Paulus took the beaker in his hand, inhaled the fragrance of the golden fluid, and then murmured, but without putting it to his lips, “That is not Syrian; it is Egyptian, I know it well.  I should take it to be Mareotic.”

“So Sirona called it,” cried Hermas, “and you know it by the mere smell!  She said it was particularly good for the sick.”

“That it is,” Paulus agreed; but Stephanus asked in surprise, “Sirona? who is she?”

The cave was but dimly lighted by the fire that had been made at the opening, so that the two anchorites could not perceive that Hermas reddened all over as he replied, “Sirona?  The Gaulish woman Sirona?  Do you not know her?  She is the wife of the centurion down in the oasis.”

“How do you come to know her?” asked his father.

“She lives in Petrus’ house,” replied the lad, “and as she had heard of your wound—­”

“Take her my thanks when you go there to-morrow morning,” said Stephanus.  To her and to her husband too.  Is he a Gaul?”

“I believe so—­nay, certainly,” answered Hermas, “they call him the lion, and he is no doubt a Gaul?”

When the lad had left the cave the old man laid himself down to rest, and Paulus kept watch by him on his son’s bed.  But Stephanus could not sleep, and when his friend approached him to give him some medicine, he said, “The wife of a Gaul has done me a kindness, and yet the wine would have pleased me better if it had not come from a Gaul.”

Paulus looked at him enquiringly, and though total darkness reigned in the cave, Stephanus felt his gaze and said, “I owe no man a grudge and I love my neighbor.  Great injuries have been done me, but I have for given—­from the bottom of my heart forgiven.  Only one man lives to whom I wish evil, and he is a Gaul.”

“Forgive him too,” said Paulus, “and do not let evil thoughts disturb your sleep.”

“I am not tired,” said the sick man, “and if you had gone through such things as I have, it would trouble your rest at night too.”

“I know, I know,” said Paulus soothingly.  “It was a Gaul that persuaded your wretched wife into quitting your house and her child.”

“And I loved, oh! how I loved Glycera!” groaned the old man.  “She lived like a princess and I fulfilled her every wish before it was uttered.  She herself has said a hundred times that I was too kind and too yielding, and that there was nothing left for her to wish.  Then the Gaul came to our house, a man as acrid as sour wine, but with a fluent tongue and sparkling eyes.  How he entangled Glycera I know not, nor do I want to know; he shall atone for it in hell.  For the poor lost woman I pray day and night.  A spell was on her, and she left her heart behind in my house, for her child was there and she loved Hermas so fondly; indeed she was deeply devoted to me.  Think what the spell must be that can annihilate a mother’s love!  Wretch, hapless wretch that I am!  Did you ever love a woman, Paulus?”