did,
and fell asleep in the stranger's arms. When he awoke he lay on
this hill, where the cross has stood ever since, heard the cattle
low and saw the spire of his church in the village where the vesper
bells were ringing. Many months went by before his fellow-pilgrims
reached home. Holy Andrew lived six hundred years ago. A masterful
man was he, beside a holy one, who bluntly told the king the truth
when he needed it, and knew how to ward the faith and the church
committed to his keeping. By such were the old rovers weaned from
their wild life. What a mark he left upon his day is shown yet by
the tradition that disaster impends if the cross is allowed to fall
into decay. Once when it was neglected, the cattle-plague broke
out in the parish and ceased, says the story, not until it was
restored, when right away there was an end.
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