which Tantalus, parched with thirst, tried to grasp.  I fled from the world to this mountain, and the world has pursued me and has flung its snares round my feet.  I must seek a lonelier waste in which I may be alone—­quite alone with my God and myself.  There, perhaps I may find the way I seek, if indeed the fact that the creature that I call ‘I,’ in which the whole world with all its agitations in little finds room—­and which will accompany me even there—­does not once again frustrate all my labor.  He who takes his Self with him into the desert, is not alone.”

Paulus sighed deeply and then pursued his reflections:  “How puffed up with pride I was after I had tasted the Gaul’s rods in place of Hermas, and then I was like a drunken man who falls down stairs step by step.  And poor Stephanus too had a fall when he was so near the goal!  He failed in strength to forgive, and the senator who has just now left me, and whose innocent son I had so badly hurt, when we parted forgivingly gave me his hand.  I could see that he did forgive me with all his heart, and this Petrus stands in the midst of life, and is busy early and late with mere worldly affairs.”

For a time he looked thoughtfully before him, and then he went on in his soliloquy, “What was the story that old Serapion used to tell?  In the Thebaid there dwelt a penitent who thought he led a perfectly saintly life and far transcended all his companions in stern virtue.  Once he dreamed that there was in Alexandria a man even more perfect than himself; Phabis was his name, and he was a shoemaker, dwelling in the White road near the harbor of Kibotos.  The anchorite at once went to the capital and found the shoemaker, and when he asked him, ’How do you serve the Lord?  How do you conduct your life?’ Phabis looked at him in astonishment.  ’I? well, my Saviour!  I work early and late, and provide for my family, and pray morning and evening in few words for the whole city.’  Petrus, it seems to me, is such an one as Phabis; but many roads lead to God, and we—­and I—­”

Again a cold shiver interrupted his meditation, and as morning approached the cold was so keen that he endeavored to light a fire.  While he was painfully blowing the charcoal Hermas came up to him.

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.”