arse
voice addressed him thus:

"You have taken my comrade's life, Roman, and a two-legged serpent has
stung you for it. In a quarter of an hour it will be all over with you,
as it is with that fellow there. Why does a fine gentleman like you go to
keep an appointment in the desert without boots or sandals, and so make
our work so easy? King Euergetes and your friend Eulaeus send you their
greetings. You owe it to them that I leave you even your ready money; I
wish I could only carry away that dead lump there!"

During this rough speech Serapion was lying on the ground in great agony;
he could only clench his fists, and groan out heavy curses with his lips
which were now getting parched. His sight was as yet undimmed, and he
could distinctly see by the light of the moon, which now shone forth from
a broad cloudless opening in the sky, that the murderer attempted to
carry away his fallen comrade, and then, after raising his head to listen
for a moment sprang off with flying steps away into the desert. But the
recluse now lost consciousness, and when some minutes later he once more
opened his eyes his head was resting softly in the lap of a young girl,
and it was the voice of his beloved Klea that asked him tenderly.

"You poor dear father! How came you here in the desert, and into the
hands of these murderers? Do you know me--your Klea? And he who is
looking for your wounds--which are not visible at all--he is the Roman
Publius Scipio. Now first tell us where the dagger hit you that I may
bind it up quickly--I am half a physician, and understand these things as
you know."

The recluse tried to turn his head towards Klea's, but the effort was in
vain, and he said in a low voice: "Prop me up against the slanting wall
of the tomb shrine yonder; and you, child, sit down opposite to me, for I
would fain look at you while I die. Gently, gently, my friend Publius,
for I feel as if all my limbs were made of Phoenician glass, and might
break at the least touch. Thank you, my young friend--you have strong
arms, and you may lift me a little higher yet. So--now I can bear it;
nay, I am well content, I am to be envied--for the moon shows me your
dear face, my child, and I see tears on your cheeks, tears for me, a
surly old man. Aye, it is good, it is very good to die thus."

"Oh, father, father!" cried Klea. "You must not speak so. You must live,
you must not die; for see, Publius here asks me to be his wife, and the
Immortals o