proceeded up and down the terraces till he reached the bridge, and after crossing it he mounted the path and continued it, venturing close to the edge and looking down the steep sides as he went, but seeing nowhere any traces of Timothy.  Had he fallen here, he said to himself, he would be lying in the brook.  But were Timothy lying there I could not fail to see him, nor is there water enough to wash him down into Jordan.  It must be he is seeking his way to Caesarea.  Let it be so, I pray God, and Paul continued his search till he came to where the path twisted round a rock debouching on to the hillsides.  We separated here, he said, looking round, and then remembering that they had been pursued for several miles into the hills and that the enemy’s scouts might be lurking in the neighbourhood, he turned back and descended the path, convinced of the uselessness of his search.  We parted at that rock, Timothy keeping to the left and myself turning to the right, and if anything has befallen he must be sought for by shepherds, aided by dogs.  Only with the help of dogs can he be traced, he said, and returning slowly to the bridge, he stood there lost in feverish forebodings, new ones rising up in his mind continually, for it might well be, he reflected, that Timothy has been killed by robbers, for these hills are infested by robbers and wild beasts, and worse than the wild beasts and the robbers are the Jews, who would pay a large sum of money for his capture.

And his thoughts running on incontinently, he imagined Timothy a prisoner in Jerusalem and himself forced to decide whether he should go there to defend Timothy or abandon his mission.  A terrible choice it would be for him to have to choose between his duty towards men and his love of his son, for Timothy was more to him than many sons are to their fathers, the companion of all his travels and his hope, for he was falling into years and needed Timothy now more than ever.  But it was not likely that the Jews had heard that Timothy was travelling from Jericho to Caesarea, and it was a feverish imagination of his to think that they would have time to send out agents to capture Timothy.  But if such a thing befell how would he account to Eunice for the death of the son that she had given him, wishing that somebody should be near him to protect and to serve him.  He had thought never to see Eunice again, but if her son perished he would have to see her.  But no, there would be no time—­he had appealed to Caesar.  He must send a letter to her telling that he had started out for Jericho.  A dangerous journey he knew it to be, but he was without strength to resist the temptation of one more effort to save the Jews:  a hard, bitter, stiff-necked, stubborn race that did not deserve salvation, that resisted it.  He had been scourged, how many times, at the instigation of the Jews? and they had stoned him at Lystra, a city ever dear to him, for it was there he had met Eunice; the memories that gathered round