hot plains of Syria, through the snow-swept passes of the Taurus
mountains, and over the sun-scorched levels of the high plateau.[5]
Their muscles were as tireless as whipcord. Their courage had not
quailed before robber or blizzard, the night yells of the hyena or the
stones of angry mobs.

For the youth this was his first adventure out into the glorious,
unknown world. He was on the open road with the glow of the sun on his
cheek and the sting of the breeze in his face; a strong staff in his
hand; with his wallet stuffed with food--cheese, olives, and some
flat slabs of bread; and by his side his own great hero, Paul. Their
sandals rang on the stone pavement of the road which ran straight as
a strung bowline from the city, Antioch-in-Pisidia, away to the west.
The boy carried over his shoulder the cloak of Paul, and carried that
cloak as though it had been the royal purple garment of the Roman
Emperor himself instead of the worn, faded, travel-stained cloak of a
wandering tent-maker.

The two older men, whose names were Paul the Tarsian and Silas, had
trudged six hundred miles. Their younger companion, whose name was
"Fear God," or Timothy as we say, with his Greek fondness for perfect
athletic fitness of the body, proudly felt the taut, wiry muscles
working under his skin.

On they walked for day after day, from dawn when the sun rose behind
them to the hour when the sun glowed over the hills in their faces.
They turned northwest and at last dropped down from the highlands of
this plateau of Asia Minor, through a long broad valley, until they
looked down across the Plain of Troy to the bluest sea in the world.