narrowed his life to poverty and hardship? What was it all worth?

The gracious prayers with which the young converts were blessed and
dismissed before the sacrament sounded hollow in his ears. Never had
he felt so utterly lonely as in that praying throng. He went out
with his companions like a man departing from a banquet where all
but he had been fed.

"Farewell, Hermas," they cried, as he turned from them at the door.
But he did not look back, nor wave his hand. He was alone already in
his heart.

When he entered the broad Avenue of the Colonnades, the sun had
already topped the eastern hills, and the ruddy light was streaming
through the long double row of archways and over the pavements of
crimson marble. But Hermas turned his back to the morning, and
walked with his shadow before him.

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 story-teller had bewitched a