“From him,” exclaimed Klea, coloring scarlet, “I will accept neither good nor evil; I do not know him, and I do not want to know him.”

“Child, child!” interrupted the recluse with grave chiding.  “Does your pride then so far outweigh your love, your duty, and concern for Irene?  What, in the name of all the gods, has Publius done to you that you avoid him more anxiously than if he were covered with leprosy?  There is a limit to all things, and now—­aye, indeed—­I must out with it come what may, for this is not the time to pretend to be blind when I see with both eyes what is going on—­your heart is full of the Roman, and draws you to him; but you are an honest girl, and, in order to remain so, you fly from him because you distrust yourself, and do not know what might happen if he were to tell you that he too has been hit by one of Eros’ darts.  You may turn red and white, and look at me as if I were your enemy, and talking contemptible nonsense.  I have seen many strange things, but I never saw any one before you who was a coward out of sheer courage, and yet of all the women I know there is not one to whom fear is less known than my bold and resolute Klea.  The road is a hard one that you must take, but only cover your poor little heart with a coat of mail, and venture in all confidence to meet the Roman, who is an excellent good fellow.  No doubt it will be hard to you to crave a boon, but ought you to shrink from those few steps over sharp stones?  Our poor child is standing on the edge of the abyss; if you do not arrive at the right time, and speak the right words to the only person who is able to help in this matter, she will be thrust into the foul bog and sink in it, because her brave sister was frightened at—­herself!”

Klea had cast down her eyes as the anchorite addressed her thus; she stood for some time frowning at the ground in silence, but at last she said, with quivering lips and as gloomily as if she were pronouncing a sentence on herself.

“Then I will ask the Roman to assist me; but how can I get to him?”

“Ah!—­now my Klea is her father’s daughter once more,” answered Serapion, stretching out both his arms towards her from the little window of his cell; and then he went on:  “I can make the painful path somewhat smoother for you.  My brother Glaucus, who is commander of the civic guard in the palace, you already know; I will give you a few words of recommendation to him, and also, to lighten your task, a little letter to Publius Scipio, which shall contain a short account of the matter in hand.  If Publius wishes to speak with you yourself go to him and trust him, but still more trust yourself.

“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.”