His stone whistled through the air, but it did not even reach the mound, into which the palm-tree had struck root.

Paulus shook his head disapprovingly, and in his, turn seized a flat stone; and now an eager contest began.  At every throw Hermas’ stone flew farther, for he copied his teacher’s action and grasp with increasing skill, while the older man’s arm began to tire.  At last Hermas for the second time hit the palm-tree, while Paulus had failed to reach even the mound with his last fling.

The pleasure of the contest took stronger possession of the anchorite; he flung his raiment from him, and seizing another stone he cried out—­as though he were standing once more in the wrestling school among his old companions; all shining with their anointment.

“By the silver-bowed Apollo, and the arrow-speeding Artemis, I will hit the palm-tree.”

The missile sang through the air, his body sprang back, and he stretched out his left arm to save his tottering balance; there was a crash, the tree quivered under the blow, and Hermas shouted joyfully:  “Wonderful! wonderful! that was indeed a throw.  The old Menander is not dead!  Farewell—­to-morrow we will try again.”

With these words Hermas quitted the anchorite, and hastened with wide leaps down the hill in the oasis.  Paulus started at the words like a sleep-walker who is suddenly wakened by hearing his name called.  He looked about him in bewilderment, as if he had to find his way in some strange world.  Drops of sweat stood on his brow, and with sudden shame he snatched up his garments that were lying on the ground, and covered his naked limbs.

For some time he stood gazing after Hermas, then he clasped his brow in deep anguish and large tears ran down upon his beard.

“What have I said?” he muttered to himself; “That every vein of the old man in me was extirpated?  Fool! vain madman that I am.  They named me Paulus, and I am in truth Saul, aye, and worse than Saul!”

With these words he threw himself on his knees, pressing his forehead against the hard rock, and began to pray.  He felt as if he had been flung from a height on to spears and lances, as if his heart and soul were bleeding, and while he remained there, dissolved in grief and prayer, accusing and condemning himself, he felt not the burning of the sun as it mounted in the sky, heeded not the flight of time, nor heard the approach of a party of pilgrims, who, under the guidance of bishop Agapitus, were visiting the Holy Places.  The palmers saw him at prayer, heard his sobs, and, marvelling at his piety, at a sign from their pastor they knelt down behind him.

When Paulus at last arose, he perceived with surprise and alarm the witnesses of his devotions, and approached Agapitus to kiss his robe.  But the bishop said:  “Not so; he that is most pious is the greatest among us.  My friends, let us bow down before this saintly man!”