"When did you part from my son?" inquired Petrus.

"Two hours before sundown."

Petrus heaved a sigh of relief, for he had not till now been perfectly
convinced of his son's innocence; but, far from triumphing or making
Phoebicius feel the injustice he had done him, he said kindly--for he
felt some sympathy with the Gaul in his misfortune:

"I wish the messenger could also give some news of your wife's retreat;
she found it hard to accommodate herself to the dull life here in the
oasis, perhaps she has only disappeared in order to seek a town which
may offer more variety to such a beautiful young creature than this
quiet spot in the desert."

Phoebicius waved his hand with a negative movement, implying that he
knew better, and said, "I will show you what your nice night-bird left
in my nest. It may be that you can tell me to whom it belongs."

Just as he hastily stepped across the court-yard to his own dwelling
Paulus entered by the now open gate; he greeted the senator and his
family, and offered Petrus the key of the church.

The sun meanwhile had risen, and the Alexandrian blushed to show himself
in Dame Dorothea's presence in his short and ragged under-garment, which
was quite inefficient to cover the still athletic mould of his limbs.
Petrus had heard nothing but good of Paulus, and yet he measured him
now with no friendly eye, for all that wore the aspect of extravagance
repelled his temperate and methodical nature. Paulus was made conscious
of what was passing in the senator's mind when, without vouchsafing
a single word, he took the key from his hand. It was not a matter of
indifference to him, that this man should think ill of him, and he said,
with some embarrassment:

"We do not usually go among people without a sheepskin, but I have lost
mine."

Hardly had he uttered the words, when Phoebicius came back with Hermas'
sheepskin in his hand, and cried out to Petrus:

"This I found on my return home, in our sleeping-room."

"And when have you ever seen Polykarp in such a mantle?" asked Dorothea.

"When the gods visit the daughters of men," replied the centurion, "they
have always made choice of strange disguises. Why should not a perfumed
Alexandrian gentleman transform himself for once into one of those rough
fools on the mountain? However, even old Homer sometimes nodded--and I
confess that I was in error with regard to your son. I meant no offence,
senator! You have lived here longer than I; wh