“Now go, and when you have once more filled the water-jars come back to me, and fetch the letters.  The sooner you can go the better, for it would be well that you should leave the path through the desert behind you before nightfall, for in the dark there are often dangerous tramps about.  You will find a friendly welcome at my sister Leukippa’s; she lives in the toll-house by the great harbor—­show her this ring and she will give you a bed, and, if the gods are merciful, one for Irene too.”

“Thank you, father,” said Klea, but she said no more, and then left him with a rapid step.

Serapion looked lovingly after her; then he took two wooden tablets faced with wax out of his chest, and, with a metal style, he wrote on one a short letter to his brother, and on the other a longer one to the Roman, which ran as follows: 

“Serapion, the recluse of Serapis, to Publius Cornelius Scipio Nasica, the Roman.

“Serapion greets Publius Scipio, and acquaints him that Irene, the younger sister of Klea, the water-bearer, has disappeared from this temple, and, as Serapion suspects, by the wiles of the epistolographer Eulaeus, whom we both know, and who seems to have acted under the orders of King Ptolemy Euergetes.  Seek to discover where Irene can be.  Save her if thou canst from her ravishers, and conduct her back to this temple or deliver her in Memphis into the hands of my sister Leukippa, the wife of the overseer of the harbor, named Hipparchus, who dwells in the toll-house.  May Serapis preserve thee and thine.”

The recluse had just finished his letters when Klea returned to him.  The girl hid them in the folds of the bosom of her robe, said farewell to her friend, and remained quite grave and collected, while Serapion, with tears in his eyes, stroked her hair, gave her his parting blessing, and finally even hung round her neck an amulet for good luck, that his mother had worn—­it was an eye in rock-crystal with a protective inscription.  Then, without any further delay, she set out towards the temple gate, which, in obedience to the commands of the high priest, was now locked.  The gate-keeper—­little Philo’s father—­sat close by on a stone bench, keeping guard.  In a friendly tone Klea asked him to open the gate; but the anxious official would not immediately comply with her request, but reminded her of Asclepiodorus’ strict injunctions, and informed her that the great Roman had demanded admission to the temple about three hours since, but had been refused by the high-priest’s special orders.  He had asked too for her, and had promised to return on the morrow.

The hot blood flew to Klea’s face and eyes as she heard this news.  Could Publius no more cease to think of her than she of him?  Had Serapion guessed rightly?  “The darts of Eros”—­the recluse’s phrase flashed through her mind, and struck her heart as if it were itself a winged arrow; it frightened her and yet she liked it, but only for one brief instant, for the utmost distrust of her own weakness came over her again directly, and she told herself with a shudder that she was on the high-road to follow up and seek out the importunate stranger.