together on the death's head, looked at the monk with burning eyes. And
every day fresh jackals came.

To expiate the abominable sin of his dream, and flee from impure
thoughts, Paphnutius determined to leave his cell, which had now become
polluted, go far into the desert, and practise unheard-of austerities,
strange labours, and fresh works of grace. But before putting his design
into action, he went to see old Palemon and ask his advice.

He found him in his garden watering his lettuces. It was the evening.
The blue Nile flowed at the foot of violet hills. The good old man was
walking slowly, in order not to frighten a pigeon that had perched on
his shoulder.

"The Lord be with thee, brother Paphnutius," he said. "Admire his
goodness; He sends me the animals that He has created that I may
converse with them of His works, and praise Him in the birds of the air.
Look at this pigeon; note the changing hues of its neck, and say, is
it not a beautiful work of God? But have you not come to talk with me,
brother, on some pious subject? If so, I will put down my watering-pot,
and listen to you."

Paphnutius told the old man about his journey, his return, the visions
of his days and the dreams of his nights,--without omitting the sinful
one--and the pack of jackals.

"Do you not think, father," he added, "that I ought to bury myself in
the desert, and perform some extraordinary austerities that would even
astonish the devil?"

"I am but a poor sinner," replied Palemon, "and I know little about men,
having passed all my life in this garden, with gazelles, little hares
and pigeons. But it seems to me, brother, that your distemper comes
from your having passed too suddenly from the noisy world to the calm of
solitude. Such sudden transitions can but do harm to the health of the
soul. You are, brother, like a man who exposes himself, almost at the
same time, to great heat and great cold. A cough shakes him, and fever
torments him. In your place, brother Paphnutius, instead of retiring
at once into some awful desert, I should take such amusements as are
fitting to a monk and a holy abbot. I should visit the monasteries in
the neighbourhood. Some of them are wonderful, it is said. That of
Abbot Serapion contains, I have been told, a thousand four hundred and
thirty-two cells, and the monks are divided into as many legions as
there are letters in the Greek alphabet. I am even informed that a
certain analogy is observed between