Marius was with her indeed, and her heart was in the truest sense his and their little Paul’s. But Paul also was to be a Roman, to live for Rome, for this southern world, not for Ireland. With an unconquerable instinct her heart at first turned for consolation to Fedelm, her old nurse, and to Bran the dog, who had insisted on coming with her. On the old nurse’s breast and on Bran’s shaggy head fell the tears, the only tears that brought any comfort.
And Marius knew it and understood it all, and never felt a grain of distrust or displeasure, and never tormented her with consolations. It was not, however, until they reached Tours that he said a word to her to imply that he knew. She had crept out alone to the cathedral, to the tomb of St. Martin, where she and Baithene had conversed with the old monk who knew the saint. The only words she could remember just then from their interview were the words of Martin which had baffled the devil, “Let me see the print of the nails.”
“The print of the nails,” she sobbed softly to herself, “the print of the nails! It has indeed to be also in us! To follow Thee means this, not only carrying the Cross as a burden and singing as we go, but being transfixed to it, and not being able to sing at all, only to say softly—‘Into Thy hands.’ ‘The print of the nails.’ So let it be.”
And as she turned away, comforted, she saw Marius watching her in the shadow of the font.
“My fountain of youth!” he murmured, tenderly.
“Ah, beloved,” she said, “what freshness of youth or what water of life can there be in me?”
“More than ever perhaps,” he said, “when my fountain of youth has become a fountain of tears. The world is so full of tears, and the only tears to dread are those that cannot be shed.”
“Yet after all,” she said, “the help is not in the tears, but in the life-blood from the print of the nails.”
But after that she did not try to hide the tears from him. In every town where Ethne and Baithene had found succour, it was the joy of Marius to leave rich offerings for the poor. At Tours they found out the old monk, St. Martin’s friend, and left their gifts with him, and laid their babe in his arms for his benediction. At Orleans, dear and sacred for so many reasons to them, they made their offerings at the tomb of Anianus (St. Aignan), the noble old Bishop who had so effectually defended the city, and had gone to his reward and rest the year before.