The soul of Hermas did not answer to the musician’s touch.  The strings of his heart were slack and soundless; there was no response within him.  He was neither shepherd, nor king, nor wise man, only an unhappy, dissatisfied, questioning youth.  He was out of sympathy with the eager preacher, the joyous hearers.  In their harmony he had no part.  Was it for this that he had forsaken his inheritance and narrowed his life to poverty and hardship?  What was it all worth?

The gracious prayers with which the young converts were blessed and dismissed before the sacrament sounded hollow in his ears.  Never had he felt so utterly lonely as in that praying throng.  He went out with his companions like a man departing from a banquet where all but he had been fed.

“Farewell, Hermas,” they cried, as he turned from them at the door.  But he did not look back, nor wave his hand.  He was alone already in his heart.

When he entered the broad Avenue of the Colonnades, the sun had already topped the eastern hills, and the ruddy light was streaming through the long double row of archways and over the pavements of crimson marble.  But Hermas turned his back to the morning, and walked with his shadow before him.

The street began to swarm and whirl and quiver with the motley life of a huge city:  beggars and jugglers, dancers and musicians, gilded youths in their chariots, and daughters of joy looking out from their windows, all intoxicated with the mere delight of living and the gladness of a new day.  The pagan populace of Antioch—­ reckless, pleasure-loving, spendthrift—­were preparing for the Saturnalia.  But all this Hermas had renounced.  He cleft his way through the crowd slowly, like a reluctant swimmer weary of breasting the tide.

At the corner of the street where the narrow, populous Lane of the Camel-drivers crossed the Colonnades, a story-teller had bewitched a circle of people around him.  It was the same old tale of love and adventure that many generations have listened to; but the lively fancy of the hearers lent it new interest, and the wit of the improviser drew forth sighs of interest and shouts of laughter.

A yellow-haired girl on the edge of the throng turned, as Hermas passed, and smiled in his face.  She put out her hand and caught him by the sleeve.

“Stay,” she said, “and laugh a bit with us.  I know who you are—­ the son of Demetrius.  You must have bags of gold.  Why do you look so black?  Love is alive yet.”

Hermas shook off her hand, but not ungently.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he said.  “You are mistaken in me.  I am poorer than you are.”

But as he passed on, he felt the warm touch of her fingers through the cloth on his arm.  It seemed as if she had plucked him by the heart.

He went out by the Western Gate, under the golden cherubim that the Emperor Titus had stolen from the ruined Temple of Jerusalem and fixed upon the arch of triumph.  He turned to the left, and climbed the hill to the road that led to the Grove of Daphne.