“Heaven! what is heaven, what is forgiveness!” screamed the old man. “He shall be damned.” Before the Alexandrian could hinder him, the loose stone over which the enemies were wrestling in breathless combat gave way, and both were hurled into the abyss with the falling rock.
Paulus groaned from the lowest depth of his breast and murmured while the tears ran down his cheeks, “He too has fought the fight, and he too has striven in vain.”
CHAPTER XXI.
The fight was ended; the sun as it went to its rest behind the Holy Mountain had lighted many corpses of Blemmyes, and now the stars shone down on the oasis from the clear sky.
Hymns of praise sounded out of the church, and near it, under the hill against which it was built, torches were blazing and threw their ruddy light on a row of biers, on which under green palm-branches lay the heroes who had fallen in the battle against the Blemmyes. Now the hymn ceased, the gates of the house of God opened and Agapitus led his followers towards the dead. The congregation gathered in a half-circle round their peaceful brethren, and heard the blessing that their pastor pronounced over the noble victims who had shed their blood in fighting the heathen. When it was ended those who in life had been their nearest and dearest went up to the dead, and many tears fell into the sand from the eye of a mother or a wife, many a sigh went up to heaven from a father’s breast. Next to the bier, on which old Stephanus was resting, stood another and a smaller one, and between the two Hermas knelt and wept. He raised his face, for a deep and kindly voice spoke his name.
“Petrus,” said the lad, clasping the hand that the senator held out to him, “I felt forced and driven out into the world, and away from my father—and now he is gone for ever how gladly I would have been kept by him.”
“He died a noble death, in battle for those he loved,” said the senator consolingly,
“Paulus was near him when he fell,” replied Hermas. “My father fell from the wall while defending the tower; but look here this girl—poor child—who used to keep your goats, died like a heroine. Poor, wild Miriam, how kind I would be to you if only you were alive now!”
Hermas as he spoke stroked the arm of the shepherdess, pressed a kiss on her small, cold hand, and softly folded it with the other across her bosom.