“What news do you bring?” asked the senator, turning half to the messenger and half to the centurion.  “My lord Polykarp, your son,” replied the Amalekite—­a dark brown man of ripe years with supple limbs, and a sharp tongue—­“sends his greetings to you and to the mistress, and would have you to know that before mid-day he will arrive at home with eight workmen, whom he has engaged in Raithu.  Dame Dorothea must be good enough to make ready for them all and to prepare a meal.”

“When did you part from my son?” inquired Petrus.

“Two hours before sundown.”

Petrus heaved a sigh of relief, for he had not till now been perfectly convinced of his son’s innocence; but, far from triumphing or making Phoebicius feel the injustice he had done him, he said kindly—­for he felt some sympathy with the Gaul in his misfortune: 

“I wish the messenger could also give some news of your wife’s retreat; she found it hard to accommodate herself to the dull life here in the oasis, perhaps she has only disappeared in order to seek a town which may offer more variety to such a beautiful young creature than this quiet spot in the desert.”

Phoebicius waved his hand with a negative movement, implying that he knew better, and said, “I will show you what your nice night-bird left in my nest.  It may be that you can tell me to whom it belongs.”

Just as he hastily stepped across the court-yard to his own dwelling Paulus entered by the now open gate; he greeted the senator and his family, and offered Petrus the key of the church.

The sun meanwhile had risen, and the Alexandrian blushed to show himself in Dame Dorothea’s presence in his short and ragged under-garment, which was quite inefficient to cover the still athletic mould of his limbs.  Petrus had heard nothing but good of Paulus, and yet he measured him now with no friendly eye, for all that wore the aspect of extravagance repelled his temperate and methodical nature.  Paulus was made conscious of what was passing in the senator’s mind when, without vouchsafing a single word, he took the key from his hand.  It was not a matter of indifference to him, that this man should think ill of him, and he said, with some embarrassment: 

“We do not usually go among people without a sheepskin, but I have lost mine.”

Hardly had he uttered the words, when Phoebicius came back with Hermas’ sheepskin in his hand, and cried out to Petrus: 

“This I found on my return home, in our sleeping-room.”

“And when have you ever seen Polykarp in such a mantle?” asked Dorothea.

“When the gods visit the daughters of men,” replied the centurion, “they have always made choice of strange disguises.  Why should not a perfumed Alexandrian gentleman transform himself for once into one of those rough fools on the mountain?  However, even old Homer sometimes nodded—­and I confess that I was in error with regard to your son.  I meant no offence, senator!  You have lived here longer than I; who can have made me a present of this skin, which still seems to be pretty new—­horns and all.”