To expiate the abominable sin of his dream, and flee from impure thoughts, Paphnutius determined to leave his cell, which had now become polluted, go far into the desert, and practise unheard-of austerities, strange labours, and fresh works of grace.  But before putting his design into action, he went to see old Palemon and ask his advice.

He found him in his garden watering his lettuces.  It was the evening.  The blue Nile flowed at the foot of violet hills.  The good old man was walking slowly, in order not to frighten a pigeon that had perched on his shoulder.

“The Lord be with thee, brother Paphnutius,” he said.  “Admire his goodness; He sends me the animals that He has created that I may converse with them of His works, and praise Him in the birds of the air.  Look at this pigeon; note the changing hues of its neck, and say, is it not a beautiful work of God?  But have you not come to talk with me, brother, on some pious subject?  If so, I will put down my watering-pot, and listen to you.”

Paphnutius told the old man about his journey, his return, the visions of his days and the dreams of his nights,—­without omitting the sinful one—­and the pack of jackals.

“Do you not think, father,” he added, “that I ought to bury myself in the desert, and perform some extraordinary austerities that would even astonish the devil?”

“I am but a poor sinner,” replied Palemon, “and I know little about men, having passed all my life in this garden, with gazelles, little hares and pigeons.  But it seems to me, brother, that your distemper comes from your having passed too suddenly from the noisy world to the calm of solitude.  Such sudden transitions can but do harm to the health of the soul.  You are, brother, like a man who exposes himself, almost at the same time, to great heat and great cold.  A cough shakes him, and fever torments him.  In your place, brother Paphnutius, instead of retiring at once into some awful desert, I should take such amusements as are fitting to a monk and a holy abbot.  I should visit the monasteries in the neighbourhood.  Some of them are wonderful, it is said.  That of Abbot Serapion contains, I have been told, a thousand four hundred and thirty-two cells, and the monks are divided into as many legions as there are letters in the Greek alphabet.  I am even informed that a certain analogy is observed between the character of the monks and the shape of the letter by which they are designated, and that, for example, those who are placed under Z have a tortuous character, whilst those under I have an upright mind.  If I were you, brother, I should go and assure myself of this with my own eyes, and I should know no rest until I had seen such a wonderful thing.  I should not fail to study the regulations of the various communities which are scattered along the banks of the Nile, so as to be able to compare one with another.  Such study is befitting a religious man like yourself.