“And the Christian doctrine seems to be very much such a muddy thicket.”

“Call it so for aught I care.”

“Then beware lest you find yourself sticking in the morass.”

“I will take care of myself.”

“You said just now that there were decent folks among them.”

“A few no doubt.  But the others! eternal gods! mere slaves, beggars, ruined handicraftstmen, common people, untaught and unphilosophical brains, and women, for the most part.”

“Avoid them then.”

“You ought to be the last to give me that advice.”

“What do you mean?”

The other went close up to him and asked him in a whisper: 

“Why, where do you suppose I get the money with which I pay for our food and lodging?”

“So long as you do not steal it, it is all the same to me.”

“If I had no more, you would ask the question fast enough.”

“Certainly not, we strive after virtue and ought to do everything to render ourselves independent of nature and her cravings.  But to be sure she often asserts her rights—­to return then:  where do you get the money?”

“Why, it burns in the purses of the people in there.  It is their duty to give to the poor, and to tell the truth, their pleasure also; and so week by week they give me a few drachmae for my suffering brother.”

“Bah! you are the only son of your father, and he is dead.”

“‘All men are brethren’ say the Christians, consequently I may call you mine without lying.”

“Join them then for aught I care,” laughed the other.  “How would it be if I followed you among the Christians?  Perhaps they would give me weekly money too, for my suffering brother, and then we could have double meals.”

The cynics laughed loudly and parted; one went back into the city, the other into the garden belonging to the Christian widow.

Arsinoe had entered here before the dishonest philosopher and had gone straight to Hannah’s house without being detained by the gate-keeper.  As she got nearer to her destination, she tried more and more earnestly to devise some way in which she might inform her sister of all the dreadful things that had happened, and which she must learn sooner or later, without giving her too great a shock.  Her dread was not much less than her grief.  As she reflected on the last few days and on all that had occurred, it almost seemed as though she herself had been the cause of the misfortunes of her family.

On the way to see Selene she could shed no tears, but she could not help softly moaning to herself now and then.  A woman, who for some distance had kept pace with her, thought she must be suffering some severe bodily pain, and when the girl passed her, she looked after her with sincere compassion, the wailing of the desolate young creature had sounded so piteous.