11 A Child Enthroned “Master,” says Rufino, a man who was always a little too touchy about boundaries, “may we do this thing? Have we permission? What will the bishop say?” Rufino is the sort who, if he missed a word while saying his paternoster, would repeat the prayer three times over to make up for it. The master has had to correct him at times for that. “The bishop of all the bishops has had his say. I have asked him, and he has approved. Brother Rufino,” he says, his eyes glinting upon his friend, “when have you ever known me to take upon myself the burden of a priest? You know that my back is too weak to bear it.” A new thing in the world It is now quite dark above, a winter sky with stars like flakes of fire. The master leads a little girl and a little boy by the arm, and instructs them to kneel in front of the feeding trough, their hands folded in prayer. Then he brings a statue of an infant boy, which he had hidden for just this moment. He kisses its forehead, and falls to his knees. All the people, hundreds of them, fall to their knees. What can we hear, in that grotto on the slopes of Mount Subiaco? The earth is not trembling. Angels do not trumpet their songs from the skies. Some of the people are muttering a prayer,
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