offended you, but you did not by any means know how to attain that magnanimity, for I have seen you fail in it; indeed it is contrary to the very nature of woman, and—­ the gods be thanked—­you are not a Stoic in woman’s dress, but a woman —­a true woman, as you should be.  You have learned nothing from Zeno and Chrysippus but what any peasant girl might learn from an honest father, to be true I mean and to love virtue.  Be content with that; I am more than satisfied.”

“Oh, Publius,” exclaimed the girl, grasping her friend’s hand.  “I understand you, and I know that you are right.  A woman must be miserable so long as she fancies herself strong, and imagines and feels that she needs no other support than her own firm will and determination, no other counsel than some wise doctrines which she accepts and adheres to.  Before I could call you mine, and went on my own way, proud of my own virtue, I was—­I cannot bear to think of it—­but half a soul, and took it for a whole; but now—­if now fate were to snatch you from me, I should still know where to seek the support on which I might lean in need and despair.  Not in the Stoa, not in herself can a woman find such a stay, but in pious dependence on the help of the gods.”

“I am a man,” interrupted Publius, “and yet I sacrifice to them and yield ready obedience to their decrees.”

“But,” cried Klea, “I saw yesterday in the temple of Serapis the meanest things done by his ministers, and it pained me and disgusted me, and I lost my hold on the divinity; but the extremest anguish and deepest love have led me to find it again.  I can no longer conceive of the power that upholds the universe as without love nor of the love that makes men happy as other than divine.  Any one who has once prayed for a being they love as I prayed for you in the desert can never again forget how to pray.  Such prayers indeed are not in vain.  Even if no god can hear them there is a strengthening virtue in such prayer itself.

“Now I will go contentedly back to our temple till you fetch me, for I know that the discreetest, wisest, and kindest Beings will watch over our love.”

“You will not accompany me to Apollodorus and Irene?” asked Publius in surprise.

“No,” answered Klea firmly.  “Rather take me back to the Serapeum.  I have not yet been released from the duties I undertook there, and it will be more worthy of us both that Asclepiodorus should give you the daughter of Philotas as your wife than that you should be married to a runaway serving-maid of Serapis.”

Publius considered for a moment, and then he said eagerly: 

“Still I would rather you should come with me.  You must be dreadfully tired, but I could take you on my mule to Apollodorus.  I care little for what men say of me when I am sure I am doing right, and I shall know how to protect you against Euergetes whether you wish to be readmitted to the temple or accompany me to the sculptor.  But do come—­it will be hard on me to part from you again.  The victor does not lay aside the crown when he has just won it in hard fight.”