“No, no,” cried Joanna.  “What can we think of but her and her fate?  Oh, Horapollo, I do not know you in this mood.  What has that poor soul done to you, persecuted as she is by the hardest fate—­that noble creature who is so dear to us all?  And do you forget that the judges who have sentenced her will now proceed to enquire what Rufinus, and we all of us. . .”

“What you had to do with that mad scheme of rescue?” interrupted Horapollo.  “I will make it my business to prevent that.  So long as this old brain is able to think, and this mouth to speak, not a hair of your heads shall be hurt.”

“We are grateful to you,” said Joanna.  “But, if you have such power, set to work—­you know how dear Paula is to us all, how highly your friend Philip esteems her—­use your power to save her.”

“I have no power, and refuse to have any,” retorted the old man harshly.”

“But Horapollo, Horapollo!—­Come here, children!—­We were to find in you a second father—­so you promised.  Then prove that those were no empty words, and be entreated by us.”

The old man drew a deep breath; he rose to his feet with such vigor as he could command, a bright, sharply-defined patch of color tinged each pale cheek, and he exclaimed in husky tones: 

“Not another word!  No attempt to move me, not a cry of lamentation!  Enough, and a thousand times too much, of that already.  You have heard me, and I now say again—­me or Paula, Paula or me.  Come what may in the future, if you cannot so far control yourselves as never to mention her in my presence, I—­no, I do not swear, but when I have said a thing I keep to it—­I will go back to my old den and drag out life the richer by a disappointment—­or die, as my ruling goddess shall please.”

With this he left the room, and little Mary raised her clenched right fist and shook it after him, exclaiming:  “Then let him go, hard-hearted, unjust, old scarecrow!  Oh, if only I were a man!” And she burst out crying aloud.  Heedless of the widow’s reproof, she went on quite beside herself:  “Oh, there is no one more wicked than he is, Dame Joanna!  He wants to see her die, he wishes her to be dead; I know it, he even wishes it!  Did you hear him, Pul, he would be glad if the messenger’s horse went lame before he could save her?  And now she is my Orion’s betrothed —­I always meant them for each other—­and they want to kill him, too, but they shall not, if there is still a God of justice in heaven!  Oh if I—­ if I. . .”  Her voice failed her, choked with sobs.  When she had somewhat recovered she implored Pulcheria and her mother to take her to see Paula, and as they shared her wish they prepared to start for the prison before it should grow dark.