“Listen to Argus,” said Dorothea, “he never howls like that, but when you come home or one of us, or when he is pleased.”

Petrus laid his finger on his lips and sounded a clear, shrill whistle, and as the dogs, obedient to this signal, were silent, he once more called out, “Whoever you may be, say plainly who you are, that I may open the gate.”

They were kept waiting some few minutes for the answer, and the senator was on the point of repeating his enquiry, when a gentle voice timidly came from the gate to the window, saying, “It is I, Petrus, the fugitive Sirona.”  Hardly had the words tremulously pierced the silence, when Marthana broke from her father, whose hand was resting on her shoulder, and flew out of the door, down the steps and out to the gate.

“Sirona; poor, dear Sirona,” cried the girl as she pushed back the bolt; as soon as she had opened the door and Sirona had entered the court, she threw herself on her neck, and kissed and stroked her as if she were her long lost sister found again; then, without allowing her to speak, she seized her hand and drew her—­in spite of the slight resistance she offered—­with many affectionate exclamations up the steps and into the sitting-room.  Petrus and Dorothea met her on the threshold, and the latter pressed her to her heart, kissed her forehead and said, “Poor woman; we know now that we have done you an injustice, and will try to make it good.”  The senator too went up to her, took her hand and added his greetings to those of his wife, for he knew not whether she had as yet heard of her husband’s end.

Sirona could not find a word in reply.  She had expected to be expelled as a castaway when she came down the mountain, losing her way in the darkness.  Her sandals were cut by the sharp rocks, and hung in strips to her bleeding feet, her beautiful hair was tumbled by the night-wind, and her white robe looked like a ragged beggar’s garment, for she had torn it to make bandages for Polykarp’s wound.

Some hours had already passed since she had left her patient—­her heart full of dread for him and of anxiety as to the hard reception she might meet with from his parents.

How her hand shook with fear of Petrus and Dorothea as she raised the brazen knocker of the senator’s door, and now—­a father, a mother, a sister opened their arms to her, and an affectionate home smiled upon her.  Her heart and soul overflowed with boundless emotion and unlimited thankfulness, and weeping loudly, she pressed her clasped hands to her breast.

But she spared only a few moments for the enjoyment of these feelings of delight, for there was no happiness for her without Polykarp, and it was for his sake that she had undertaken this perilous night-journey.  Marthana had tenderly approached her, but she gently put her aside, saying, “Not just now, dear girl.  I have already wasted an hour, for I lost my way in the ravines.  Get ready Petrus to come back to the mountain with me at once, for—­but do not be startled Dorothea, Paulus says that the worst danger is over, and if Polykarp—­”