"We have not found a well since mid-morning and I crave fresh drink. The water we bear is brackish."
"Bid thy servants go westward without deviation for less than half a league, until they come unto a hill with a flat summit, which can be seen afar off. They will find there a grove with a well."
"And none is nearer?" the old man asked idly.
"There is none nearer."
"My servants were bred to the desert; they are ill mountaineers. Thou wilt show them the way?"
"They can not lose the way," Marsyas protested; "it is the flock's well and all the hill paths lead to it. Think not ill of me, that I can not go, for I am in haste."
The old man smiled a little.
"An Essene, and he will not stop to give an old man water?"
Marsyas frowned resentfully, but turned to the servant at hand.
"Get thy fellows and the water-skins and follow!"