"I have not seen you, for I am blind, but I have heard you. You want
to go back an Archbishop to finish what you say is 'your work.' You
think that your people are waiting. You want to bring the splendor of
the city to the world. My son, the work is not yours. The people are
not yours. The city, the true city, does not know you, for you have
forgotten the spirit of sacrifice. You went out to the world an
apostle, and you came back to the city a conqueror, but no longer an
apostle. Can't you see that God does not need conquerors?"

The old priest pressed the crucifix tightly against his breast. "What
would you take back to Marqua?" he demanded. "Nothing but your purple
and your eloquence. How could you, who have forgotten to pray in the
midst of affliction, teach your people how to pray in the midst of
their sorrows? Marqua does not need you, for Marqua needs the man you
might have been, but which you are not. The city does not need you,
for the city needs no man; but it is you who need the city, that you
may learn again the lesson that once made you the missionary of a
people."

Faintly, through the silence that fell the deeper as the old man's
words died away, there came the sound of footsteps pacing in another
room. Once more the old man took up his speech.

"They are Pietro's steps," he said. "All night long I have heard you
both. He has been sobbing under the burden he believes he is unworthy
to bear, while you have been raging that you were not permitted to
bear it. Pietro was only your servant. He would be your servant again
if he could. He loves you. I, too, love you. Perhaps I was selfish in
loving you, but I wanted for God your soul and the souls you were