Thus meditating, he pressed on through a narrow space, which divided two huge masses of porphyry, but suddenly he stood still, for he heard the barking of a dog in his immediate neighborhood, and a few minutes after a greyhound rushed towards him—­now indignantly flying at him, and now timidly retreating—­while it carefully held up one leg, which was wrapped in a many-colored bandage.

Paulus recollected the enquiry which Phoebicius lead addressed to the Amalekite as to a greyhound, and he immediately guessed that the Gaul’s runaway wife must be not far off.  His heart beat more quickly, and although he did not immediately know how he should meet the disloyal wife, he felt himself impelled to go to seek her.  Without delay he followed the way by which the dog had come, and soon caught sight of a light garment, which vanished behind the nearest rock, and then behind a farther, and yet a farther one.

At last he came up with the fleeing woman.  She was standing at the very edge of a precipice, that rose high and sheer above the abyss—­a strange and fearful sight; her long golden hair had got tangled, and waved over her bosom and shoulders, half plaited, half undone.  Only one foot was firm on the ground; the other-with its thin sandal all torn by the sharp stones—­was stretched out over the abyss, ready for the next fatal step.  At the next instant she might disappear over the cliff, for though with her right hand she held on to a point of rock, Paulus could see that the boulder had no connection with the rock on which she stood, and rocked too and fro.

She hung over the edge of the chasm like a sleepwalker, or a possessed creature pursued by demons, and at the same time her eyes glistened with such wild madness, and she drew her breath with such feverish rapidity that Paulus, who had come close up to her, involuntarily drew back.  He saw that her lips moved, and though he could not understand what she said, he felt that her voiceless utterance was to warn him back.

What should he do?  If he hurried forward to save her by a hasty grip, and if this manoeuvre failed, she would fling herself irredeemably into the abyss:  if he left her to herself, the stone to which she clung would get looser and looser, and as soon as it fell she would certainly fall too.  He had once heard it said, that sleep-walkers always threw themselves down when they heard their names spoken; this statement now recurred to his mind, and he forbore from calling out to her.

Once more the unhappy woman waved him off; his very heart stopped beating, for her movements were wild and vehement, and he could see that the stone which she was holding on by shifted its place.  He understood nothing of all the words which she tried to say—­for her voice, which only yesterday had been so sweet, to-day was inaudibly hoarse—­except the one name “Phoebicius,” and he felt no doubt that she clung to the stone over the abyss, so that,