Then placing her hour-glass and scythe at the foot of the tree, the unlucky dame climbed up; but scarcely had she pressed her foot upon the branches, than, lo! they sprang up as if from her tread, closed around and so shut in the impudent wight that she could not even stir. She called; she cried aloud, then moaned and supplicated. Philomen renewed his humble petition, but she persistently refused.
"Very well! I only want five hundred years, five centuries more!" And raising his head menacingly, he took up the hour-glass and scythe, quietly returning to his cabin. Every morning he returned, imposed his conditions of release, which Death, becoming more and more irritated, as obstinately refused. Then he would go back patiently to his cabin. On the third night he saw a dark figure, with glittering eyes, prowling round the foot of his tree. He listened, and heard this conversation. Now, you must know that this was the Devil, who came to make his complaint: "What dost thou there, thou idler? Thou no longer sendest me work to do. I am ruined by thy delay."
But the terrible accomplice could do nothing; because he who binds on earth as he binds in heaven had bound her so firmly that Death herself could not undo it.
Next morning, after a fresh dispute with Philomen, she yielded, and consented to let him have five hundred years added to his life. But as Death is treacherous, he sought his tablet, and before she came down he made her sign the treaty. After that he set her free, restored her baggage, her hour-glass and scythe, and let her depart, threatening and raging as she went, vowing to cut off, at the very moment of the promised time, the life of one who had so pitilessly ridiculed her.
Years again passed by, one by one; the centuries were accomplished; and yet Philomen did not grow old. Ten times had he seen pass by that unhappy pilgrim condemned to wander for ever round the world. Each journey marked one century as this wandering Jew crossed the Jordan, near his little cabin, on the road to Jerusalem, that, ascending Golgotha, he might sue for mercy on the very spot where the blood had been shed of him whom he had despised! The centuries had all now passed, and one evening, when Philomen sat quietly by his hearth, the dark traveller entered once more. Midnight was the fatal hour. She rudely accosted him: "Come along now, old man! Thou shouldst long since have been in thy grave. No mercy for thee this time! Thou wouldst but mock me again, could I show pity for thee. Oh! how tired I am; so tired, so worried! To-day I have killed nearly three thousand Christians, then a whole race of infidels, and decimated an entire kingdom, with my well-tempered weapon, pestilence. Rich and poor, prelates and priests, I have upturned everything—everything. But I am horribly tired, and while awaiting the expiration of thy time, I will rest me a little here." Saying these words, she threw herself on the wooden stool that Jesus had gifted with supernatural powers. Then she began to jeer at the old man, speaking to him of the joys of life, of youth, of love, etc. When midnight tolled, she attempted to rise from the chair and spring at Philomen, who had wisely placed himself beyond her reach; but, nailed down upon this wonderful seat, she could not move! In vain she shook her glass, made deadly thrusts with her scythe! Then the good man went to his hearth, and kindled such a fire as nearly roasted her even at that distance. Her hour-glass was about falling to pieces, the handle of her scythe was nearly reduced to ashes, when, after a most vigorous dispute, she granted Philomen a new lease of five centuries more of life!
Now, this was, as you know, the second time she had been caught in the same trap, and more enraged than ever, she went forth crying aloud that she should not be caught again; and good old Philomen lived on through the long years obtained by this trick. But everything of time must end; everything falls; everything dies; everything passes away. And these five centuries, too, were gathered with all that had gone before. But Death had learned prudence now, and did not venture near, sending a shaft from afar that pierced the good old man and sent him at once from life to death. But as he had lived so innocently and ever observed the laws of holy hospitality, God had a place prepared for him in his own beautiful Paradise.
Now, it happened that before going there our Philomen wished to see, just a little, what was going on in hell. Since the night that he overheard the dispute between Death and Satan, he had cherished a great desire to do so. He quietly entered the abode of the condemned, and when the Devil came to meet him, and would have seized upon him, Philomen cried out: "Stop there! I am not for thee! I am of the kingdom of the elect, and come here only to see if all that is said of thee in the kingdom of the living be true. Lead me everywhere!" When, conducted by his dark guide, he had visited the bowels of the earth and witnessed all manners of torture, he proposed to him to stake his own soul against some of the most fearfully punished among the damned who were uttering most terrific shrieks. The dice were brought, and shaken by each in turn. Philomen gained twelve souls; then Satan became fearful he might lose all with this mysterious partner, and refused to play on. Philomen then took the road to Paradise, and, reaching the gate, tapped gently. Saint Peter came to open for him. He at once recognized him, and, smiling, said, "Pass on, we have expected you all this time." "Oh! very well," said the acute old man, "but, like you formerly, I am not travelling alone: I have with me twelve companions, who claim your hospitality." "This is but fair," said St. Peter, once more smiling, "so come in." And so Philomen and his twelve ransomed souls all went to join the throng of the blessed who will for ever sing the glory of God.
It is thus the good old man lived fifteen hundred years, and practised the holy rules of hospitality. And it is thus that our pious ancestors taught their children never to refuse entrance to those who knocked at their doors, imploring shelter; and thus we, too, see how religiously and beautifully hospitality was practised in the former ages, in the chateaux of the rich as well as in the more humble dwellings of the poor.