At last she came out, her eyes red with weeping.  Paulus had guessed rightly for she held the body of little Iambe in her arms.

“How sorry I am,” said Paulus, “the poor little creature was so pretty.”

Sirona nodded, sat down, and unfastened the prettily embroidered band from the dog’s neck, saying half to herself, and half to Paulus, “My little Agnes worked this collar.  I myself had taught her to sew, and this was the first piece of work that was all her own.”  She held the collar up to the anchorite.  “This clasp is of real silver,” she went on, “and my father himself gave it to me.  He was fond of the poor little dog too.  Now it will never leap and spring again, poor thing.”

She looked sadly down at the dead dog.  Then she collected herself, and said hurriedly, “Now I will go away from here.  Nothing—­nothing keeps me any longer in this wilderness, for the senator’s house, where I have spent many happy hours, and where everyone was fond of me, is closed against me, and must ever be so long as he lives there.  If you have not been kind to me only to do me harm in the end, let me go today, and help me to reach Alexandria.”

“Not to-day, in any case not to-day,” replied Paulus.  “First I must find out when a vessel sails for Klysma or for Berenike, and then I have many other things to see to for you.  You owe me an answer to my question, as to what you expect to do and to find in Alexandria.  Poor child—­the younger and the fairer you are—­”

“I know all you would say to me,” interrupted Sirona.  “Wherever I have been, I have attracted the eyes of men, and when I have read in their looks that I pleased them, it has greatly pleased me—­why should I deny it?  Many a one has spoken fair words to me or given me flowers, and sent old women to my house to win me for them, but even if one has happened to please me better than another, still I have never found it hard to send them home again as was fitting.”

“Till Hermas laid his love at your feet,” said Paulus.  “He is a bold lad—­”

“A pretty, inexperienced boy,” said Sirona, “neither more nor less.  It was a heedless thing, no doubt, to admit him to my rooms, but no vestal need be ashamed to own to such favor as I showed him.  I am innocent, and I will remain so that I may stand in my father’s presence without a blush when I have earned money enough in the capital for the long journey.”

Paulus looked in her face astonished and almost horrified.

Then he had in fact taken on himself guilt which did not exist, and perhaps the senator would have been slower to condemn Sirona, if it had not been for his falsely acknowledging it.  He stood before her, feeling like a child that would fain put together some object of artistic workmanship, and who has broken it to pieces for want of skill.  At the same time he could not doubt a word that she said, for the voice within him had long since plainly told him that this woman was no common criminal.