e world to come. You
come from God, O holy man, and that is why the dust of your feet is more
precious than gold."

"The Lord be praised!" said Paphnutius, and with his half-closed hand he
made the sign of redemption on the old woman's head.

But hardly had he gone twenty paces down the street, than a band of
children began to jeer at him, and throw stones, crying--

"Oh, the wicked monk! He is blacker than an ape, and more bearded than
a goat! He is a skulker! Why not hang him in an orchard, like a wooden
Priapus, to frighten the birds? But no; he would draw down the hail on
the apple-blossom. He brings bad luck. To the ravens with the monk! to
the ravens!" and stones mingled with the cries.

"My God, bless these poor children!" murmured Paphnutius.

And he pursued his way, thinking.

"I was worshipped by the old woman, and hated and despised by these
children. Thus the same object is appreciated differently by men who are
uncertain in their judgment and liable to error. It must be owned that,
for a Gentile, old Timocles was not devoid of sense. Though blind, he
knew he was deprived of light. His reasoning was much better than that
of these idolaters, who cry from the depths of their thick darkness, 'I
see the day!' Everything in this world is mirage and moving sand. God
alone is steadfast."

He passed through the city with rapid steps. After ten years of absence
he would still recognise every stone, and every stone was to him a stone
of reproach that recalled a sin. For that reason he struck his naked
feet roughly against the kerb-stones of the wide street, and rejoiced
to see the bloody marks of his wounded feet. Leaving on his left the
magnificent portico of the Temple of Serapis, he entered a road lined
with splendid mansions, which seemed to be drowsy with perfumes. Pines,
maples, and larches raised their heads above the red cornices and golden
acroteria. Through the half-open doors could be seen bronze statues
in marble vestibules, and fountains playing amidst foliage. No noise
troubled the stillness of these quiet retreats. Only the distant strains
of a flute could be heard. The monk stopped before a house, rather
small, but of noble proportions, and supported by columns as graceful as
young girls. It was ornamented with bronze busts of the most celebrated
Greek philosophers.

He recognised Plato, Socrates, Aristotle, Epicurus, and Zeno, and
having knocked with the hammer against the door, he waited, wr