But it fell to the ground before reaching which Paulus had indicated as
the mark.

"Wait!" cried Hermas. "Let me try now to hit the tree."

His stone whistled through the air, but it did not even reach the mound,
into which the palm-tree had struck root.

Paulus shook his head disapprovingly, and in his, turn seized a flat
stone; and now an eager contest began. At every throw Hermas' stone flew
farther, for he copied his teacher's action and grasp with increasing
skill, while the older man's arm began to tire. At last Hermas for the
second time hit the palm-tree, while Paulus had failed to reach even the
mound with his last fling.

The pleasure of the contest took stronger possession of the anchorite;
he flung his raiment from him, and seizing another stone he cried out--
as though he were standing once more in the wrestling school among his
old companions; all shining with their anointment.

"By the silver-bowed Apollo, and the arrow-speeding Artemis, I will hit
the palm-tree."

The missile sang through the air, his body sprang back, and he stretched
out his left arm to save his tottering balance; there was a crash, the
tree quivered under the blow, and Hermas shouted joyfully: "Wonderful!
wonderful! that was indeed a throw. The old Menander is not dead!
Farewell--to-morrow we will try again."