The fight was ended; the sun as it went to its rest behind the Holy
Mountain had lighted many corpses of Blemmyes, and now the stars shone
down on the oasis from the clear sky.
Hymns of praise sounded out of the church, and near it, under the hill
against which it was built, torches were blazing and threw their ruddy
light on a row of biers, on which under green palm-branches lay the
heroes who had fallen in the battle against the Blemmyes. Now the
hymn ceased, the gates of the house of God opened and Agapitus led his
followers towards the dead. The congregation gathered in a half-circle
round their peaceful brethren, and heard the blessing that their pastor
pronounced over the noble victims who had shed their blood in fighting
the heathen. When it was ended those who in life had been their nearest
and dearest went up to the dead, and many tears fell into the sand from
the eye of a mother or a wife, many a sigh went up to heaven from a
father’s breast. Next to the bier, on which old Stephanus was resting,
stood another and a smaller one, and between the two Hermas knelt and
wept. He raised his face, for a deep and kindly voice spoke his name.
“Petrus,” said the lad, clasping the hand that the senator held out
to him, “I felt forced and driven out into the world, and away from my
father--and now he is gone for ever how gladly I would have been kept by
him.”
“He died a noble death, in battle for those he loved,” said the senator
consolingly,
“Paulus was near him when he fell,” replied Hermas. “My father fell
from the wall while defending the tower; but look here this girl--poor
child--who used to keep your goats, died like a heroine. Poor, wild
Miriam, how kind I would be to you if only you were alive now!”
Hermas as he spoke stroked the arm of the shepherdess, pressed a kiss
on her small, cold hand, and softly folded it with the other across her
bosom.
“How did the girl get into the battle with the men?” asked Petrus. “But
you can tell me that in my own house. Come and be our guest as long as
it pleases you, and until you go forth into the world; thanks are due to
you from us all.”
Hermas blushed and modestly declined the praises which were showered
on him on all sides as the savior of the oasis. When the wailing women
appeared he knelt once more at the head of his father’s bier, cast a
last loving look at Miriam’s peaceful face, and then followed his host.
The man and boy crossed the court together. Hermas involuntarily glanced
up at the window where more than once he had seen Sirona, and said, as
he pointed to the centurion’s house, “He too fell.”
Petrus nodded and opened the door of his house. In the hall, which was
lighted up, Dorothea came hastily to meet him, asking, “No news yet of
Polykarp?”
Her husband shook his head, and she added, “How indeed is it possible?
He will write at the soonest from Klysma or perhaps even from
Alexandria.”
“That is just what I think,” replied Petrus, looking down to the ground.
Then he turned to Hermas and introduced him to his wife.
Dorothea received the young man with warm sympathy; she had heard
that his father had fallen in the fight, and how nobly he too had
distinguished himself. Supper was ready, and Hermas was invited to share
it. The mistress gave her daughter a sign to make preparations for
their guest, but Petrus detained Marthana, and said, “Hermas may fill
Antonius’ place; he has still something to do with some of the workmen.
Where are Jethro and the house-slaves?”
“They have already eaten,” said Dorothea.
The husband and wife looked at each other, and Petrus said with a
melancholy smile, “I believe they are up on the mountain.”
Dorothea wiped a tear from her eye as she replied, “They will meet
Antonius there. If only they could find Polykarp! And yet I honestly
say--not merely to comfort you--it is most probable that he has not met
with any accident in the mountain gorges, but has gone to Alexandria to
escape the memories that follow him here at every step--Was not that the
gate?”
She rose quickly and looked into the court, while Petrus, who had
followed her, did the same, saying with a deep sigh, as he turned to
Marthana--who, while she offered meat and bread to Hermas was watching
her parents--“It was only the slave Anubis.”
For some time a painful silence reigned round the large table, to-day so
sparely furnished with guests.
At last Petrus turned to his guest and said, “You were to tell me how
the shepherdess Miriam lost her life in the struggle. She had run away
from our house--”
“Up the mountain,” added Hermas. “She supplied my poor father with water
like a daughter.”
“You see, mother,” interrupted Marthana, “she was not bad-hearted--I
always said so.”
