Hermas of his father
and of his future, until it was light, and the young man prepared to go
down to the oasis to pay the last honors to the dead. To his entreaty
that he would accompany him, Paulus only answered:

"No--no; not now, not now; for if I were to mix with men now I should
fly asunder like a rotten wineskin full of fermenting wine; a swarm of
bees is buzzing in my head, and an ant-hill is growing in my bosom. Go
now and leave me alone."

After the funeral ceremony Hermas took an affectionate leave of
Agapitus, Petrus, and Dorothea, and then returned to the Alexandrian,
with whom he went to the cave where he had so long lived with his dead
father.

There Paulus delivered to him his father's letter to his uncle, and
spoke to him more lovingly than he had ever done before. At night they
both lay down on their beds, but neither of them found rest or sleep.

From time to time Paulus murmured in a low voice, but in tones of keen
anguish, "In vain--all in vain--" and again, "I seek, I seek--but who
can show me the way?"

They both rose before daybreak; Hermas went once more down to the well,
knelt down near it, and felt as though he were bidding farewell to his
father and Miriam.

Memories of every kind rose up in his soul, and so mighty is the
glorifying power of love that the miserable, brown-skinned shepherdess
Miriam seemed to him a thousand-fold more beautiful than that splendid
woman who filled the soul of a great artist with delight.

Shortly after sunrise Paulus conducted him to the fishing-port, and to
the Israelite friend who managed the business of his father's house; he
caused him to be bountifully supplied with gold and accompanied him to
the ship laden with charcoal, that was to convey hire to Klysma.

The parting was very painful to him, and when Hermas saw his eyes full
of tears and felt his hands tremble, he said, "Do not be troubled about
me, Paulus; we shall meet again, and I will never forget you and my
father."

"And your mother," added the anchorite. "I shall miss you sorely, but
trouble is the very thing I look for. He who succeeds in making the
sorrows of the whole world his own--he whose soul is touched by a
sorrow at every breath he draws--he indeed must long for the call of the
Redeemer."

Hermas fell weeping on his neck and started to feel how burning the
anchorite's lips were as he pressed them to his forehead.

At last the sailors drew in the ropes; Paulus turned once more