And Marius knew it and understood it all, and never felt a grain of distrust or displeasure, and never tormented her with consolations. It was not, however, until they reached Tours that he said a word to her to imply that he knew. She had crept out alone to the cathedral, to the tomb of St. Martin, where she and Baithene had conversed with the old monk who knew the saint. The only words she could remember just then from their interview were the words of Martin which had baffled the devil, “_Let me see the print of the nails_.” “The print of the nails,” she sobbed softly to herself, “the print of the nails! It has indeed to be also in us! To follow Thee means this, not only carrying the Cross as a burden and singing as we go, but being transfixed to it, and not being able to sing at all, only to say softly—‘Into Thy hands.’ ‘_The print of the nails._’ So let it be.” And as she turned away, comforted, she saw Marius watching her in the shadow of the font. “My fountain of youth!” he murmured, tenderly. “Ah, beloved,” she said, “what freshness of youth or what water of life can there be in me?” “More than ever perhaps,” he said, “when my fountain of youth has become a fountain of tears. The world is so full of tears, and the only tears to dread are those that cannot be shed.” “Yet after all,” she said, “the help is not in the tears, but in the life-blood from the print of the nails.” But after that she did not try to hide the tears from him. In every town where Ethne and Baithene had found succour, it was the joy of Marius to leave rich offerings for the poor. At Tours they found out the old monk, St. Martin’s friend, and left their gifts with him, and laid their babe in his arms for his benediction. At Orleans, dear and sacred for so many reasons to them, they made their offerings at the tomb of Anianus (St. Aignan), the noble old Bishop who had so effectually defended the city, and had gone to his reward and rest the year before. It was in Troyes that Ethne first began to rise again to her old hopefulness. For there they found the aged “Pope” and “Father,” Bishop Lupus, restored to his repentant children; the whole city gathered again in honour and reverent love around the shepherd who had, as they found and acknowledged at last, been willing to lay down his life for the sheep. “_The people smote on their breasts and returned_,” Ethne said; and she was comforted, for the Church and the world; for the multitudes, the toiling, sick, bewildered multitudes, straying and fainting, were always closest to that royal, motherly, Christ-like heart. Nor did they forget to visit the lowly tomb of the Deacon Nemorius, who was slain with the Book of the Gospels on his breast, before Lupus met and conquered Attila. Beside him lay other nameless martyrs similarly slain. And Ethne said— “Perhaps the noblest, after all, are among these; and glorious it is to think that these, the nameless on earth, are the numberless in heaven.”