Marius hesitated a moment, and then he replied— “Thy judgment of Attila was just: he did not fail. Bishop Lupus came back unharmed. But his own people failed, incredible as it seems. His own flock, the city he had saved at risk of his life, when he returned from his perilous sojourn among the Huns, received him coldly, indeed would scarcely receive him at all. Mean slanderers had been there poisoning the minds of the citizens during his absence. They said he must have treacherously flattered and fawned upon the barbarians, and be in league with Attila; and they gave him but a cold welcome.” “What did the Bishop do?” she asked indignantly. “He quietly retired to a mountain not far off,” Marius replied, “and there to this day he is living in exile, poor and solitary and neglected.” “Yet surely praying and hoping still for his misguided flock!” Ethne said; and with her victorious smile she added, “He is sure to win in the end. But why, oh, why is it we, we Christ’s Christians, seem so often most to fail Him and His?” “_All_ do not fail,” he said, seeking to comfort her. “My friend Sidonius Apollinaris writes to Bishop Lupus as ‘father of fathers, as old well-nigh as Moses, but also as great.’” “But ah,” she said mournfully, “what a world this might be if only all the Church were _one_, and true!” “You are weary,” he said sadly, “of this decrepit, decaying old world of ours. You are longing to go home to your own young world of hope—to your Patrick, and your own people, who understand and honour their saint so well!” “When we may,” she said. “I am the only daughter of my house, and my father and mother are aged.” “I know well what that means,” he replied. “We also are only children of our house. Dost thou not know, lady, that always, with all my power, at any cost to myself, I would fain help thee to what thou deemest best?” “You have always helped us,” she said, “always understood—at Orleans, at Troyes—always.” “If you decide on leaving Rome,” he said, after a pause, in a low, deep voice, “I would try and help you at any cost.” Did she understand, he wondered, at what a cost it might be to himself? Did either of them understand what a pang of conflict it might cost to her? Her eyelids fell before his passionate gaze, the dark lashes shaded her cheek. But at that moment he felt he would not, need not question her further. A trembling hope came into his heart that he had won his answer; and with the hope came the response to his mother’s words about Leo’s prayer, and he said softly— “Help us to think and to do the things that are rightful.” Then the frank, grey eyes were raised once more to his with an expression of rejoicing and entire trust. “What is _rightful_?” she said. “That must always mean what He Who loves us best sees is best for us, must it not?”