“I only wish I could,” sighed Philippus.  “You have seen rightly, wonderfully rightly—­and yet, as wrongly as possible.”

“Dark indeed!” said the old man quietly.  “But I can see even in the dark.  The facts are certain, though you are still so blinded as not to see their first cause.  However, I am satisfied to know that your delusion has come to so abrupt, and in my opinion so happy, an end.  To its cause—­a woman, as usual—­I am perfectly indifferent.  Why should I needlessly ascribe to her any worse sin than she had committed?  If only for your sake I will avoid doing so, for an honorable soul clings to those whom it sees maligned.  Still, it seems to me that it is for you to speak, not for me.  I should know you for a philosopher, without such persistent silence; and as for myself, I am not altogether bereft of curiosity, in spite of my eighty years.”

At this Philippus hastily rose and pacing the room while he spoke, or pausing occasionally in front of the old man, he poured out with glowing cheeks and eager gestures, the history of his hopes and sufferings—­how Paula had filled him with fresh confidence, and had invited him to her rooms—­only to show him her whole heart; she had been strongly moved, surprised at herself, but unable and unwilling to conceal from him the happiness that had come into her life.  She had spoken to him, her best friend, as a burthened soul pours itself out to a priest:  had confessed all that she had felt since the funeral of the deceased Mukaukas, and said that she felt convinced now that Orion had come to a right mind again after his great sin.

“And that there, was so much joy over him in heaven,” interrupted Horapollo, “that she really could not delay doing her cast-off lover the honor of inviting his sympathy!”

“On the contrary.  It was with the utmost effort that she uttered all her heart prompted her to tell; she had nothing to look for from me but mockery, warning, and reproach, and yet she opened her heart to me.”

“But why?  To what end?” shrieked the old man.  “Shall I tell you.  Because a man who is a friend must still be half a lover, and a woman cannot bear to give up even a quarter of one.”

“Not so!” exclaimed Philippus, indignantly interrupting him.  “It was because she esteems and values me,—­because she regards me as a brother, and—­I am not a vain man—­and could not bear—­those were her very words—­to cheat me of my affection for even an hour!  It was noble, it was generous, worthy of her!  And though every fibre of my nature rebelled I found myself compelled to admire her sincerity, her true friendship, her disregard of her own feelings, and her womanly tenderness!—­Nay, do not interrupt me again, do not laugh at me.  It is no small matter for a proud girl, conscious of her own dignity, to lay bare her heart’s weakness to a man who, as she knows, loves her, as she did just now to me.  She called me her benefactor and said she would be a sister to me; and whatever motive you—­who hate her out of a habit of prejudice without really knowing her—­may choose to ascribe her conduct to, I—­I believe in her, and understand her.