sanctity, could not cross his threshold.

Paphnutius was born at Alexandria of noble parents, who had instructed
him in all profane learning. He had even been allured by the falsehoods
of the poets, and in his early youth had been misguided enough to
believe that the human race had all been drowned by a deluge in the days
of Deucalion, and had argued with his fellow-scholars concerning the
nature, the attributes, and even the existence of God. He then led a
life of dissipation, after the manner of the Gentiles, and he recalled
the memory of those days with shame and horror.

"At that time," he used to say to the brethren, "I seethed in the
cauldron of false delights."

He meant by that that he had eaten food properly dressed, and frequented
the public baths. In fact, until his twentieth year he had continued
to lead the ordinary existence of those times, which now seemed to
him rather death than life; but, owing to the lessons of the priest
Macrinus, he then became a new man.

The truth penetrated him through and through, and--as he used to
say--entered his soul like a sword. He embraced the faith of Calvary,
and worshipped Christ crucified. After his baptism he remained yet a
year amongst the Gentiles, unable to cast off the bonds of old habits.
But one day he entered a church, and heard a deacon read from the Bible,
the verse, "If thou wilt be perfect, go and sell that thou hast, and
give to the poor." Thereupon he sold all that he had, gave away the
money in alms, and embraced the monastic life.

During the ten years that he had lived remote from men, he no longer
seethed in the cauldron of false delights, but more profitably macerated
his flesh in the balms of penitence.

One day when, according to his pious custom, he was recalling to mind
the hours he had lived apart from God, and examining his sins one by
one, that he might the better ponder on their enormity, he remembered
that he had seen at the theatre at Alexandria a very beautiful actress
named Thais. This woman showed herself in the public games, and did not
scruple to perform dances, the movements of which, arranged only too
cleverly, brought to mind the most horrible passions. Sometimes she
imitated the horrible deeds which the Pagan fables ascribe to Venus,
Leda, or Pasiphae. Thus she fired all the spectators with lust, and when
handsome young men, or rich old ones, came, inspired with love, to hang
wreaths of flowers round her door, she welcomed