Look at me as severely as you will, Dorothea, but it was only in thoughtless folly that I slipped into the Gaul’s house that evening, and by the memory of my father—­of whom heaven has this day bereft me—­I swear that Sirona only amused herself with me as with a boy, a child, and even refused to let me kiss her beautiful golden hair.  As surely as I hope to become a warrior, and as surely as my father’s spirit hears what I say, the guilt that Paulus took upon himself was never committed at all, and when you condemned Sirona you did an injustice, for she never broke her faith to her husband for me, nor still less for Paulus.”

Petrus and Dorothea exchanged a meaning glance, and Dorothea said: 

“Why have we to learn all this from the lips of a stranger?  It sounds very extraordinary, and yet how simple!  Aye, husband, it would have become us better to guess something of this than to doubt Sirona.  From the first it certainly seemed to me impossible that that handsome woman, for whom quite different people had troubled themselves should err for this queer beggar—­”

“What cruel injustice has fallen on the poor man!” cried Petrus.  “If he had boasted of some noble deed, we should indeed have been less ready to give him credence.”

“We are suffering heavy punishment,” sighed Dorothea, “and my heart is bleeding.  Why did you not come to us, Hermas, if you wanted wine?  How much suffering would have been spared if you had!”

The lad looked down, and was silent; but soon he recollected himself, and said eagerly: 

“Let me go and seek the hapless Paulus; I return you thanks for your kindness but I cannot bear to stay here any longer.  I must go back to the mountain.”

The senator and his wife did not detain him, and when the court-yard gate had closed upon him a great stillness reigned in Petrus’ sitting-room.  Dorothea leaned far back in her seat and sat looking in her lap while the tears rolled over her cheeks; Marthana held her hand and stroked it, and the senator stepped to the window and sighed deeply as he looked down into the dark court.  Sorrow lay on all their hearts like a heavy leaden burden.  All was still in the spacious room, only now and then a loud, long-drawn cry of the wailing women rang through the quiet night and reached them through the open window; it was a heavy hour, rich in vain, but silent self-accusation, in anxiety, and short prayers; poor in hope or consolation.

Presently Petrus heaved a deep sigh, and Dorothea rose to go up to him and to say to him some sincere word of affection; but just then the dogs in the yard barked, and the agonized father said softly—­in deep dejection, and prepared for the worst: 

“Most likely it is they.”

The deaconess pressed his hand in hers, but drew back when a light tap was heard at the court-yard gate.  “It is not Jethro and Antonius.” said Petrus, “they have a key.”