The voice called quickly, in a light whisper—­

“Helen!  Helen! come and bathe with me! come quickly!”

A woman, whose mouth was close to the monk’s ear, replied—­

“Friend, I cannot rise; a man is lying on me.”

Paphnutius suddenly perceived that his cheek rested on a woman’s breast.  He recognised the player of the theorbo, who, partly relieved of his weight, raised her breast.  He clung tightly to the sweet, warm, perfumed body, and consumed with the desire of damnation, he cried—­

“Stay, stay, my heavenly one!”

But she was already standing on the threshold.  She laughed, and her smile gleamed in the silver rays of the moon.

“Why should I stay?” she said.  “The shadow of a shadow is enough for a lover endowed with such a lively imagination.  Besides, you have sinned.  What more was needed?”

Paphnutius wept in the night, and when the dawn came, he murmured a prayer that was a meek complaint—­

“Jesus, my Jesus, why hast Thou forsaken me!  Thou seest the danger in which I am.  Come, and help me, sweet Saviour.  Since Thy Father no longer loves me, and does not hear me, remember that I have but Thee.  From Him nothing is to be hoped; I cannot comprehend Him, and He cannot pity me.  But Thou was born of a woman, and that is why I trust in Thee.  Remember that Thou wast a man.  I pray to Thee, not because Thou art God of God, Light of light, very God of very God, but because Thou hast lived poor and humble on this earth where now I suffer, because Satan has tempted Thy flesh, because the sweat of agony has bedewed Thy face.  It is to Thy humanity that I pray, Jesus, my brother Jesus!”

When he had thus prayed, wringing his hands, a terrible peal of laughter shook the walls of the tomb, and the voice which rang in his ears on the top of the column, said jeeringly—­

“That is a prayer worthy of the breviary of Marcus, the heretic.  Paphnutius is an Arian!  Paphnutius is an Arian!”

As though thunderstruck, the monk fell senseless.

*****

When he reopened his eyes, he saw around him monks wearing black hoods, who poured water on his temples, and recited exorcisms.  Many others were standing outside, carrying palm leaves.

“As we passed through the desert,” said one of them, “we heard cries issuing from this tomb, and, having entered, we found you lying unconscious on the floor.  Doubtless the devils had thrown you down, and had fled at our approach.”

Paphnutius, raising his head, asked in a feeble voice—­

“Who are you, my brothers?  And why do you carry palms in your hands?  Is it for my burial?”

One of them replied—­

“Brother, do you not know that our father, Anthony, now a hundred and five years old, having been warned of his approaching end, has come down from Mount Colzin, to which he had retired, to bless his numerous spiritual children?  We are going with palm leaves to greet our holy father.  But how is it, brother, that you are ignorant of such a great event?  Can it be possible that no angel came to this tomb to inform you?”