of the city of orators, involuntarily uttered his words in the admirably
rich and soft chest voice, which he so well knew how to use.

"Be thankful," said he, "poor dear woman--I have found you in a fortunate
hour. I am Paulus, Hermas' best friend, and I would willingly serve you
in your sore need. No danger is now threatening you, for Phoebicius is
seeking you on a wrong road; you may trust me. Look at me! I do not
look as if I could betray a poor erring woman. But you are standing
on a spot, where I would rather see my enemy than you; lay your hand
confidently in mine--it is no longer white and slender, but it is strong
and honest--grant me this request and you will never rue it! See, place
your foot here, and take care how you leave go of the rock there. You
know not how suspiciously it shook its head over your strange confidence
in it. Take care! there--your support has rolled over into the abyss!
how it crashes and splits. It has reached the bottom, smashed into a
thousand pieces, and I am thankful that you preferred to follow me rather
than that false support." While Paulus was speaking he had gone up to
Sirona, as a girl whose bird has escaped from its cage, and who creeps up
to it with timid care in the hope of recapturing it; he offered her his
hand, and as soon as he felt hers in his grasp, he had carefully rescued
her from her fearful position, and had led her down to a secure footing
on the plateau. So long as she followed him unresistingly he led her on
towards the mountain--without aim or fixed destination--but away, away
from the abyss.

She paused by a square block of diorite, and Paulus, who had not failed
to observe how heavy her steps were, desired her to sit down; he pushed
up a flag of stone, which he propped with smaller ones, so that Sirona
might not lack a support for her weary back. When he had accomplished
this, Sirona leaned back against the stone, and something of dawning