Quite otherwise thought the centurion.  He was quite ready to believe in the anchorite’s confession, for the more unworthy the man for whom Sirona had broken faith, the greater seemed her guilt, and the more unpardonable her levity; and to his man’s vanity it seemed to him easier—­particularly in the presence of such witnesses as Petrus and Dorothea—­to bear the fact that his wife should have sought variety and pleasure at any cost, even at that of devoting herself to a ragged beggar, than that she should have given her affections to a younger, handsomer, and worthier man than himself.  He had sinned much against her, but all that lay like feathers on his side of the scales, while that which she had done weighed down hers like a load of lead.  He began to feel like a man who, in wading through a bog, has gained firm ground with one foot, and all these feelings gave him energy to walk up to the anchorite with a self-control, of which he was not generally master, excepting when on duty at the head of his soldiers.

He approached the Alexandrian with an assumption of dignity and a demeanor which testified to his formerly having taken part in the representations of tragedies in the theatres of great cities.  Paulus, on his part, did not retreat by a single step, but looked at him with a smile that alarmed Petrus and the rest of the bystanders.  The law put the anchorite absolutely into the power of the outraged husband, but Phoebicius did not seem disposed to avail himself of his rights, and nothing but contempt and loathing were perceptible in his tone, as he said: 

“A man who takes hold of a mangy dog in order to punish him, only dirties his hand.  The woman who betrayed me for your sake, and you—­you dirty beggar—­are worthy of each other.  I could crush you like a fly that can be destroyed by a blow of my hand if I chose, but my sword is Caesar’s, and shall never be soiled by such foul blood as yours; however, the beast shall not have cast off his skin for nothing, it is thick, and so you have only spared me the trouble of tearing it off you before giving you your due.  You shall find no lack of blows.  Confess where your sweetheart has fled to and they shall be few, but if you are slow to answer they will be many.  Lend me that thing there, fellow!”

With these words he took a whip of hippopotamus hide out of a camel-driver’s band, went close up to the Alexandrian, and asked:  “Where is Sirona?”

“Nay, you may beat me,” said Paulus.  “However hard your whip may fall on me, it cannot be heavy enough for my sins; but as to where your wife is hiding, that I really cannot tell you—­not even if you were to tear my limbs with pincers instead of stroking me with that wretched thing.”

There was something so genuinely honest in Paulus’ voice and tone, that the centurion was inclined to believe him; but it was not his way to let a threatened punishment fail of execution, and this strange beggar should learn by experience that when his hand intended to hit hard, it was far from “stroking.”  And Paulus did experience it, without uttering a cry, and without stirring from the spot where he stood.