“Son of the city and the world,” he said.  “I heard Monsignore call you that, and he was right.  A son of the city and of the world you are; but alas! less of the city than you know, and more of the world than you have realized.  My son, I am a very old man.  Perhaps I have not long to live; and so it is that I may tell you why I have come to you to-night.”  Ramoni started to speak, but the other put out his hand.  “I received you, a little boy, into this Community.  No one knows you better than I do.  I saw in you before any one else the gifts that God had given you for some great purpose.  I saw them budding.  I knew before any one else knew that some day you would do a great thing, though I did not know what it was that you would do.  I was a man with little, but I could admire the man who had much.  I had no gifts to lay before Him, yet I, too, wanted to do a great work.  I wanted to make you my great work.  That was my hope.  You are the Apostle of Marqua.  I am the Apostle of Ramoni.  For that I have lived, always in the fear that I would be cheated of my reward.”

Ramoni turned to him.  “Your reward?  I do not understand.”

“My reward,” the old man repeated.  “I watched over you, I instructed you, I prayed for you, I loved you.  I tried to teach you by checking you, the way to govern yourself.  I tried to make a channel in your soul that your great genius might not burst its bonds.  I knew that there was conflict ever within you between your duty to God and what the world had to offer you—­the old, old conflict between the city and the world.  I always feared it.  All unknown to you I watched the fight, and I saw that the world was winning.  Then, my son, I sent you to Marqua.”

The old man paused, and his trembling hand wiped away the tears that streamed down his face.  Ramoni did not move.  “I am afraid, my son,” the voice came again, “that you never knew the city—­well called the Eternal—­where with all the evil the world has put within its walls the good still shines always.  This, my son, is the city of the soul, and you were born in it.  It lives only for souls.  It has no other right to existence at all.  There is only one royalty that may live in Rome.  We, who are of the true city, know that.

“And you, too, might have been of the city.  The power of saving thousands was given to you.  I prayed only for the power of saving one.  I had to send you away, for you were not a Philip Neri.  Only a saint may live to be praised and save himself—­in Rome.

“When you went away, my son, you went away with a sacrifice as your merit, your salvation.  Of that sacrifice the Church in Marqua was born.  It will grow on another sacrifice.  Ask your heart if you could make it?  Alas, you can not!  Then it will have to grow on Pietro’s pain.

“I have not seen you, for I am blind, but I have heard you.  You want to go back an Archbishop to finish what you say is ‘your work.’  You think that your people are waiting.  You want to bring the splendor of the city to the world.  My son, the work is not yours.  The people are not yours.  The city, the true city, does not know you, for you have forgotten the spirit of sacrifice.  You went out to the world an apostle, and you came back to the city a conqueror, but no longer an apostle.  Can’t you see that God does not need conquerors?”