Petrus received his wife with no less gravity than was usual with him, but there was an arch sparkle in his half closed eyes as he asked:  “You scarcely know what is going on, I suppose?”

“You are madmen, who would fain take Heaven by storm,” she answered gaily.

“If the undertaking fails,” said Petrus, pointing to his sons, “those young ones will feel the loss longer than we shall.”

“But it will succeed,” cried Dorothea.  “An old commander and young soldiers can win any battle.”  She held out her small plump hand with frank briskness to her husband, he clasped it cheerily and said:  “I think I can carry the project for the road through the Senate.  To build our bridge we must also procure helping hands, and for that we need your aid, Dorothea.  Our slaves will not suffice.”

“Wait,” cried the lady eagerly; she went to the window and called, “Jethro, Jethro!”

The person thus addressed, the old house-steward, appeared, and Dorothea began to discuss with him as to which of the inhabitants of the oasis might be disposed to let them have some able-bodied men, and whether it might not be possible to employ one or another of the house-slaves at the building.

All that she said was judicious and precise, and showed that she herself superintended her household in every detail, and was accustomed to command with complete freedom.

“That tall Anubis then is really indispensable in the stable?” she asked in conclusion.  The steward, who up to this moment had spoken shortly and intelligently, hesitated to answer; at the same time he looked up at Petrus, who, sunk in the contemplation of the plan, had his back to him; his glance, and a deprecating movement, expressed very clearly that he had something to tell, but feared to speak in the presence of his master.  Dame Dorothea was quick of comprehension, and she quite understood Jethro’s meaning; it was for that very reason that she said with more of surprise than displeasure:  “What does the man mean with his winks?  What I may hear, Petrus may hear too.”

The senator turned, and looked at the steward from head to foot with so dark a glance, that he drew back, and began to speak quickly.  But he was interrupted by the children’s clamors on the stairs and by Sirona, who brought Hermas to the senator, and said laughing:  “I found this great fellow on the stairs, he was seeking you.”

Petrus looked at the youth, not very kindly, and asked:  “Who are you? what is your business?” Hermas struggled in vain for speech; the presence of so many human beings, of whom three were women, filled him with the utmost confusion.  His fingers twisted the woolly curls on his sheep-skin, and his lips moved but gave no sound; at last he succeeded in stammering out, “I am the son of old Stephanus, who was wounded in the last raid of the Saracens.  My father has hardly slept these five nights, and now Paulus has sent me to you—­the pious Paulus of Alexandria—­but you know—­and so I—­”