As soon as Philippus had quitted the house, Orion went to see Rufinus, who, on his briefly assuring him that he had come on grave and important business, begged him to accompany him to his private room.  The young man, however, detained him till he had made all clear with the women as to the reception of little Mary.

“By degrees all the inhabitants of the residence will be transplanted into our garden!” exclaimed Rufinus.  “Well, I have no objection; and you, old woman, what do you say to it?”

“I have none certainly,” replied his wife.  “Besides, neither you nor I have to decide in this case:  the child is to be Paula’s guest.”

“I only wish she were here already,” said Paula, “for who can say whether your mother, Orion—­the air here is perilously Melchite.”

“Leave Philippus and me to settle that.—­You should have seen how pleased Mary was.”

Then, drawing Paula aside, he hastily added: 

“Have I not hoped too much?  Is your heart mine?  Come what may, can I count on you—­on your lov-?”

“Yes, Yes!” The words rushed up from the very bottom of her heart, and Orion, with a sigh of relief, followed the old man, glad and comforted.

The study was lighted up, and there, without mentioning Katharina, he told Rufinus of the patriarch’s scheme for dispersing the nuns of St. Cecilia.  What could he care for these Melchite sisters?  But, since that consoling hour in the church, he felt as though it were his duty to stand forth for all that was right, and to do battle against everything that was base.  Besides, he knew how warmly and steadfastly his father had taken the part of this very convent against the patriarch.  Finally, he had heard how strongly his beloved was attached to this retreat and its superior, so he prepared himself gleefully to come forth a new man of deeds, and show his prowess.

The old man listened with growing surprise and horror, and when Orion had finished his story he rose, helplessly wringing his hands.  Orion spoke to him encouragingly, and told him that he had come, not merely to give the terrible news, but to hold council with him as to how the innocent victims might be rescued.  At this the grey-headed philanthropist and wanderer pricked up his ears; and as an old war horse, though harnessed to the plough, when he hears the trumpet sound lifts his head and arches his neck as proudly and nobly as of yore under his glittering trappings, so Rufinus drew himself up, his old eyes sparkled, and he exclaimed with all the enthusiasm and eagerness of youth: 

“Very good, very good; I am with you; not merely as an adviser; no, no.  Head, and hand, and foot, from crown to heel!  And as for you, young man —­as for you!  I always saw the stuff that was in you in spite—­in spite.  —­But, as surely as man is the standard of all things, those who reach the stronghold of virtue by a winding road are often better citizens than those who are born in it.—­It is growing late, but evensong will not yet have begun and I shall still be able to see the abbess.  Have you any plan to propose?”