Near the watch-tower at the edge of the defile, a party of anchorites were piling some stones together.  They had already heard of the bishop’s sentence on Paulus, the sinner, and they gave him no greeting.  He observed it and was silent, but when they could no longer see him he laughed to himself and muttered, while he rubbed a weal that the centurion’s whip had left upon his back, “If they think that a Gaul’s cudgel has a pleasant flavor they are mistaken, however I would not exchange it for a skin of Anthyllan wine; and if they could only know that at least one of the stripes which torments me is due to each one of themselves, they would be surprised!  But away with pride!  How they spat on Thee, Jesus my Lord, and who am I, and how mildly have they dealt with me, when I for once have taken on my back another’s stripes.  Not a drop of blood was drawn!  I wish the old man had hit harder!”

He walked cheerfully forward, and his mind recurred to the centurion’s speech that he could if he list, “tread him down like a worm,” and he laughed again softly, for he was quite aware that he was ten times as strong as Phoebicius, and formerly he had overthrown the braggart Arkesilaos of Kyrene and his cousin, the tall Xenophanes, both at once in the sand of the Palaestra.  Then he thought of Hermas, of his sweet dead mother, and of his father, and—­which was the most comforting thought of all—­of how he had spared the old man this bitter sorrow.

On his path there grew a little plant with a reddish blossom.  In years he had never looked at a flower or, at any rate, had never wished to possess one; to-day he stooped down over the blossom that graced the rock, meaning to pluck it.  But he did not carry out his intention, for before he had laid his hand upon it, he reflected: 

“To whom could I offer it?  And perhaps the flowers themselves rejoice in the light, and in the silent life that is in their roots.  How tightly it clings to the rock.  Farther away from the road flowers of even greater beauty blow, seen by no mortal eye; they deck themselves in beauty for no one but for their Creator, and because they rejoice in themselves.  I too will withdraw from the highways of mankind; let them accuse me!  So long as I live at peace with myself and my God I ask nothing of any one.  He that abases himself—­aye, he that abases himself!—­My hour too shall come, and above and beyond this life I shall see them all once more; Petrus and Dorothea, Agapitus and the brethren who now refuse to receive me, and then, when my Saviour himself beckons me to Him, they will see me as I am, and hasten to me and greet me with double kindness.”

He looked up, proud and rejoicing as he thought thus, and painted to himself the joys of Paradise, to which this day he had earned an assured claim.  He never took longer and swifter steps than when his mind was occupied with such meditations, and when he reached Stephanus’ cave he thought the way from the oasis to the heights had been shorter than usual.