“She belongs to Petrus and cannot leave her goats for long,” said Paulus.  “Now I will go and find you some herbs for a relish; there will be no more wine in the first place.  Look me in the face—­for how great a sinner now do you take me?  Think the very worst of me, and yet perhaps you will hear worse said of me.  But here come two men.  Stay! one is Hilarion, one of the bishop’s acolytes, and the other is Pachomius the Memphite, who lately came to the mountain.  They are coming up here, and the Egyptian is carrying a small jar.  I would it might hold some more wine to keep up your strength.”

The two friends had not long to remain in ignorance of their visitor’s purpose.  So soon as they reached Stephanus’ cave, both turned their backs on Paulus with conspicuously marked intention; nay the acolyte signed his brow with the cross, as if he thought it necessary to protect himself against evil influences.

The Alexandrian understood; he drew back and was silent, while Hilarion explained to the sick man that Paulus was guilty of grave sins, and that, until he had done full penance, he must remain excluded as a rotten sheep from the bishop’s flock, as well as interdicted from waiting on a pious Christian.

“We know from Petrus,” the speaker went on, “that your son, father, has been sent across the sea, and as you still need waiting on, Agapitus sends you by me his blessing and this strengthening wine; this youth too will stay by you, and provide you with all necessaries until Hermas comes home.”

With these words he gave the wine-jar to the old man, who looked in astonishment from him to Paulus, who felt indeed cut to the heart when the bishop’s messenger turned to him for an instant, and with the cry, “Get thee out from among us!” disappeared.  How many kindly ties, how many services willingly rendered and affectionately accepted were swept away by these words—­but Paulus obeyed at once.  He went up to his sick friend, their eyes met and each could see that the eyes of the other were dimmed with tears.

“Paulus!” cried the old man, stretching out both his hands to his departing friend, whom he felt he could forgive whatever his guilt; but the Alexandrian did not take them, but turned away, and, without looking back, hastily went up the mountain to a pathless spot, and then on towards the valley—­onwards and still onwards, till he was brought to a pause by the steep declivity of the hollow way which led southwards from the mountains into the oasis.

The sun stood high and it was burning hot.  Streaming with sweat and panting for breath he leaned against the glowing porphyry wall behind him, hid his face in his hands and strove to collect himself, to think, to pray—­for a long time in vain; for instead of joy in the suffering which he had taken upon himself, the grief of isolation weighed upon his heart, and the lamentable cry of the old man had left a warning echo in his soul, and roused doubts of the righteousness of a deed, by which even the best and purest had been deceived, and led into injustice towards him.  His heart was breaking with anguish and grief, but when at last he returned to the consciousness of his sufferings physical and mental, he began to recover his courage, and even smiled as he murmured to himself: