There are saints to whom a trusting
religious heart can turn, relying on their apparent physical
capabilities. St Mark, for instance, is always a tower of strength,
and St Christopher is very stout, and St Peter carries with him an
ancient manliness which makes one marvel at his cowardice when he
denied his Master. St Lawrence, too, with his gridiron, and St
Bartholomew with his flaying-knife and his own skin hanging over his
own arm, look as though they liked their martyrdom, and were proud of
it, and could be useful on an occasion. But this St John of the Bridges
has no pride in his appearance, and no strength in his look. He is a
mild, meek saint, teaching one rather by his attitude how to bear with
the malice of the waters, than offering any protection against their
violence. But now, at this moment, his aid was the only aid to which
Nina could look with any hope. She had heard of his rescuing many
persons from death amidst the current of the Moldau. Indeed she thought
that she could remember having been told that the river had no power to
drown those who could turn their minds to him when they were struggling
in the water.
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