“What dost thou say of it, dear Father?” asked Lycastus, timidly.
“If thou hast been praying to Jesus Christ and He has helped thee, what can I say? Those who must marry must marry. But I shall lose thee as I have lost Aristarchus.”
“Oh, Master: thou knowest well thou hast not lost me!” exclaimed Aristarchus, reproachfully. “We love and serve the same God. It was you, Master, who gave Jesus to me and I still have Jesus.”
“Nevertheless, thou hast gone from me. I feel thou hast. Thy wife has—stolen thee.”
Aristarchus, angry and resentful, moved a little away from Paul so that Paul’s hand slipped from his shoulder and his arm fell dead and limp.
“It is not true, Master,” he said.
“No, dear Father, it is not true,” urged Lycastus.
“Only I,” said Paul, “can know who are those who dwell in my heart, and thou, Aristarchus, are not one of them.... But here I leave thee. This road on our left is mine and, as thou hast reminded me, Jason will be waiting for me.”
The three men stopped at the cross-roads in the dusk. It was the short time of half-light. The sky in the east was the green of apples, and in the west it was like the red of the pomegranate’s fruit. All three men were disturbed and sad. Aristarchus, so loyal and patient, felt his anger melt suddenly: the something hard in his bosom softened and went.
“Come, Master,” he said, “come to my home. Come and speak with my wife. Thou dost not know her because thou wilt not.”