“Some at least of its hidden sources were not hard to guess. Had he not tasted all the bitterness of failure--worse a thousand times than the bitterness of death? Which of all the plans, the hopes that his soul hung upon, had found its fulfilment? Which had not disappointed him? The Holy Alliance had become the tool of selfish politicians, perhaps even the instrument of tyrants. The dissemination of the Holy Scriptures, from which he hoped so much, had proved, _apparently_, a cause of discord and confusion; his people, so loved and toiled for, had ‘shown themselves insensible to the benefits he sought to confer upon them;’ and secret societies and plots for his assassination had answered his unceasing efforts to do them good. Well might he say, with one of old, ‘I have laboured in vain; I have spent my strength for nought and in vain.’ And with another, ‘Now, O Lord, take away my life; for I am not better than my fathers.’” “But oh, Henri,” asked Clémence, struggling with her tears, “did he not know, all through, in whom he had believed? Did not Christ, in the darkest hour, stand beside his suffering servant?” Henri’s face grew sadder still. “Clémence--Ivan, must I tell you all I _think_?” he asked. “All,” said Ivan. “Keep nothing back.” “Then I think the face of his Lord was hid from him. Wherefore I cannot tell. There are secrets in His dealings with His own with which a stranger may not intermeddle.” “The evil one has fearful power,” Pope Yefim said. “How would the great adversary, the accuser of the brethren, assault such a noble foe, and wound and harass, since he knew he could not destroy him!”