Doris, who was deaf, had listened vainly, holding her hand to her ear, to catch this report; and Didymus now told his granddaughter as much as he deemed it advisable for her to know, that she might communicate it to her grandmother, who understood the movements of her lips.

The old man was rejoiced to learn that his granddaughter had escaped so great a peril uninjured, yet he was still burdened by sore anxiety.  The architect, too, feared the worst, but by dint of assuring him that he would return at once with full details when he had ascertained the fate of Dion and his betrothed bride, he finally persuaded the old man to give up the night walk through the tempest.

Philotas, with tears in his eyes, begged them to accept his services as messenger or for any other purpose; but Didymus ordered him to go to bed.  An opportunity would be found to enable him to atone for the offence so recklessly committed.

The scholar’s peaceful home was deprived of its nocturnal repose, and when Gorgias had gone and Didymus had refused Helena’s request to have the aged porter take her to her sister, the old man remained alone with his wife in the tablinum.

She had been told nothing except that thieves had attacked her granddaughter, Barine, and slightly wounded her lover; but her own heart and the manner of the husband, at whose side she had grown grey, showed that many things were being concealed.  She longed to know the story more fully, but it was difficult for Didymus to talk a long time in a loud tone, so she silenced her desire to learn the whole truth.  But, in order to await the architect’s report, they did not go to rest.

Didymus had sunk into an armchair, and Doris sat near at her spindle, but without drawing any threads from her distaff.  When she heard her husband sigh and saw him bury his face in his hands, she limped nearer to him, difficult as it was for her to move, and stroked his head, now nearly bald, with her hand.  Then she uttered soothing words, and, as the anxious, troubled expression did not yet pass from his wrinkled face, she reminded him in faltering yet tender tones how often they had thought they must despair, and yet everything had resulted well.

“Ah! husband,” she added, “I know full well that the clouds hanging over us are very black, and I cannot even see them clearly, because you show them at such a distance.  Yet I feel that they threaten us with sore tribulation.  But, after all, what harm can they do us, if we only keep close together, we two old people and the children of the children whom Hades rent from us?  We need only to grow old to perceive that life has a head with many faces.  The ugly one of to-day can last no longer than you can keep that deeply furrowed brow.  But you need not coerce yourself for my sake, husband.  Let it be so.  I need merely close my eyes to see how smooth and beautiful it was in youth, and how pleasant it will look when better days say, ‘Here we are!’”