Still, all felt that there was something unusual and ominous in the air, and when the old man presently returned his face confirmed their suspicions.  He laid aside his hat and staff in speechless gravity; then he put his arm affectionately round his wife and said: 

“You will need all your courage and self-command once more, as you have often done before, good wife; I have taken upon myself a serious duty.”

Joanna had turned very pale, and while she clung to her husband and begged him to speak and not to torture her with suspense, her frail figure was trembling, and bitter tears ran down her cheeks.  She could guess that her husband was once more going away from her and their child, in the service and for the benefit of others, and she knew full well that she could not prevent it.  If she could, she never would have had the heart to interfere:  for she always understood him, and felt with him that something to take him out of the narrow circle of home-life was indispensable to his happiness.

He read her thoughts, and they gave him pain; but he was not to be diverted from his purpose.  The man who would try to heal every suffering brute was accustomed to see those whom he loved best grieve on his account.  Marriage, he would say, ought not to hinder a man in following his soul’s vocation; and he was fond of using this high-sounding name to justify himself in his own and his wife’s eyes, in doing things to which he was prompted only by restlessness and unsatisfied energy.  Without this he would, no doubt, have done his best for the imperilled sisterhood, but it added to his enjoyment of the grand and dangerous rescue.

The wretched fate of the hapless nuns, and the thought of losing them as near neighbors, grieved the women deeply, and the men saw many tears flow; at the same time they had the satisfaction of finding them all three firmly and equally determined to venture all, and to bid these whom they loved venture all, to hinder the success of a deed which filled them with horror and disgust.

Joanna spoke not a word of demur when Rufinus said that he intended to accompany the fugitives; and when, with beaming looks, he went on to praise Orion’s foresight and keen decisiveness, Paula flew to him proudly and gladly, holding out both her hands.  As for the young man, he felt as though wings were growing from his shoulders, and this fateful evening was one of the happiest of his life.

The superior had agreed to his scheme, and in some details had improved upon it.  Two lay sisters and one nun should remain behind.  The two former were to attend to the sick in the infirmary, to ring the bell and chant the services as usual, that the escape of the rest might not be suspected; and Joanna, Paula, and Pulcheria, were to assist them.

When, at a late hour, Orion was about to leave, Rufinus asked whether, under these circumstances, it would be well to bring Mary to his house; he himself doubted it.  Joanna was of his opinion; Paula, on the contrary, said that she believed it would be better to let the child run the risk of a remote danger—­hardly to be called danger, than to leave her to pine away body and soul in her old home.  Pulcheria supported her, but the two girls were forced to yield to the decision of the elders.