Troyes was no Rome guarded by the glory of centuries and the magic of a great name. It was an unhistorical, unwalled town, such as Attila had burned and sacked by scores. The Bishop bore no great title such as he could have heard of; it was simply the man, the saint, the man of God that moved him,—moved him not merely to turn aside from an intended enterprise, but to curb his fierce hosts in the full career of plunder and slaughter; a host that was not composed only of his own people, but of the fiercer and more lawless elements of the Gothic tribes, and of Alans and Vandals. One stipulation only the leader of that savage host made; and the stipulation was almost a greater tribute to the Bishop’s character and influence than the granting of his request. Attila said he would spare the city on one condition, that the aged Bishop should leave it and accompany him and his hordes to the Rhone. Perhaps he meant it as a test of the saint’s courage and sincerity. If so, they stood the test. The old man yielded himself up to Attila, and the procession, with the grateful citizens, returned to the rescued city. Perhaps some of them felt that they owed their deliverance to a double sacrifice: the aged Bishop, who offered up his life amidst the perils of the hostile army; and the young deacon, who had laid it down pierced by their spears. Silently Baithene re-entered the dwelling where his sister awaited him with Eleazar and Miriam. “Has anything come of this bearding of the lion?” Eleazar asked. “_Everything_,” Baithene replied. “The Bishop has given himself up to the Huns, and the city is saved.” “_In_ the lion’s den!” said Eleazar, bowing his head and hiding his face. “With Him Who can stop the mouths of the lions,” murmured Miriam. “With the Creator of the lions!” said Ethne. “He made everything _good_, they told us in Ireland. Even the lions! Even Attila is not _only_ a destroyer.” Afterwards, when they were alone, she said to Baithene— “Who can tell what even Attila might have been if the Christians he met had all been saints!” “He seems to have a wonderful eye for a saint,” Baithene admitted. “But we must pray hard for the Bishop.” “I do not believe Attila will hurt a hair of his head,” rejoined Ethne. “He is, after all, nothing worse than a Hun, and I cannot forget the poor ugly brown head that I had to hold, or the kind dying eyes that looked into mine.” [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER XI. A FIELD OF SLAUGHTER, AND A FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH. So the flood of destruction was turned aside from Troyes, and swept on to the deadly encounter with the armies of Rome and her allies, under the command of Aetius the great Roman general, and Theodoric the Gothic king, in the Catalaunian plains near Châlons. The great shock of the battle of the nations (the Hunnenschlacht) came at last.