"It is most likely a herdsman that has been struck by lightning," thought
he, as he felt with his hands the curly head of the sufferer, and the
strong arms that now bung down powerless. As he raised the injured man,
who still uttered low moans, and supported his head on his broad breast,
the sweet perfume of fine ointment was wafted to him from his hair, and a
fearful suspicion dawned upon his mind.

"Polykarp!" he cried, while he clasped his hands more tightly round the
body of the sufferer who, thus called upon, moved and muttered a few
unintelligible words; in a low tone, but still much too clearly for
Paulus, for he now knew for certain that be had guessed rightly. With a
loud cry of horror he grasped the youth's powerless form, raised him in
his arms, and carried him like a child to the margin of the spring where
he laid his noble burden down in the moist grass; Polykarp started and
opened his eyes.

Morning was already dawning, the light clouds on the eastern horizon were
already edged with rosy fringes, and the coming day began to lift the
dark veil from the forms and hues of creation.

The young man recognized the anchorite, who with trembling hands was
washing the wound at the back of his head, and his eye assumed an angry
glare as he called up all his remaining strength and pushed his attendant
from him. Paulus did not withdraw, he accepted the blow from his victim
as a gift or a greeting, thinking, "Aye, and I only wish you had a dagger
in your hand; I would not resist you."

The artist's wound was frightfully wide and deep, but the blood had
flowed among his thick curls, and had clotted over the lacerated veins
like a thick dressing. The water with which Paulus now washed his head