“This morning,” continued Hermas, nodding in sad assent to the maiden,
“she followed my father to the castle, and immediately after his fall,
Paulus told me, she rushed away from it, but only to seek me and to
bring me the sad news. We had known each other a long time, for years
she had watered her goats at our well, and while I was still quite a boy
and she a little girl, she would listen for hours when I played on my
willow pipe the songs which Paulus had taught me. As long as I played
she was perfectly quiet, and when I ceased she wanted to hear more and
still more, until I had too much of it and went away. Then she would
grow angry, and if I would not do her will she would scold me with bad
words. But she always came again, and as I had no other companion
and she was the only creature who cared to listen to me, I was very
well-content that she should prefer our well to all the others. Then we
grew order and I began to be afraid of her, for she would talk in such a
godless way--and she even died a heathen. Paulus, who once overheard us,
warned me against her, and as I had long thrown away the pipe and hunted
beasts with my bow and arrow whenever my father would let me, I was with
her for shorter intervals when I went to the well to draw water, and we
became more and more strangers; indeed, I could be quite hard to her.
Only once after I came back from the capital something happened--but
that I need not tell you. The poor child was so unhappy at being a slave
and no doubt had first seen the light in a free-house.
“She was fond of me, more than a sister is of a brother--and when my
father was dead she felt that I ought not to learn the news from any one
but herself. She had seen which way I had gone with the Pharanites and
followed me up, and she soon found me, for she had the eyes of a gazelle
and the ears of a startled bird. It was not this time difficult to find
me, for when she sought me we were fighting with the Blemmyes in the
green hollow that leads from the mountain to the sea. They roared with
fury like wild beasts, for before we could get to the sea the fishermen
in the little town below had discovered their boats, which they had
hidden under sand and stones, and had carried them off to their harbor.
The boy from Raithu who accompanied me, had by my orders kept them in
sight, and had led the fishermen to the hiding-place. The watchmen whom
they had left with the boats had fled, and had reached their companions
who were fighting round the castle; and at least two hundred of them had
been sent back to the shore to recover possession of the boats and to
punish the fishermen. This troop met us in the green valley, and there
we fell to fighting.
“The Blemmyes outnumbered us; they soon surrounded us before and behind,
on the right side and on the left, for they jumped and climbed from rock
to rock like mountain goats and then shot down their reed-arrows from
above. Three or four touched me, and one pierced my hair and remained
hanging in it with the feather at the end of the shaft.
“How the battle went elsewhere I cannot tell you, for the blood mounted
to my head, and I was only conscious that I myself snorted and shouted
like a madman and wrestled with the heathen now here and now there, and
more than once lifted my axe to cleave a skull. At the same time I saw a
part of our men turn to fly, and I called them back with furious words;
then they turned round and followed me again.
“Once, in the midst of the struggle, I saw Miriam too, clinging pale
and trembling to a rock and looking on at the fight. I shouted to her to
leave the spot, and go back to my father, but she stood still and shook
her head with a gesture--a gesture so full of pity and anguish--I shall
never forget it. With hands and eyes she signed to me that my father
was dead, and I understood; at least I understood that some dreadful
misfortune had happened. I had no time for reflection, for before I
could gain any certain information by word of mouth, a captain of the
heathen had seized me, and we came to a life and death struggle before
Miriam’s very eyes. My opponent was strong, but I showed the girl--who
had often taunted me for being a weakling because I obeyed my father in
everything--that I need yield to no one. I could not have borne to be
vanquished before her and I flung the heathen to the ground and slew him
with my axe. I was only vaguely conscious of her presence, for during
my severe struggle I could see nothing but my adversary. But suddenly I
heard a loud scream, and Miriam sank bleeding close before me. While I
was kneeling over his comrade one of the Blemmyes had crept up to
me, and had flung his lance at me from a few paces off. But
Miriam--Miriam--”
“She saved you at the cost of her own life,” said Petrus completing the
lad’s sentence, for at the recollection of the occurrence his voice had
failed and his eyes overflowed with tears.
Hermas nodded assent, and then added softly: “She threw up her arms
and called my name as the spear struck her. The eldest son of Obedianus
punished the heathen that had done it, and I supported her as she fell
dying and took her curly head on my knees and spoke her name; she
opened her eyes once more, and spoke mine softly and with indescribable
tenderness. I had never thought that wild Miriam could speak so sweetly,
I was overcome with terrible grief, and kissed her eyes and her lips.
She looked at me once more with a long, wide-open, blissful gaze, and
then she was dead.”
“She was a heathen,” said Dorothea, drying her eyes, “but for such a
death the Lord will forgive her much.”
“I loved her dearly,” said Marthana, “and will lay my sweetest flowers
on her grave. May I cut some sprays from your blooming myrtle for a
wreath?”
“To-morrow, to-morrow, my child,” replied Dorothea. “Now go to rest; it
is already very late.”
“Only let me stay till Antonius and Jethro come back,” begged the girl.
“I would willingly help you to find your son,” said Hermas, “and if you
wish I will go to Raithu and Klysma, and enquire among the fishermen.
