For some time he was at a loss for words; at last he said timidly: 

“What do you purpose doing in Alexandria?”

“Polykarp says, that all good work finds a purchaser there,” she answered.  “And I can weave particularly well, and embroider with gold-thread.  Perhaps I may find shelter under some roof where there are children, and I would willingly attend to them during the day.  In my free time and at night I could work at my frame, and when I have scraped enough together I shall soon find a ship that will carry me to Gaul, to my own people.  Do you not see that I cannot go back to Phoebicius, and can you help me?”

“Most willingly, and better perhaps than you fancy,” said Paulus.  “I cannot explain this to you just now; but you need not request me, but may rather feel that you have a good right to demand of me that I should rescue you.”

She looked at him in surprised enquiry, and he continued: 

“First let me carry away the little dog, and bury it down there.  I will put a stone over the grave, that you may know where it lies.  It must be so, the body cannot be here any longer.  Take the thing, which lies there.  I had tried before to cut it out for you, for you complained yesterday that your hair was all in a tangle because you had not a comb, so I tried to carve you one out of bone.  There were none at the shop in the oasis, and I am myself only a wild creature of the wilderness, a sorry, foolish animal, and do not use one.

“Was that a stone that fell?  Aye, certainly, I hear a man’s step; go quickly into the cave and do not stir till I call you.”

Sirona withdrew into her rock-dwelling, and Paulus took the body of the dog in his arms to conceal it from the man who was approaching.  He looked round, undecided, and seeking a hiding-place for it, but two sharp eyes had already detected him and his small burden from the height above him; before he had found a suitable place, stones were rolling and crashing down from the cliff to the right of the cavern, and at the same time a man came springing down with rash boldness from rock to rock, and without heeding the warning voice of the anchorite, flung himself down the slope, straight in front of him, exclaiming, while he struggled for breath and his face was hot with hatred and excitement: 

“That—­I know it well-that is Sirona’s greyhound—­where is its mistress?  Tell me this instant, where is Sirona—­I must and will know.”

Paulus had frequently seen, from the penitent’s room in the church, the senator and his family in their places near the altar, and he was much astonished to recognize in the daring leaper, who rushed upon him like a mad man with dishevelled hair and fiery eyes, Polykarp, Petrus’ second son.

The anchorite found it difficult to preserve his calm, and composed demeanor, for since he had been aware that he had accused Sirona falsely of a heavy sin, while at the same time he had equally falsely confessed himself the partner of her misdeed, he felt an anxiety that amounted to anguish, and a leaden oppression checked the rapidity of his thoughts.  He at first stammered out a few unintelligible words, but his opponent was in fearful earnest with his question; he seized the collar of the anchorite’s coarse garment with terrible violence, and cried in a husky voice, “Where did you find the dog?  Where is—?”