elf
brought the old man--who had often followed me about--into his house, but
our hostess, a good woman, had overheard the matter, and betrayed it all
to me. It is so base, so vile--it seems to blacken my soul only to think
of it! The legate got little enough in return for his sesterces, but
Phoebicius did not restore his wages of sin, and his rage against me knew
no bounds when he was transferred to the oasis at the instigation of his
betrayed chief. Now you know all, and never advise me again to return to
that man to whom my misfortune has bound me.

"Only listen how the poor little beast in there is whining. It wants to
come to me, and has not the strength to move."

Paulus looked after her sympathetically as she disappeared under the
opening in the rock, and he awaited her return with folded arms. He could
not see into the cave, for the space in which the bed stood was closed at
the end by the narrow passage which formed the entrance, and which joined
it at an angle as the handle of a scythe joins the blade. She remained a
long time, and he could hear now and then a tender word with which she
tried to comfort the suffering creature. Suddenly he was startled by a
loud and bitter cry from Sirona; no doubt, the poor woman's affectionate
little companion was dead, and in the dim twilight of the cave she had
seen its dulled eye, and felt the stiffness of death overspreading and
paralyzing its slender limbs. He dared not go into the cavern, but he
felt his eyes fill with tears, and he would willingly have spoken some
word of consolation to her.

At last she came out, her eyes red with weeping. Paulus had guessed
rightly for she held the body of little Iambe in her arms.

"How sorry I am," said Paulus, "the poor little creature was so pretty."

Sirona nodded, sat down, and unfastened the prettily embroidered band
from the dog's neck, saying half to herself, and half to Paulus, "My
little Agnes worked this collar. I myself had taught her to sew, and this
was the first piece of work that was all her own." She held the collar up
to the anchorite. "This clasp is of real silver," she went on, "and my
father himself gave it to me. He was fond of the poor little dog too. Now
it will never leap and spring again, poor thing."

She looked sadly down at the dead dog. Then she collected herself, and
said hurriedly, "Now I will go away from here. Nothing--nothing keeps me
any longer in this wilderness, for the senator's house, whe