The blessed Paul was now one hundred and thirteen years old, and Anthony, who dwelt in another place of solitude, was at the age of ninety.  In the stillness of the night it was revealed to Anthony that deeper in the desert there was a better man than he, and that he ought to see him.  So, at the break of day, the venerable old man, supporting and guiding his weak limbs with a staff, started out, whither he knew not.  At scorching noontide he beholds a fellow-creature, half man, half horse, called by the poets Hippo-centaur.  After gnashing outlandish utterances, this monster, in words broken, rather than spoken, through his bristling lips, points out the way with his right hand and swiftly vanishes from the hermit’s sight.  Anthony, amazed, proceeds thoughtfully on his way when a mannikin, with hooked snout, horned forehead and goat’s feet, stands before him and offers him food.  Anthony asks who he is.  The beast thus replies:  “I am a mortal being, and one of those inhabitants of the desert, whom the Gentiles deluded by various forms of error worship, under the name of Fauns and Satyrs.”  As he utters these and other words, tears stream down the aged traveler’s face!  He rejoices over the glory of God and the destruction of Satan.  Striking the ground with his staff, he exclaims, “Woe to thee, Alexandria, who, instead of God, worshipest monsters!  Woe to thee, harlot city, into which have flowed together the demons of the world!  What will you say now?  Beasts speak of Christ, and you, instead of God, worship monsters.”  “Let none scruple to believe this incident,” says the chronicler, “for a man of this kind was brought alive to Alexandria and the people saw him; when he died his body was preserved in salt and brought to Antioch that the Emperor might view him.”

Anthony continues to traverse the wild region into which he had entered.  There is no trace of human beings.  The darkness of the second night wears away in prayer.  At day-break he beholds far away a she-wolf gasping with parched thirst and creeping into a cave.  He draws near and peers within.  All is dark, but perfect love casteth out fear.  With halting step and bated breath, he enters.  After a while a light gleams in the distant midnight darkness.  With eagerness he presses forward, but his foot strikes against a stone and arouses the echoes; whereupon the blessed Paul closes the door and makes it fast.  For hours Anthony lay at the door craving admission.  “I know I am not worthy,” he humbly cries, “yet unless I see you I will not turn away.  You welcome beasts, why not a man?  If I fail, I will die here on your threshold.”

     “Such was his constant cry; unmoved he stood,
      To whom the hero thus brief answer made.”

“Prayers like these do not mean threats, there is no trickery in tears.”  So, with smiles, Paul gives him entrance and the two aged hermits fall into each other’s embrace.  Together they converse of things human and divine, Paul, close to the dust of the grave, asks, Are new houses springing up in ancient cities?  What government directs the world?  Little did this recluse know of his fellow-beings and how fared it with the children of men who dwelt in those great cities around the blue Mediterranean.  He was dead to the world and knew it no more.