"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.