The street began to swarm and whirl and quiver with the
motley life of a huge city: beggars and jugglers, dancers and
musicians, gilded youths in their chariots, and daughters of
joy looking out from their windows, all intoxicated with the
mere delight of living and the gladness of a new day. The
pagan populace of Antioch--reckless, pleasure-loving,
spendthrift--were preparing for the Saturnalia. But all this
Hermas had renounced. He cleft his way through the crowd
slowly, like a reluctant swimmer weary of breasting the tide.

At the corner of the street where the narrow, populous
Lane of the Camel-drivers crossed the Colonnades, a
storyteller had bewitched a circle of people around him. It
was the same old tale of love and adventure that many
generations have listened to; but the lively fancy of the
hearers rent it new interest, and the wit of the improviser
drew forth sighs of interest and shouts of laughter.

A yellow-haired girl on the edge of the throng turned, as
Hermas passed, and smiled in his face. She put out her hand
and caught him by the sleeve.

"Stay," she said, "and laugh a bit with us. I know who
you are--the son of Demetrius. You must have bags of gold.
Why do you look so black? Love is alive yet."

Hermas shook off her hand, but not ungently.

"I don't know what you mean," he said. "You are mistaken
in me. I am poorer than you are."