“Who can say which way is the worst? Southward are the Romans and Goths, victorious; here are the Huns, defeated. The victorious Romans are as bad for us to encounter as the defeated Tartars. Little choice for us between heathen vanquished and Christian victors. What will the citizens of Troyes do?”
“We have no defence,” was the grim reply. “Troyes has no walls.”
“Why then,” said Eleazar, “do you not all take flight at once?”
“Troyes has a Bishop,” was the reply; “a great saint, who is clothed in rough raiment, and lives on nothing, they say, like our Elijah. He is called Lupus. The people believe in him; they believe the city is walled around by his prayers.”
“Another Anianus! another living saint!” murmured Ethne, turning with shining eyes on her brother. “We shall be saved, but I wonder how!”
Eleazar’s acquaintance resumed—
“It is strange; it makes one think of our old histories in spite of oneself. It is like Elisha and his wall of fire.”
Miriam’s face quivered with emotion.
“The God of Elisha is living,” she sighed, “and surely He is never far off.”