“In my father’s house I found only my mother still living, for my father had died of grief.  Before my flight she had been a tall, fine woman, when I came home I found her faded and dying.  Anxiety for me, a miserable wretch, had consumed her, said the physician—­that was the hardest thing to bear.  When at last the poor, good little woman, who could so fondly persuade me—­a wild scamp—­implored me on her death-bed to return to my retreat, I yielded, and swore to her that I would stay in my prison patiently to the end, for I am as water is in northern countries, a child may turn me with its little hand or else I am as hard and as cold as crystal.  My old mother died soon after I had taken this oath.  I kept my word as you see—­and you have seen too how I endure my fate.”

“Patiently enough,” replied Publius, “I should writhe in my chains far more rebelliously than you, and I fancy it must do you good to rage and storm sometimes as you did just now.”

“As much good as sweet wine from Chios!” exclaimed the anchorite, smacking his lips as if he tasted the noble juice of the grape, and stretching his matted head as far as possible out of the window.  Thus it happened that he saw Irene, and called out to her in a cheery voice: 

“What are you doing there, child?  You are standing as if you were waiting to say good-morning to good fortune.”

The girl hastily took up the trencher, smoothed down her hair with her other hand, and as she approached the men, coloring slightly, Publius feasted his eyes on her in surprise and admiration.

But Serapion’s words had been heard by another person, who now emerged from the acacia-grove and joined the young Roman, exclaiming before he came up with them: 

“Waiting for good fortune! does the old man say?  And you can hear it said, Publius, and not reply that she herself must bring good fortune wherever she appears.”

The speaker was a young Greek, dressed with extreme care, and he now stuck the pomegranate-blossom he carried in his hand behind his ear, so as to shake hands with his friend Publius; then he turned his fair, saucy, almost girlish face with its finely-cut features up to the recluse, wishing to attract his attention to himself by his next speech.

“With Plato’s greeting ‘to deal fairly and honestly’ do I approach you!” he cried; and then he went on more quietly:  “But indeed you can hardly need such a warning, for you belong to those who know how to conquer true—­that is the inner—­freedom; for who can be freer than he who needs nothing?  And as none can be nobler than the freest of the free, accept the tribute of my respect, and scorn not the greeting of Lysias of Corinth, who, like Alexander, would fain exchange lots with you, the Diogenes of Egypt, if it were vouchsafed to him always to see out the window of your mansion—­otherwise not very desirable—­the charming form of this damsel—­”

“That is enough, young man,” said Serapion, interrupting the Greek’s flow of words.  “This young girl belongs to the temple, and any one who is tempted to speak to her as if she were a flute-player will have to deal with me, her protector.  Yes, with me; and your friend here will bear me witness that it may not be altogether to your advantage to have a quarrel with such as I. Now, step back, young gentlemen, and let the girl tell me what she needs.”