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 yo