Having thus spoken, he resumed his journey.  He entered the city by the Gate of the Sun.  This gate was a handsome structure of stone.  In the shadow of its arch, crowded some poor wretches, who offered lemons and figs for sale, or with many groans and lamentations, begged for an obolus.

An old woman in rags, who was kneeling there, seized the monk’s cassock, kissed it, and said—­

“Man of the Lord, bless me, that God may bless me.  I have suffered many things in this world that I may have joys in the world to come.  You come from God, O holy man, and that is why the dust of your feet is more precious than gold.”

“The Lord be praised!” said Paphnutius, and with his half-closed hand he made the sign of redemption on the old woman’s head.

But hardly had he gone twenty paces down the street, than a band of children began to jeer at him, and throw stones, crying—­

“Oh, the wicked monk!  He is blacker than an ape, and more bearded than a goat!  He is a skulker!  Why not hang him in an orchard, like a wooden Priapus, to frighten the birds?  But no; he would draw down the hail on the apple-blossom.  He brings bad luck.  To the ravens with the monk! to the ravens!” and stones mingled with the cries.

“My God, bless these poor children!” murmured Paphnutius.

And he pursued his way, thinking.

“I was worshipped by the old woman, and hated and despised by these children.  Thus the same object is appreciated differently by men who are uncertain in their judgment and liable to error.  It must be owned that, for a Gentile, old Timocles was not devoid of sense.  Though blind, he knew he was deprived of light.  His reasoning was much better than that of these idolaters, who cry from the depths of their thick darkness, ’I see the day!’ Everything in this world is mirage and moving sand.  God alone is steadfast.”

He passed through the city with rapid steps.  After ten years of absence he would still recognise every stone, and every stone was to him a stone of reproach that recalled a sin.  For that reason he struck his naked feet roughly against the kerb-stones of the wide street, and rejoiced to see the bloody marks of his wounded feet.  Leaving on his left the magnificent portico of the Temple of Serapis, he entered a road lined with splendid mansions, which seemed to be drowsy with perfumes.  Pines, maples, and larches raised their heads above the red cornices and golden acroteria.  Through the half-open doors could be seen bronze statues in marble vestibules, and fountains playing amidst foliage.  No noise troubled the stillness of these quiet retreats.  Only the distant strains of a flute could be heard.  The monk stopped before a house, rather small, but of noble proportions, and supported by columns as graceful as young girls.  It was ornamented with bronze busts of the most celebrated Greek philosophers.

He recognised Plato, Socrates, Aristotle, Epicurus, and Zeno, and having knocked with the hammer against the door, he waited, wrapped in meditation.