“Put not thy faith in man, Lycastus,” said Paul, sternly. “Light proceeds from God, and God never withdraws Himself.”
“Then if thou art not the light,” said Philyra in a whisper, “thou art the lamp that shields the light, that keeps it burning—for us.”
But Paul’s dark face remained dark, and when the child in the cradle began again to speak little words, the great teacher turned to go. He withdrew very silently, saying only, “Farewell!” as he reached the door. As he disappeared, Lycastus asked Aristarchus a question with his eyebrows, and, in reply, Aristarchus gravely lowered his head.
So Lycastus followed Paul into the night which by now had come. He could see his Master outlined against the thick stars. Paul was walking slowly; his heavy frame was bent, and his robe trailed in the dust. Lycastus, fearing to incur his anger, walked some paces behind his Master, and his sandalled feet stepped warily.
He loved Paul dearly, and to-night his heart ached for him and his conscience smote him. But so full of tenderness is the heart of man, and so sweetly selfish is man’s love for woman, that in a very short time he had forgotten his Master and, in imagination, Drusilla walked by his side, her slender fingers in his, her head on his heart. For Lycastus was never alone. As soon as he was withdrawn from others, Drusilla was with him. To-night the stars were in her hair, and the little breeze was her breath. And he fell to thinking of the house they would share and of the babe that would be born to them, and in his heart of hearts he knew that what Paul had said was true. Paul had lost Aristarchus, and Lycastus soon would be lost to him also.
“It must be so! It is right it should be so!” said Lycastus to himself.
Yet he felt sad when he thought of Paul, and he sought in his mind for something he could say or do to comfort him.
Presently they were at the cross-roads. Paul stopped, turned, and saw his young friend approaching. But he would not return Lycastus’ greeting; instead, he stood firm and rigid, his thick neck and noble head immovable. The wild eyes had in them light that was not borrowed from the stars.
“Pass on!” he said. “Trouble me not!”
So Lycastus passed on to his home and, ere he had unloosened his robe, had forgotten Paul and was already dreaming of Drusilla and the glad days to come.