Had the centurion--” and as he spoke the young soldier looked down in
some embarrassment, “had the centurion found his fugitive wife of whom
he was in pursuit with Talib, the Amalekite, before he died?”
“Sirona has not yet reappeared,” replied Petrus, “and perhaps--but just
now you mentioned the name of Paulus, who was so dear to you and
your father. Do you know that it was he who so shamelessly ruined the
domestic peace of the centurion?”
“Paulus!” cried Hermas. “How can you believe it?”
“Phoebicius found his sheepskin in his wife’s room,” replied Petrus
gravely. “And the impudent Alexandrian recognized it as his own before
us all and allowed the Gaul to punish him. He committed the disgraceful
deed the very evening that you were sent off to gain intelligence.”
“And Phoebicius flogged him?” cried Hermas beside himself. “And the poor
fellow bore this disgrace and your blame, and all--all for my sake. Now
I understand what he meant! I met him after the battle and he told me
that my father was dead. When he parted from me, he said he was of all
sinners the greatest, and that I should hear it said down in the oasis.
But I know better; he is great-hearted and good, and I will not bear
that he should be disgraced and slandered for my sake.” Hermas had
sprung up with these words, and as he met the astonished gaze of his
hosts, he tried to collect himself, and said:
“Paulus never even saw Sirona, and I repeat it, if there is a man who
may boast of being good and pure and quite without sin, it is he. For
me, and to save me from punishment and my father from sorrow, he owned
a sin that he never committed. Such a deed is just like him--the
brave--faithful friend! But such shameful suspicion and disgrace shall
not weigh upon him a moment longer!”
“You are speaking to an older man,” said Petrus angrily interrupting the
youth’s vehement speech. “Your friend acknowledged with his own lips--”
“Then he told a lie out of pure goodness,” Hermas insisted. “The
sheepskin that the Gaul found was mine. I had gone to Sirona, while her
husband was sacrificing to Mithras, to fetch some wine for my father,
and she allowed me to try on the centurion’s armor; when he unexpectedly
returned I leaped out into the street and forgot that luckless
sheepskin. Paulus met me as I fled, and said he would set it all right,
and sent me away--to take my place and save my father a great trouble.
Look at me as severely as you will, Dorothea, but it was only in
thoughtless folly that I slipped into the Gaul’s house that evening,
and by the memory of my father--of whom heaven has this day bereft me--I
swear that Sirona only amused herself with me as with a boy, a child,
and even refused to let me kiss her beautiful golden hair. As surely as
I hope to become a warrior, and as surely as my father’s spirit hears
what I say, the guilt that Paulus took upon himself was never committed
at all, and when you condemned Sirona you did an injustice, for she
never broke her faith to her husband for me, nor still less for Paulus.”
Petrus and Dorothea exchanged a meaning glance, and Dorothea said:
“Why have we to learn all this from the lips of a stranger? It sounds
very extraordinary, and yet how simple! Aye, husband, it would have
become us better to guess something of this than to doubt Sirona. From
the first it certainly seemed to me impossible that that handsome woman,
for whom quite different people had troubled themselves should err for
this queer beggar--”
“What cruel injustice has fallen on the poor man!” cried Petrus. “If he
had boasted of some noble deed, we should indeed have been less ready to
give him credence.”
“We are suffering heavy punishment,” sighed Dorothea, “and my heart is
bleeding. Why did you not come to us, Hermas, if you wanted wine? How
much suffering would have been spared if you had!”
The lad looked down, and was silent; but soon he recollected himself,
and said eagerly:
“Let me go and seek the hapless Paulus; I return you thanks for your
kindness but I cannot bear to stay here any longer. I must go back to
the mountain.”
The senator and his wife did not detain him, and when the court-yard
gate had closed upon him a great stillness reigned in Petrus’
sitting-room. Dorothea leaned far back in her seat and sat looking in
her lap while the tears rolled over her cheeks; Marthana held her hand
and stroked it, and the senator stepped to the window and sighed deeply
as he looked down into the dark court. Sorrow lay on all their hearts
like a heavy leaden burden. All was still in the spacious room, only now
and then a loud, long-drawn cry of the wailing women rang through the
quiet night and reached them through the open window; it was a heavy
hour, rich in vain, but silent self-accusation, in anxiety, and short
prayers; poor in hope or consolation.
Presently Petrus heaved a deep sigh, and Dorothea rose to go up to him
and to say to him some sincere word of affection; but just then the
dogs in the yard barked, and the agonized father said softly--in deep
dejection, and prepared for the worst:
“Most likely it is they.”
