“Lo, all the countless souls of the sins of Thais come upon me!”

When he turned away his head, he felt that Thais was behind him, and that made him feel still more uneasy.  His torture was cruel.  But as his soul and body remained pure in the midst of all his temptations, he trusted in God, and gently complained to Him.

“My God, if I went so far to seek her amongst the Gentiles, it was for Thy sake, and not for mine.  It would not be just that I should suffer for what I have done in Thy behalf.  Protect me, sweet Jesus!  My Saviour, save me!  Suffer not the phantom to accomplish that which the body could not.  As I have triumphed over the flesh, suffer not the shadow to overthrow me.  I know that I am now exposed to greater dangers than I ever ran.  I feel and know that the dream has more power than the reality.  And how could it be otherwise, since it is itself but a higher reality?  It is the soul of things.  Plato, though he was but an idolater, has testified to the real existence of ideas.  At that banquet of demons to which Thou accompaniedst me, Lord, I heard men—­sullied with crimes truly, but certainly not devoid of intelligence—­agree to acknowledge that we see real objects in solitude, meditation, and ecstasy; and Thy Scriptures, my God, many times affirm the virtue of dreams, and the power of visions formed either by Thee, great God, or by Thy adversary.”

There was a new man in him and now he reasoned with God, but God did not choose to enlighten him.  His nights were one long dream, and his days did not differ from his nights.  One morning he awoke uttering sighs, such as issue, by moonlight, from the tombs of the victims of crimes.  Thais had come, showing her bleeding feet, and whilst he wept, she had slipped into his couch.  There was no longer any doubt; the image of Thais was an impure image.

His heart filled with disgust, he leaped out of his profaned couch, and hid his face in his hands that he might not see the daylight.  The hours passed, but they did not remove his shame.  All was quiet in the cell.  For the first time for many long days, Paphnutius was alone.  The phantom had at last left him, and even its absence seemed dreadful.  Nothing, nothing to distract his mind from the recollection of the dream.  Full of horror, he thought—­

“Why did I not drive her away?  Why did I not tear myself from her cold arms and burning knees?”

He no longer dared to pronounce the name of God near that horrible couch, and he feared that his cell being profaned, the demons might freely enter at any hour.  His fears did not deceive him.  The seven little jackals, which had never crossed the threshold, entered in a file, and went and hid under the bed.  At the vesper hour, there came an eighth, the stench of which was horrible.  The next day, a ninth joined the others, and soon there were thirty, then sixty, then eighty.  They became smaller as they multiplied, and being no bigger than rats, they covered the floor, the couch, and the stool.  One of them jumped on the little table by the side of the bed, and standing with its four feet together on the death’s head, looked at the monk with burning eyes.  And every day fresh jackals came.