That of Stephanus was exceptionally high and deep, and yet the space was but small which divided the two beds of dried mountain herbs where, on one, slept the father, and on the other, the son.

It was long past midnight, but neither the younger nor the elder cave-dweller seemed to be sleeping.  Hermas groaned aloud and threw himself vehemently from one side to the other without any consideration for the old man who, tormented with pain and weakness, sorely needed sleep.  Stephanus meanwhile denied himself the relief of turning over or of sighing, when he thought he perceived that his more vigorous son had found rest.

“What could have robbed him of his rest, the boy who usually slept so soundly, and was so hard to waken?”

“Whence comes it,” thought Stephanus, “that the young and strong sleep so soundly and so much, and the old, who need rest, and even the sick, sleep so lightly and so little.  Is it that wakefulness may prolong the little term of life, of which they dread the end?  How is it that man clings so fondly to this miserable existence, and would fain slink away, and hide himself when the angel calls and the golden gates open before him!  We are like Saul, the Hebrew, who hid himself when they came to him with the crown!  My wound burns painfully; if only I had a drink of water.  If the poor child were not so sound asleep I might ask him for the jar.”

Stephanus listened to his son and would not wake him, when he heard his heavy and regular breathing.  He curled himself up shivering under the sheep-skin which covered only half his body, for the icy night wind now blew through the opening of the cave, which by day was as hot as an oven.

Some long minutes wore away; at last he thought he perceived that Hermas had raised himself.  Yes, the sleeper must have wakened, for he began to speak, and to call on the name of God.

The old man turned to his son and began softly, “Do you hear me, my boy?”

“I cannot sleep,” answered the youth.

“Then give me something to drink,” asked Stephanus, “my wound burns intolerably.”

Hermas rose at once, and reached the water-jar to the sufferer.

“Thanks, thanks, my child,” said the old man, feeling for the neck of the jar.  But he could not find it, and exclaimed with surprise:  “How damp and cold it is—­this is clay, and our jar was a gourd.”

“I have broken it,” interrupted Hermas, “and Paulus lent me his.”

“Well, well,” said Stephanus anxious for drink; he gave the jar back to his son, and waited till he had stretched himself again on his couch.  Then he asked anxiously:  “You were out a long time this evening, the gourd is broken, and you groaned in your sleep.  Whom did you meet?”

“A demon of hell,” answered Hermas.  “And now the fiend pursues me into our cave, and torments me in a variety of shapes.”

“Drive it out then and pray,” said the old man gravely.  “Unclean spirits flee at the name of God.”