“But, Jason will be....” began Paul, the words dying on his lips.
“Go with him, dear Father,” urged Lycastus, “I will come with thee.”
So Paul turned without a word and went with his young friends, but the dark look on his face matched the dark shadow that, from the northern mountains, was swallowing up this land.
It was but a short way to the house of Aristarchus, and as they entered the little stone dwelling they found a woman awaiting them. Aristarchus saluted his wife with a kiss, placing his hands one on each shoulder.
“Master, this is my wife, and here, Philyra, is Paul of Tarsus of whom thou hast heard me tell so many times.”
“Welcome, Master,” she said, and she pressed herself against the doorway to let him pass.
Inside there was but little light. The son of Aristarchus and Philyra was asleep in a wooden cradle on the floor near the centre of the room. On a table near by were wine and food.
“Thou wilt sit and drink, Master?” asked Philyra.
But Paul waved her aside and remained standing.
The child woke and, seeing his father, said some little words. He was fair, like his tender, beautiful mother. As Aristarchus moved forward to greet his son, Lycastus pulled his garment, but Aristarchus, paying no heed, walked to the crude cradle he had made, and bent over his babe. He gave the child his finger to play with, and lingered by him a moment or two.