t hit nothing but the ground. Then as his blows followed each other
more slowly, and at last his wearied arms could no longer wield the
heavy stake, and he found himself compelled to sink on his knees, a
hoarse voice addressed him thus:

"You have taken my comrade's life, Roman, and a two-legged serpent has
stung you for it. In a quarter of an hour it will be all over with you,
as it is with that fellow there. Why does a fine gentleman like you go
to keep an appointment in the desert without boots or sandals, and so
make our work so easy? King Euergetes and your friend Eulaeus send you
their greetings. You owe it to them that I leave you even your ready
money; I wish I could only carry away that dead lump there!"

During this rough speech Serapion was lying on the ground in great
agony; he could only clench his fists, and groan out heavy curses with
his lips which were now getting parched. His sight was as yet undimmed,
and he could distinctly see by the light of the moon, which now shone
forth from a broad cloudless opening in the sky, that the murderer
attempted to carry away his fallen comrade, and then, after raising his
head to listen for a moment sprang off with flying steps away into the
desert. But the recluse now lost consciousness, and when some minutes
later he once more opened his eyes his head was resting softly in the
lap of a young girl, and it was the voice of his beloved Klea that asked
him tenderly.

"You poor dear father! How came you here in the desert, and into the
hands of these murderers? Do you know me--your Klea? And he who is
looking for your wounds--which are not visible at all--he is the Roman
Publius Scipio. Now first tell us where the dagger hit you that I may
bind it up quickly--I am half a physician, and understand these things
as you know."

The recluse tried to turn his head towards Klea's, but the effort was in
vain, and he said in a low voice: "Prop me up against the slanting wall
of the tomb shrine yonder; and you, child, sit down opposite to me, for
I would fain look at you while I die. Gently, gently, my friend Publius,
for I feel as if all my limbs were made of Phoenician glass, and might
break at the least touch. Thank you, my young friend--you have strong
arms, and you may lift me a little higher yet. So--now I can bear it;
nay, I am well content, I am to be envied--for the moon shows me your
dear face, my child, and I see tears on your cheeks, tears for me, a
surly old man.