“God be praised in the gazelle of the desert,” said Palemon.

He went to his hut, the light-footed little animal trotting after him, and brought out some black bread, which the antelope ate out of his hand.

Paphnutius remained thoughtful for some time, his eyes fixed upon the stones at his feet.  Then he slowly walked back to his cell, pondering on what he had heard.  A great struggle was going on in his mind.

“The hermit gives good advice,” he said to himself; “the spirit of prudence is in him.  And he doubts the wisdom of my intention.  Yet it would be cruel to leave Thais any longer in the power of the demon who possesses her.  May God advise and conduct me.”

As he was walking along, he saw a plover, caught in the net that a hunter had laid on the sand, and he knew that it was a hen bird, for he saw the male fly to the net, and tear the meshes one by one with its beak, until it had made an opening by which its mate could escape.  The holy man watched this incident, and as, by virtue of his holiness, he easily comprehended the mystic sense of all occurrences, he knew that the captive bird was no other than Thais, caught in the snares of sin, and that—­like the plover that had cut the hempen threads with its beak—­he could, by pronouncing the word of power, break the invisible bonds by which Thais was held in sin.  Therefore he praised God, and was confirmed in his first resolution.  But then seeing the plover caught by the feet, and hampered by the net it had broken, he fell into uncertainty again.

He did not sleep all night, and before dawn he had a vision.  Thais appeared to him again.  There was no expression of guilty pleasure on her face, nor was she dressed according to custom in transparent drapery.  She was enveloped in a shroud, which hid even a part of her face, so that the Abbot could see nothing but the two eyes, from which flowed white and heavy tears.

At this sight he began to weep, and believing that this vision came from God, he no longer hesitated.  He rose, seized a knotted stick, the symbol of the Christian faith, and left his cell, carefully closing the door, lest the animals of the desert and the birds of the air should enter, and befoul the copy of the Holy Scriptures which stood at the head of his bed.  He called Flavian, the deacon, and gave him authority over the other twenty-three disciples during his absence; and then, clad only in a long cassock, he bent his steps towards the Nile, intending to follow the Libyan bank to the city founded by the Macedonian monarch.  He walked from dawn to eve, indifferent to fatigue, hunger, and thirst; the sun was already low on the horizon when he saw the dreadful river, the blood-red waters of which rolled between the rocks of gold and fire.