Sirona was devoted to every sort of masquerading.  If it had been needful to seek a reason why the senator’s children and grandchildren were so fond of her, by no means last or least would have been the fact that she would willingly and cheerfully allow herself to be tricked out in colored kerchiefs, ribands, and flowers, and on her part could contrive the most fantastic costumes for them.  So soon as she saw Hermas with the helmet on, the fancy seized her to carry through the travesty he had begun.  She eagerly and in perfect innocence pulled the coat of armor straight, helped him to buckle the breastplate and to fasten on the sword, and as she performed the task, at which Hermas proved himself unskilful enough, her gay and pleasant laugh rang out again and again.  When he sought to seize her hand, as he not seldom did, she hit him sharply on the fingers, and scolded him.

Hermas’ embarrassment thawed before this pleasant sport, and soon he began to tell her how hateful the lonely life on the mountain was to him.  He told her that Petrus himself had advised him to try his strength out in the world, and he confided to her that if his father got well, he meant to be a soldier, and do great deeds.  She quite agreed with him, praised and encouraged him, then she criticised his slovenly deportment, showed him with comical gravity how a warrior ought to stand and walk, called herself his drill-master, and was delighted at the zeal with which he strove to imitate her.

In such play the hours passed quickly.  Hermas was proud of himself in his soldierly garb, and was happy in her presence and in the hope of future triumphs; and Sirona was gay, as she had usually been only when playing with the children, so that even Miriam’s wild cry, which the youth explained to be the scream of an owl, only for a moment reminded her of the danger in which she was placing herself.  Petrus’ slaves had long gone to rest before she began to weary of amusing herself with Hermas, and desired him to lay aside her husband’s equipment, and to leave her.  Hermas obeyed while she warily opened the shutters, and turning to him, said, “You cannot venture through the court-yard; you must go through this window into the open street.  But there is some one coming down the road; let him pass first, it will not be long to wait, for he is walking quickly.”

She carefully drew the shutters to, and laughed to see how clumsily Hermas set to work to unbuckle the greaves; but the gay laugh died upon her lips when the gate flew open, the greyhound and the senator’s watch-dogs barked loudly, and she recognized her husband’s voice as he ordered the dogs to be quiet.

“Fly-fly-for the gods’ sake!” she cried in a trembling voice.  With that ready presence of mind with which destiny arms the weakest woman in great and sudden danger, she extinguished the lamp, flung open the shutter, and pushed Hermas to the window.  The boy did not stay to bid her farewell, but swung himself with a strong leap down into the road, and, followed by the barking of the dogs, which roused all the neighboring households, he flew up the street to the little church.