He had learned from Polykarp’s escort where Paulus was to be found, and as he stood opposite his friend he grasped his hand, stroked his rough hair and thanked him with deep and tender emotion for the great sacrifice he had made for him when he had taken upon himself the dishonoring punishment of his fault.

Paulus declined all pity or thanks, and spoke to Hermas of his father and of his future, until it was light, and the young man prepared to go down to the oasis to pay the last honors to the dead.  To his entreaty that he would accompany him, Paulus only answered: 

“No—­no; not now, not now; for if I were to mix with men now I should fly asunder like a rotten wineskin full of fermenting wine; a swarm of bees is buzzing in my head, and an ant-hill is growing in my bosom.  Go now and leave me alone.”

After the funeral ceremony Hermas took an affectionate leave of Agapitus, Petrus, and Dorothea, and then returned to the Alexandrian, with whom he went to the cave where he had so long lived with his dead father.

There Paulus delivered to him his father’s letter to his uncle, and spoke to him more lovingly than he had ever done before.  At night they both lay down on their beds, but neither of them found rest or sleep.

From time to time Paulus murmured in a low voice, but in tones of keen anguish, “In vain—­all in vain—­” and again, “I seek, I seek—­but who can show me the way?”

They both rose before daybreak; Hermas went once more down to the well, knelt down near it, and felt as though he were bidding farewell to his father and Miriam.

Memories of every kind rose up in his soul, and so mighty is the glorifying power of love that the miserable, brown-skinned shepherdess Miriam seemed to him a thousand-fold more beautiful than that splendid woman who filled the soul of a great artist with delight.

Shortly after sunrise Paulus conducted him to the fishing-port, and to the Israelite friend who managed the business of his father’s house; he caused him to be bountifully supplied with gold and accompanied him to the ship laden with charcoal, that was to convey hire to Klysma.

The parting was very painful to him, and when Hermas saw his eyes full of tears and felt his hands tremble, he said, “Do not be troubled about me, Paulus; we shall meet again, and I will never forget you and my father.”

“And your mother,” added the anchorite.  “I shall miss you sorely, but trouble is the very thing I look for.  He who succeeds in making the sorrows of the whole world his own—­he whose soul is touched by a sorrow at every breath he draws—­he indeed must long for the call of the Redeemer.”

Hermas fell weeping on his neck and started to feel how burning the anchorite’s lips were as he pressed them to his forehead.