him to the village, where his kinsfolk gathered to mourn over his remains.  But at midnight he came to himself, and, seeing but one acquaintance awake, he begged that he would carry him back to the tombs, which was done.  Unable to move, he prayed prostrate and sang, “If an host be laid against me, yet shall not my heart be afraid.”  The enraged devils made at him again.  There was a terrible crash; through the walls the fiends came in shapes like beasts and reptiles.  In a moment the place was filled with lions roaring at him, bulls thrusting at him with their horns, creeping serpents unable to reach him, wolves held back in the act of springing.  There, too, were bears and asps and scorpions.  Mid the frightful clamor of roars, growls and hisses, rose the clear voice of the saint, as he triumphantly mocked the demons in their rage.  Suddenly the awful tumult ceased; the wretched beings became invisible and a ray of light pierced the roof to cheer the prostrate hero.  His pains ceased.  A voice came to him saying, “Thou hast withstood and not yielded.  I will always be thy helper, and will make thy name famous everywhere.”  Hearing this he rose up and prayed, and was stronger in body than ever before.

This is but one of numerous stories chronicling Anthony’s struggles with the devil.  Like conflicts were going on at that hour in many another cave in those great and silent mountains.

There are also wondrous tales of his miraculous power.  He often predicted the coming of sufferers and healed them when they came.  His fame for curing diseases and casting out devils became so extensive that Egypt marveled at his gifts, and saints came even from Rome to see his face and to hear his words.  His freedom from pride and arrogance was as marked as his fame was great.  He yielded joyful obedience to presbyters and bishops.  His countenance was so full of divine grace and heavenly beauty as to render him easily distinguishable in a crowd of monks.  Letters poured in upon him from every part of the empire.  Kings wrote for his advice, but it neither amazed him nor filled his heart with pride.  “Wonder not,” said he, “if a king writes to us, for he is but a man, but wonder rather that God has written His law to man and spoken to us by His Son.”  At his command princes laid aside their crowns, judges their magisterial robes, while criminals forsook their lives of crime and embraced with joy the life of the desert.

Once, at the earnest entreaty of some magistrates, he came down from the mountain that they might see him.  Urged to prolong his stay he refused, saying, “Fishes, if they lie long on the dry land, die; so monks who stay with you lose their strength.  As the fishes, then, hasten to the sea, so must we to the mountains.”

At last the shadows lengthened and waning strength proclaimed that his departure was nigh.  Bidding farewell to his monks, he retired to an inner mountain and laid himself down to die.  His countenance brightened as if he saw his friends coming to see him, and thus his soul was gathered to his fathers.  He is said to have been mourned by fifteen thousand disciples.