like the mountain-goat when it sees itself surprised by the hunter, she might fling herself into the depth below rather than be taken by her pursuer.  Paulus saw in her neither her guilt nor her beauty, but only a child of man trembling on the brink of a fearful danger whom he must save from death at any cost; and the thought that he was at any rate not a spy sent in pursuit of her by her husband, suggested to him the first words which he found courage to address to the desperate woman.  They were simple words enough, but they were spoken in a tone which fully expressed the childlike amiability of his warm heart, and the Alexandrian, who had been brought up in the most approved school of the city of orators, involuntarily uttered his words in the admirably rich and soft chest voice, which he so well knew how to use.

“Be thankful,” said he, “poor dear woman—­I have found you in a fortunate hour.  I am Paulus, Hermas’ best friend, and I would willingly serve you in your sore need.  No danger is now threatening you, for Phoebicius is seeking you on a wrong road; you may trust me.  Look at me!  I do not look as if I could betray a poor erring woman.  But you are standing on a spot, where I would rather see my enemy than you; lay your hand confidently in mine—­it is no longer white and slender, but it is strong and honest—­grant me this request and you will never rue it!  See, place your foot here, and take care how you leave go of the rock there.  You know not how suspiciously it shook its head over your strange confidence in it.  Take care! there—­your support has rolled over into the abyss! how it crashes and splits.  It has reached the bottom, smashed into a thousand pieces, and I am thankful that you preferred to follow me rather than that false support.”  While Paulus was speaking he had gone up to Sirona, as a girl whose bird has escaped from its cage, and who creeps up to it with timid care in the hope of recapturing it; he offered her his hand, and as soon as he felt hers in his grasp, he had carefully rescued her from her fearful position, and had led her down to a secure footing on the plateau.  So long as she followed him unresistingly he led her on towards the mountain—­without aim or fixed destination—­but away, away from the abyss.

She paused by a square block of diorite, and Paulus, who had not failed to observe how heavy her steps were, desired her to sit down; he pushed up a flag of stone, which he propped with smaller ones, so that Sirona might not lack a support for her weary back.  When he had accomplished this, Sirona leaned back against the stone, and something of dawning satisfaction was audible in the soft sigh, which was the first sound that had escaped her tightly closed lips since her rescue.  Paulus smiled at her encouragingly, and said, “Now rest a little, I see what you want; one cannot defy the heat of the sun for a whole day with impunity.”

Sirona nodded, pointed to her mouth, and implored wearily and very softly for “water, a little water.”  Paulus struck his hand against his forehead, and cried eagerly, “Directly—­I will bring you a fresh draught.  In a few minutes I will be back again.”