ed Hermas, "it were not better that you, my lord
centurion, should not go so far from the oasis. For over there they say
that the Blemmyes are gathering, and I myself am going across as a spy
so soon as it is dark."

Phoebicius looked down gloomily considering the matter. The news had
reached him too that the sons of the desert were preparing for a new
incursion, and he cried to Talib angrily but decidedly, as he turned
his back upon Hermas, "You must ride alone to Klysma, and try to capture
her. I cannot and will not neglect my duty for the sake of the wretched
woman."

Hermas looked after him as he went away, and laughed out loud when he
saw him disappear into his inn. He hired a boat from the old man for his
passage across the sea for one of the gold pieces given him by Paulus,
and lying down on the nets he refreshed him self by a deep sleep of some
hours' duration. When the moon rose he was roused in obedience to his
orders, and helped the boy who accompanied him, and who understood the
management of the sails and rudder, to push the boat, which was laid up
on the sand, down into the sea. Soon he was flying over the smooth and
glistening waters before a light wind, and he felt as fresh and strong
in spirit as a young eagle that has just left the nest, and spreads its
mighty wings for the first time. He could have shouted in his new and
delicious sense of freedom, and the boy at the stern shook his head in
astonishment when he saw Hermas wield the oars he had entrusted to him,
unskilfully it is true, but with mighty strokes.

"The wind is in our favor," he called out to the anchorite as he hauled
round the sail with the rope in his hand, "we shall get on without your
working so hard. You may save your strength."

"There is plenty of it, and I need not be stingy of it," answered
Hermas, and he bent forward for another powerful stroke.

About half-way he took a rest, and admired the reflection of the moon
in the bright mirror of the water, and he could not but think of Petrus'
court-yard that had shone in the same silvery light when he had climbed
up to Sirona's window. The image of the fair, whitearmed woman recurred
to his mind, and a melancholy longing began to creep over him.

He sighed softly, again and yet again; but as his breast heaved for
the third bitter sigh, he remembered the object of his journey and his
broken fetters, and with eager arrogance he struck the oar flat on to
the water so that it spurte