"Child, this young man hath suffered a grievous wrong and injustice; for he is lord of an ancient and noble estate, out of which he hath been driven by the cruel injustice of a most wicked and abominable man, the Duke di Valentinos,[B] who hath caused the death of his brothers and sisters, and ravaged the country around with fire and sword, so that he hath been driven with his retainers to a fortress in the mountains." [Footnote B: Caesar Borgia was created Duc de Valentinois by Louis XII. of France.] "But," said Agnes, with flushed cheeks, "why does not our blessed Father excommunicate this wicked duke? Surely this knight hath erred; instead of taking refuge in the mountains, he ought to have fled with his followers to Rome, where the dear Father of the Church hath a house for all the oppressed. It must be so lovely to be the father of all men, and to take in and comfort all those who are distressed and sorrowful, and to right the wrongs of all that are oppressed, as our dear Father at Rome doth!" The monk looked up at Agnes's clear glowing face with a sort of wondering pity. "Dear little child," he said, "there is a Jerusalem above which is mother of us all, and these things are done there. 'Coelestis urbs Jerusalem, Beata pacis visio, Quae celsa de viventibus Saxis ad astra tolleris, Sponsaeque ritu cingeris Mille angelorum millibus!'" The face of the monk glowed as he repeated this ancient hymn of the Church,[C] as if the remembrance of that general assembly and church of the first-born gave him comfort in his depression. [Footnote C: This very ancient hymn is the fountainhead from which through various languages have trickled the various hymns of the Celestial City, such as-- "Jerusalem, my happy home!" and Quarles's-- "O mother dear, Jerusalem!"] Agnes felt perplexed, and looked earnestly at her uncle as he stooped over his drawing, and saw that there were deep lines of anxiety on his usually clear, placid face,--a look as of one who struggles mentally with some untold trouble. "Uncle," she said, hesitatingly, "may I tell Father Francesco what you have been telling me of this young man?" "No, my little one,--it were not best. In fact, dear child, there be many things in his case impossible to explain, even to you;--but he is not so altogether hopeless as you thought; in truth, I have great hopes of him. I have admonished him to come here no more, but I shall see him again this evening." Agnes wondered at the heaviness of her own little heart, as her kind old uncle spoke of his coming there no more. Awhile ago she dreaded his visits as a most fearful temptation, and thought perhaps he might come at any hour; now she was sure he would not, and it was astonishing what a weight fell upon her.