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“But to what singular circumstance do I owe this interest?”

“To your face,” said the old man, with a courteous inclination. “Perhaps also a little to the fact that I am the oldest inhabitant here, and feel as if all visitors were my guests, in a way.”

“Are you, then, one of the keepers of the grove? And have you given up your work with the trees to take a holiday as a philosopher?

“Not at all. The robe of philosophy is a mere affectation, I must confess. I think little of it. My profession is the care of altars. In fact, I am the solitary priest of Apollo whom the Emperor Julian found here when he came to revive the worship of the grove, some twenty years ago. You have heard of the incident?”

“Yes,” said Hermas, beginning to be interested; “the whole city must have heard of it, for it is still talked of. But surely it was a strange sacrifice that you brought to celebrate the restoration of Apollo’s temple?”

“You mean the ancient goose?” said the old man laughing. “Well, perhaps it was not precisely what the emperor expected. But it was all that I had, and it seemed to me not inappropriate. You will agree to that if you are a Christian, as I guess from your dress.”

“You speak lightly for a priest of Apollo.”

“Oh, as for that, I am no bigot. The priesthood is a professional matter, and the name of Apollo is as good as any other. How many altars do you think there have been in this grove?”

“I do not know.”

“Just four-and-twenty, including that of the martyr Babylas, whose ruined chapel you see just beyond us. I have had something to do with most of them in my time. They are transitory. They give employment to care-takers for a while. But the thing that lasts, and the thing that interests me, is the human life that plays around them. The game has been going on for centuries. It still disports itself very pleasantly on summer evenings through these shady walks. Believe me, for I know. Daphne and Apollo are shadows. But the flying maidens and the pursuing lovers, the music and the dances, these are realities. Life is a game, and the world keeps it up merrily. But you? You are of a sad countenance for one so young and so fair. Are you a loser in the game?” The words and tone of the speaker fitted Hermas’ mood as a key fits the lock. He opened his heart to the old man, and told him the story of his life: his luxurious boyhood in his father’s house; the irresistible spell which compelled him to forsake it when he heard John’s preaching of the new religion; his lonely year with the anchorites among the mountains; the strict discipline in his teacher’s house at Antioch; his weariness of duty, his distaste for poverty, his discontent with worship.

“And to-day,” said he, “I have been thinking that I am a fool. My life is swept as bare as a hermit’s cell. There is nothing in it but a dream, a thought of God, which does not satisfy me.”

The singular smile deepened on his companion’s face. “You are ready, then,” he suggested, “to renounce your new religion and go back to that of your father?”

“No; I renounce nothing, I accept nothing. I do not wish to think about it. I only wish to live.”

“A very reasonable wish, and I think you are about to see its accomplishment. Indeed, I may even say that I can put you in the way of securing it. Do you believe in magic?”

“I do not know whether I believe in anything. This is not a day on which I care to make professions of faith. I believe in what I see. I want what will give me pleasure.”