“Take this flower,” said Publius, turning his back abruptly on the girl, while Lysias laid the blossom on the trencher in the maiden’s hand; she felt the rough manners of the young Roman as if she had been touched by a hard hand; she bowed silently and timidly and then quickly ran home.

Publius looked thoughtfully after her till Lysias called out to him: 

“What has come over me?  Has saucy Eros perchance wandered by mistake into the temple of gloomy Serapis this morning?”

“That would not be wise,” interrupted the recluse, “for Cerberus, who lies at the foot of our God, would soon pluck the fluttering wings of the airy youngster,” and as he spoke he looked significantly at the Greek.

“Aye! if he let himself be caught by the three-headed monster,” laughed Lysias.  “But come away now, Publius; Eulaeus has waited long enough.”

“You go to him then,” answered the Roman, “I will follow soon; but first I have a word to say to Serapion.”

Since Irene’s disappearance, the old man had turned his attention to the acacia-grove where Eulaeus was still feasting.  When the Roman addressed him he said, shaking his great head with dissatisfaction: 

“Your eyes of course are no worse than mine.  Only look at that man munching and moving his jaws and smacking his lips.  By Serapis! you can tell the nature of a man by watching him eat.  You know I sit in my cage unwillingly enough, but I am thankful for one thing about it, and that is that it keeps me far from all that such a creature as Eulaeus calls enjoyment—­for such enjoyment, I tell you, degrades a man.”

“Then you are more of a philosopher than you wish to seem,” replied Publius.

“I wish to seem nothing,” answered the anchorite.

“For it is all the same to me what others think of me.  But if a man who has nothing to do and whose quiet is rarely disturbed, and who thinks his own thoughts about many things is a philosopher, you may call me one if you like.  If at any time you should need advice you may come here again, for I like you, and you might be able to do me an important service.”

“Only speak,” interrupted the Roman, “I should be glad from my heart to be of any use to you.”

“Not now,” said Serapion softly.  “But come again when you have time—­without your companions there, of course—­at any rate without Eulaeus, who of all the scoundrels I ever came across is the very worst.  It may be as well to tell you at once that what I might require of you would concern not myself but the weal or woe of the water-bearers, the two maidens you have seen and who much need protection.”

“I came here for my parents’ sake and for Klea’s, and not on your account,” said Publius frankly.  “There is something in her mien and in her eyes which perhaps may repel others but which attracts me.  How came so admirable a creature in your temple?”

“When you come again,” replied the recluse, “I will tell you the history of the sisters and what they owe to Eulaeus.  Now go, and understand me when I say the girls are well guarded.  This observation is for the benefit of the Greek who is but a heedless fellow; but you, when you know who the girls are, will help me to protect them.”