“The impudent fellow,” thought he, “richly deserved what he got.  Who gave him a better right over Sirona than he, Paulus himself, had—­he who had saved her life, and had taken it upon himself to protect her?” Her great beauty had charmed him from the first moment of their meeting, but no impure thought stirred his heart as he gazed at her with delight, and listened with emotion to her childlike talk.  It was the hot torrent of Polykarp’s words that had first thrown the spark into his soul, which jealousy and the dread of having to abandon Sirona to another, had soon fanned into a consuming flame.  He would not give up this woman, he would continue to care for her every need, she should owe everything to him, and to him only.  And so, without reserve, he devoted himself body and soul to the preparations for her flight.  The hot breath of the storm, the thunder and lightning, torrents of rain, and blackness of night could not delay him, while he leaped from rock to rock, feeling his way-soaked through, weary and in peril; he thought only of her, and of how he could most safely carry her to Alexandria, and then surround her with all that could charm a woman’s taste.  Nothing—­nothing did he desire for himself, and all that he dreamed of and planned turned only and exclusively on the pleasure which he might afford her.  When he had prepared and lighted the lamp for her he saw her again, and was startled at the beauty of the face that the trembling flame revealed.  He could observe her a few seconds only, and then she had vanished, and he must remain alone in the darkness and the rain.  He walked restlessly up and down, and an agonizing longing once more to see her face lighted up by the pale flame, and the white arm that she had held out to take the lamp, grew more and more strong in him and accelerated the pulses of his throbbing heart.  As often as he passed the cave, and observed the glimmer of light that came from her room, he felt prompted and urged to slip in, and to gaze on her once more.  He never once thought of prayer and scourging, his old means of grace, he sought rather for a reason that might serve him as an excuse if he went in, and it struck him that it was cold, and that a sheepskin was lying in the cavern.  He would fetch it, in spite of his vow never to wear a sheepskin again; and supposing he were thus enabled to see her, what next?

When he had Stepped across the threshold, an inward voice warned him to return, and told him that he must be treading the path of unrighteousness, for that he was stealing in on tiptoe like a thief; but the excuse was ready at once.  “That is for fear of waking her, if she is asleep.”

And now all further reflection was silenced for he had already reached the spot where, at the end of the rocky passage, the cave widened into her sleeping-room; there she lay on her hard couch, sunk in slumber and enchantingly fair.

A deep gloom reigned around, and the feeble light of the little lamp lighted up only a small portion of the dismal chamber but the head, throat, and arms that it illuminated seemed to shine with a light of their own that enhanced and consecrated the light of the feeble flame.  Paulus fell breathless on his knees, and fixed his eyes with growing eagerness on the graceful form of the sleeper.