“Yes, my child, thou sayest most truly,” continued Lucina. “But I should not have been satisfied with words. What followed afterwards has proved to me that thou canst bear intrepidly and patiently, not merely pain, but what I know it must have been harder for thy young patrician blood to stand, the stinging ignominy of a disgraceful blow, and the scornful words and glances of an unpitying multitude. Nay more; thou hast proved thyself strong enough to forgive and to pray for thine enemy. This day thou hast trodden the higher paths of the mountain, with the cross upon thy shoulders; one step more, and thou wilt plant it on its summit. Thou hast proved thyself the genuine son of the martyr Quintinus. Dost thou wish to be like him?” “Mother, mother! dearest, sweetest mother!” broke out the panting youth; “could I be his genuine son, and not wish to resemble him? Though I never enjoyed the happiness of knowing him, has not his image been ever before my mind? Has he not been the very pride of my thoughts? When each year the solemn commemoration has been made of him, as of one of the white-robed army that surrounds the Lamb, in whose blood he washed his garments, how have my heart and my flesh exulted in his glory; and how have I prayed to him, in the warmth of filial piety, that he would obtain for me, not fame, not distinction, not wealth, not earthly joy, but what he valued more than all these: nay, that the only thing which he has left on earth may be applied, as I know he now considers it would most usefully and most nobly be.” “What is that, my son?” “It is his blood,” replied the youth, “which yet remains flowing in my veins, and in these only. I know he must wish that _it_ too, like what he held in his own, may be poured out in love of his Redeemer, and in testimony of his faith.” “Enough, enough, my child!” exclaimed the mother, thrilling with a holy emotion; “take from thy neck the badge of childhood, I have a better token to give thee.” He obeyed, and put away the golden bulla. “Thou hast inherited from thy father,” spoke the mother, with still deeper solemnity of tone, “a noble name, a high station, ample riches, every worldly advantage. But there is one treasure which I have reserved for thee from his inheritance, till thou shouldst prove thyself worthy of it. I have concealed it from thee till now, though I valued it more than gold and jewels. It is now time that I make it over to thee.” With trembling hands she drew from her neck the golden chain which hung round it, and for the first time her son saw that it supported a small bag or purse richly embroidered and set with gems. She opened it, and drew from it a sponge, dry indeed, but deeply stained. [Illustration: “With trembling hands she drew from her neck the golden chain.”]