and help. To leave that undone was to be false to his manhood; it
was to be no better than the dumb beasts when their young perish.
How could he let his boy suffer and die, without an effort, a cry, a
prayer?

He sank on his knees beside Athenais.

"Out of the depths--out of the depths we call for pity. The light
of our eyes is fading--the child is dying. Oh, the child, the
child! Spare the child's life, thou merciful--"

Not a word; only that deathly blank. The hands of Hermas, stretched
out in supplication, touched the marble table. He felt the cool
hardness of the polished stone beneath his fingers. A book,
dislodged by his touch, fell rustling to the floor. Through the open
door, faint and far off, came the footsteps of the servants, moving
cautiously. The heart of Hermas was like a lump of ice in his bosom.
He rose slowly to his feet, lifting Athenais with him.

"It is in vain," he said; "there is nothing for us to do. Long ago I
knew something. I think it would have helped us. But I have
forgotten it. It is all gone. But I would give all that I have, if I
could bring it back again now, at this hour, in this time of our
bitter trouble."

A slave entered the room while he was speaking, and approached
hesitatingly.

"Master," he said, "John of Antioch, whom we were forbidden to admit
to the house, has come again. He would take no denial. Even now he