“You have taken my comrade’s life, Roman, and a two-legged serpent has stung you for it.  In a quarter of an hour it will be all over with you, as it is with that fellow there.  Why does a fine gentleman like you go to keep an appointment in the desert without boots or sandals, and so make our work so easy?  King Euergetes and your friend Eulaeus send you their greetings.  You owe it to them that I leave you even your ready money; I wish I could only carry away that dead lump there!”

During this rough speech Serapion was lying on the ground in great agony; he could only clench his fists, and groan out heavy curses with his lips which were now getting parched.  His sight was as yet undimmed, and he could distinctly see by the light of the moon, which now shone forth from a broad cloudless opening in the sky, that the murderer attempted to carry away his fallen comrade, and then, after raising his head to listen for a moment sprang off with flying steps away into the desert.  But the recluse now lost consciousness, and when some minutes later he once more opened his eyes his head was resting softly in the lap of a young girl, and it was the voice of his beloved Klea that asked him tenderly.

“You poor dear father!  How came you here in the desert, and into the hands of these murderers?  Do you know me—­your Klea?  And he who is looking for your wounds—­which are not visible at all—­he is the Roman Publius Scipio.  Now first tell us where the dagger hit you that I may bind it up quickly—­I am half a physician, and understand these things as you know.”

The recluse tried to turn his head towards Klea’s, but the effort was in vain, and he said in a low voice:  “Prop me up against the slanting wall of the tomb shrine yonder; and you, child, sit down opposite to me, for I would fain look at you while I die.  Gently, gently, my friend Publius, for I feel as if all my limbs were made of Phoenician glass, and might break at the least touch.  Thank you, my young friend—­you have strong arms, and you may lift me a little higher yet.  So—­now I can bear it; nay, I am well content, I am to be envied—­for the moon shows me your dear face, my child, and I see tears on your cheeks, tears for me, a surly old man.  Aye, it is good, it is very good to die thus.”

“Oh, father, father!” cried Klea.  “You must not speak so.  You must live, you must not die; for see, Publius here asks me to be his wife, and the Immortals only can know how glad I am to go with him, and Irene is to stay with us, and be my sister and his.  That must make you happy, father.—­But tell us, pray tell us where the wound hurts that the murderer gave you?”

“Children, children,” murmured the anchorite, and a happy smile parted his lips.  “The gracious gods are merciful in permitting me to see that—­aye, merciful to me, and to effect that end I would have died twenty deaths.”

Klea pressed his now cold hand to her lips as he spoke and again asked, though hardly able to control her voice for tears: