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