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A great depression hung over the Convent to-day the men were quiet, showing their consideration for the "camarade" as they always do. Constant, who received internal injuries at Fort d'Embourg, is dying and Augustin is worse. The latter's face has a gray-blue look and his poor jaws are very stiff. But there is hope!
"Then," as Tertullian had said already, "if the gods be chosen as onions are roped, it is obvious that what is not chosen is condemned." "Tertullian carries his fancy too far," comments Augustin. The gods refused as fabulous are not held reprobate on that account. The truth is, they are a cut of the same piece as the admitted gods.
And first, he must mourn his son Adeodatus, that young man who seemed destined to such great things. It is indeed most probable that the young monk died at Thagaste during the three years that his father spent there. Augustin was deeply grieved; but, as in the case of his mother's death, he mastered his sorrow by all the force of his Christian hope.
He believed, therefore, that he made a good choice in appointing Augustin. So a chain of events, with which his will had hardly anything to do, was going to draw the young rhetorician to Milan yes, and how much farther! to where he did not want to go, to where the prayers of Monnica summoned him unceasingly: "Where I am, there shall you be also."
I, Prince von Hammerfeldt, would have Augustin and not Geoffrey for my master and my country's." "Enough for to-night, Prince. Leave him now," my mother urged in a whisper. The Prince bent his head slightly, but remained where he stood for a moment longer. Then he bowed very low to me, and drew back a step, still facing me. My mother prompted me with what I suppose was the proper formula.
He said to me afterwards: "My wife was not at her best last night, because there is a peculiarity about seasickness and singers; the lower notes in which she is most effective are not at such times available or in working order." Augustin Daly did a great service to the theatre by his wonderful genius as a manager. He discovered talent everywhere and encouraged it.
The whole moral crisis that Augustin is about to undergo might be summed up in these few words so concentrated and so strong.
But that it should have been, Augustin?" My name slipped from unconscious lips. "That it should have been isn't bad to me; it's good. That's wicked? I can't help it. It's the thing the thing of my life. I've no place like yours. I've nothing to make it come second. Ah, I'm forgetting again how old I am. How you always make me forget it! I mustn't talk like this."
At the very moment even that Augustin began to write The City of God, his friend Evodius, Bishop of Uzalis, told him this story. He had as secretary a very young man, the son of a priest in the neighbourhood. This young man had begun by obtaining a post as stenographer in the office of the Proconsul of Africa.
"Be calm! the enemy I speak of is no longer under your roof he has fled beyond the reach of your just vengeance." "But who is he?" impatiently demanded Don Augustin. "Tiburcio Arellanos." "What! Tiburcio Arellanos my enemy! I do not believe it. Loyalty and courage are the characteristics of the young man. I shall never believe him a traitor." "He knows the situation of the Golden Valley!
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