"Do you live in the village; or do you camp near by?"

Momus shook his head. Laodice appreciated the boy's concern for them
but could not make an attempt to explain.

"Then," he offered promptly, "come have my fire and my rock. It is the
best rock in all these hills; and my tent," he added, showing the
skins that wrapped him. "I wear my tent; it saves my carrying it.
Indeed I do not need it; you may have it. Come!"

He spoke hurriedly, as if he would thrust his desire to comfort
between her and the wave of disconsolation that he felt was about to
cover her.

Old Momus, sensibly accepting the boy's suggestion as the wisest
course, raised Laodice and motioning the shepherd to lead on, led his
young mistress up the hill as the boy retraced his steps. The flood of
Syrian sheep turned back with him and followed bleating between the
urging of the sheep-dog, as the boy climbed.

On a slope to the west as a wady bent upon itself abruptly before it
debouched upon the hillside, there was a deep glow illuminating a
space in the depression. The shepherd dropped down out of sight. His
voice came over the shuffle and bleat of the sheep.

"Follow me; this is my house."

Momus led his mistress over to the wady. There the shepherd with
uplifted hands helped her down with the superior courtesy of a
householder offering hospitality. There was a red circle of fire in