The deaconess pressed his hand in hers, but drew back when a light tap
was heard at the court-yard gate. “It is not Jethro and Antonius.” said
Petrus, “they have a key.”
Marthana had gone up to him, and she clung to him as he leaned far out
of the window and called to whoever it was that had tapped:
“Who is that knocking?”
The dogs barked so loud that neither the senator nor the women were able
to hear the answer which seemed to be returned.
“Listen to Argus,” said Dorothea, “he never howls like that, but when
you come home or one of us, or when he is pleased.”
Petrus laid his finger on his lips and sounded a clear, shrill whistle,
and as the dogs, obedient to this signal, were silent, he once more
called out, “Whoever you may be, say plainly who you are, that I may
open the gate.”
They were kept waiting some few minutes for the answer, and the senator
was on the point of repeating his enquiry, when a gentle voice timidly
came from the gate to the window, saying, “It is I, Petrus, the fugitive
Sirona.” Hardly had the words tremulously pierced the silence, when
Marthana broke from her father, whose hand was resting on her shoulder,
and flew out of the door, down the steps and out to the gate.
“Sirona; poor, dear Sirona,” cried the girl as she pushed back the bolt;
as soon as she had opened the door and Sirona had entered the court, she
threw herself on her neck, and kissed and stroked her as if she were her
long lost sister found again; then, without allowing her to speak, she
seized her hand and drew her--in spite of the slight resistance she
offered--with many affectionate exclamations up the steps and into the
sitting-room. Petrus and Dorothea met her on the threshold, and the
latter pressed her to her heart, kissed her forehead and said, “Poor
woman; we know now that we have done you an injustice, and will try to
make it good.” The senator too went up to her, took her hand and added
his greetings to those of his wife, for he knew not whether she had as
yet heard of her husband’s end.
Sirona could not find a word in reply. She had expected to be expelled
as a castaway when she came down the mountain, losing her way in the
darkness. Her sandals were cut by the sharp rocks, and hung in strips to
her bleeding feet, her beautiful hair was tumbled by the night-wind, and
her white robe looked like a ragged beggar’s garment, for she had torn
it to make bandages for Polykarp’s wound.
Some hours had already passed since she had left her patient--her heart
full of dread for him and of anxiety as to the hard reception she might
meet with from his parents.
How her hand shook with fear of Petrus and Dorothea as she raised the
brazen knocker of the senator’s door, and now--a father, a mother, a
sister opened their arms to her, and an affectionate home smiled upon
her. Her heart and soul overflowed with boundless emotion and unlimited
thankfulness, and weeping loudly, she pressed her clasped hands to her
breast.
But she spared only a few moments for the enjoyment of these feelings of
delight, for there was no happiness for her without Polykarp, and it
was for his sake that she had undertaken this perilous night-journey.
Marthana had tenderly approached her, but she gently put her aside,
saying, “Not just now, dear girl. I have already wasted an hour, for
I lost my way in the ravines. Get ready Petrus to come back to the
mountain with me at once, for--but do not be startled Dorothea, Paulus
says that the worst danger is over, and if Polykarp--”
“For God’s sake, do you know where he is?” cried Dorothea, and her
cheeks crimsoned while Petrus turned pale, and, interrupting her, asked
in breathless anxiety, “Where is Polykarp, and what has happened to
him?”
“Prepare yourself to hear bad news,” said Sirona, looking at the pair
with mournful anxiety as if to crave their pardon for the evil tidings
she was obliged to bring. “Polykarp had a fall on a sharp stone and so
wounded his head. Paulus brought him to me this morning before he set
out against the Blemmyes, that I might nurse him. I have incessantly
cooled his wound, and towards mid-day he opened his eyes and knew me
again, and said you would be anxious about him. After sundown he went to
sleep, but he is not wholly free from fever, and as soon as Paulus
came in I set out to quiet your anxiety and to entreat you to give me a
cooling potion, that I may return to him with it at once.” The deepest
sorrow sounded in Sirona’s accents as she told her story, and tears
had started to her eyes as she related to the parents what had befallen
their son. Petrus and Dorothea listened as to a singer, who, dressed
indeed in robes of mourning, nevertheless sings a lay of return and hope
to a harp wreathed with flowers.
“Quick, quick, Marthana,” cried Dorothea eagerly and with sparkling
eyes, before Sirona had ended. “Quick, the basket with the bandages. I
will mix the fever-draught myself.” Petrus went up to the Gaulish woman.
“It is really no worse than you represent?” he asked in a low voice. “He
is alive? and Paulus--”
“Paulus says,” interrupted Sirona, “that with good nursing the sick man
will be well in a few weeks.”
