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