IN the dead of the third night, a brightness filled the church, and Cuthbert himself came out from the altar area. His thin face, ripened by long fasting, was shining, and his eyes sparkled like stars. His vesture was of gold, and pearls softly clicked where his hand grasped his staff; the hair beneath his jewelled bishop’s crown was flecked with grey.

“You violated the peace of my birds”* said Cuthbert, with gentle reproof. “But you were more stupid than malicious; and I am more accustomed to pity than retribution, so you will now feel my power within you.” He led the boy, cured of his broken bones, to the altar, and when he softly rapped each stiffened hand against it the fingers loosed their vice-like grip, and all wounds vanished. One little finger, however, remained in contraction to the end of his days, as a reminder of the love of St Cuthbert towards one very rash young boy.