The recluse at these words sat muttering thoughtfully to himself for a few minutes with a discontented air; then he said gravely: 

“Asclepiodorus meant more by his speech than you think.  Every sentence with which he dismisses a refractory subordinate is a nut of which the shell must be cracked in order to get at the kernel.  When he tells you to remember your parents and their sad fate, such words from his lips, and under the present circumstances, can hardly mean anything else than this:  that you should not forget how easily your father’s fate might overtake you also, if once you withdrew yourselves from the protection of the temple.  It was not for nothing that Asclepiodorus—­as you yourself told me quite lately, not more than a week ago I am sure—­reminded you how often those condemned to forced labor in the mines had their relations sent after them.  Ah! child, the words of Asclepiodorus have a sinister meaning.  The calmness and pride, with which you look at me make me fear for you, and yet, as you know, I am not one of the timid and tremulous.  Certainly what they propose to you is repulsive enough, but submit to it; it is to be hoped it will not be for long.  Do it for my sake and for that of poor Irene, for though you might know how to assert your dignity and take care of yourself outside these walls in the rough and greedy world, little Irene never could.  And besides, Klea, my sweetheart, we have now found some one, who makes your concerns his, and who is great and powerful—­but oh! what are three clays?  To think of seeing you turned out—­and then that you may be driven with a dissolute herd in a filthy boat down to the burning south, and dragged to work which kills first the soul and then the body!  No, it is not possible!  You will never let this happen to me—­and to yourself and Irene; no, my darling, no, my pet, my sweetheart, you cannot, you will not do so.  Are you not my children, my daughters, my only joy? and you, would you go away, and leave me alone in my cage, all because you are so proud!”

The strong man’s voice failed him, and heavy drops fell from his eyes one after another down his beard, and on to Klea’s arm, which he had grasped with both hands.

The girl’s eyes too were dim with a mist of warm tears when she saw her rough friend weeping, but she remained firm and said, as she tried to free her hand from his: 

“You know very well, father Serapion, that there is much to tie me to this temple; my sister, and you, and the door-keeper’s child, little Philo.  It would be cruel, dreadful to have to leave you; but I would rather endure that and every other grief than allow Irene to take the place of Arsinoe or the black Doris as wailing woman.  Think of that bright child, painted and kneeling at the foot of a bier and groaning and wailing in mock sorrow!  She would become a living lie in human form, an object of loathing to herself, and to me—­who stand in the place of a mother to her—­from morning till night