“And you can lead me to him?”
“Oh, alas! alas!” Sirona cried, striking her hand against her forehead.
“I shall never succeed in finding my way back, for I noticed no
way-marks! But stay--Before us a penitent from Memphis, who has been
dead a few weeks--”
“Old Serapion?” asked Petrus.
“That was his name,” exclaimed Sirona. “Do you know his cave?”
“How should I?” replied Petrus. “But perhaps Agapitus--”
“The spring where I got the water to cool Polykarp’s wound, Paulus calls
the partridge’s-spring.”
“The partridge’s-spring,” repeated the senator, “I know that.” With a
deep sigh he took his staff, and called to Dorothea, “Do you prepare the
draught, the bandages, torches, and your good litter, while I knock at
our neighbor Magadon’s door, and ask him to lend us slaves.”
“Let me go with you,” said Marthana. “No, no; you stay here with your
mother.”
“And do you think that I can wait here?” asked Dorothea. “I am going
with you.”
“There is much here for you to do,” replied Petrus evasively, “and we
must climb the hill quickly.”
“I should certainly delay you,” sighed the mother, “but take the girl
with you; she has a light and lucky hand.”
“If you think it best,” said the senator, and he left the room.
While the mother and daughter prepared everything for the
night-expedition, and came and went, they found time to put many
questions and say many affectionate words to Sirona. Marthana, even
without interrupting her work, set food and drink for the weary woman on
the table by which she had sunk on a seat; but she hardly moistened her
lips.
When the young girl showed her the basket that she had filled with
medicine and linen bandages, with wine and pure water, Sirona said, “Now
lend me a pair of your strongest sandals, for mine are all torn, and I
cannot follow the men without shoes, for the stones are sharp, and cut
into the flesh.”
Marthana now perceived for the first time the blood on her friend’s
feet, she quickly took the lamp from the table and placed it on the
pavement, exclaiming, as she knelt down in front of Sirona and took her
slender white feet in her hand to look at the wounds on the soles, “Good
heavens! here are three deep cuts!”
In a moment she had a basin at hand, and was carefully bathing the
wounds in Sirona’s feet; while she was wrapping the injured foot in
strips of linen Dorothea came up to them.
“I would,” she said, “that Polykarp were only here now, this roll would
suffice to bind you both.” A faint flush overspread Sirona’s cheeks,
but Dorothea was suddenly conscious of what she had said, and Marthana
gently pressed her friend’s hand.
When the bandage was securely fixed, Sirona attempted to walk, but
she succeeded so badly that Petrus, who now came back with his friend
Magadon and his sons, and several slaves, found it necessary to strictly
forbid her to accompany them. He felt sure of finding his son without
her, for one of Magadon’s people had often carried bread and oil to old
Serapion and knew his cave.
Before the senator and his daughter left the room he whispered a few
words to his wife, and together they went up to Sirona.
“Do you know,” he asked, “what has happened to your husband?”
Sirona nodded. “I heard it from Paulus,” she answered. “Now I am quite
alone in the world.”
“Not so,” replied Petrus. “You will find shelter and love under our roof
as if it were your father’s, so long as it suits you to stay with us.
You need not thank us--we are deeply in your debt. Farewell till we meet
again wife. I would Polykarp were safe here, and that you had seen his
wound. Come, Marthana, the minutes are precious.”
When Dorothea and Sirona were alone, the deaconess said, “Now I will go
and make up a bed for you, for you must be very tired.”
“No, no!” begged Sirona. “I will wait and watch with you, for I
certainly could not sleep till I know how it is with him.” She spoke so
warmly and eagerly that the deaconess gratefully offered her hand to her
young friend. Then she said, “I will leave you alone for a few minutes,
for my heart is so full of anxiety that I must needs go and pray for
help for him, and for courage and strength for myself.”
“Take me with you,” entreated Sirona in a low tone. “In my need I opened
my heart to your good and loving God, and I will never more pray to any
other. The mere thought of Him strengthened and comforted me, and now,
if ever, in this hour I need His merciful support.”
“My child, my daughter!” cried the deaconess, deeply moved; she bent
over Sirona, kissed her forehead and her lips, and led her by the hand
into her quiet sleeping-room.
“This is the place where I most love to pray,” she said, “although there
is here no image and no altar. My God is everywhere present and in every
place I can find Him.”
The two women knelt down side by side, and both besought the same God
for the same mercies--not for themselves, but for another; and both
in their sorrow could give thanks--Sirona, because in Dorothea she had
found a mother, and Dorothea, because in Sirona she had found a dear and
loving daughter.