shall learn nothing from
the senator's slaves, that I very well know; for you have turned all
their heads too--they grin with delight when they see you. All friends
are made welcome by you, even when they wear nothing but sheepskin. But
they may do what they please--I have the right keeper for you in my
own hand. I am going at once--you may scream if you like, but I should
myself prefer that you should keep quiet. As to the dog, we have not yet
heard the last of the matter; for the present I will keep him here. If
you are quiet and come to your senses, he may live for aught I care;
but if you are refractory, a rope and a stone can soon be found, and the
stream runs close below. You know I never jest--least of all just now."

Sirona's whole frame was in the most violent agitation. Her breath came
quickly, her limbs trembled, but she could not find words to answer him.

Phoebicius saw what was passing in her mind, and he went on, "You may
snort proudly now; but an hour will come when you will crawl up to me
like your lame dog, and pray for mercy. I have another idea--you will
want a couch in the dark room, and it must be soft, or I shall be
blamed; I will spread out the sheepskin for you. You see I know how to
value your adorer's offerings."

The Gaul laughed loud, seized the hermit's garment, and went with
the lamp into the dark room behind the kitchen, in which vessels and
utensils of various sorts were kept. These he set on one side to turn
it into a sleeping-room for his wife, of whose guilt he was fully
convinced.

Who the man was for whose sake she had dishonored him, he knew not, for
Miriam had said nothing more than, "Go home, your wife is laughing with
her lover."

While her husband was still threatening and storming, Sirona had said to
herself, that she would rather die than live any longer with this man.
That she herself was not free from fault never occurred to her mind. He
who is punished more severely than he deserves, easily overlooks his own
fault in his feeling of the judge's injustice.

Phoebicius was right; neither Petrus nor Dorothea had it in their power
to protect her against him, a Roman citizen. If she could not contrive
to help her self she was a prisoner, and without air, light, and freedom
she could not live. During his last speech her resolution had been
quickly matured, and hardly had he turned his back and crossed the
threshold, than she hurried up to her bed, wrapped the trembling
gr