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“Lord, we have been seeking you everywhere. The master is at the point of death, and has sent for you. Since the sixth hour he calls your name continually. Come to him quickly, lord, for I fear the time is short.”

Hermas entered the house at once; nothing could amaze him to-day. His father lay on an ivory couch in the inmost chamber, with shrunken face and restless eyes, his lean fingers picking incessantly at the silken coverlet.

“My son!” he murmured; “Hermas, my son! It is good that you have come back to me. I have missed you. I was wrong to send you away. You shall never leave me again. You are my son, my heir. I have changed everything. Hermas, my son, come nearer–close beside me. Take my hand, my son!”

The young man obeyed, and, kneeling by the couch, gathered his father’s cold, twitching fingers in his firm, warm grasp.

“Hermas, life is passing–long, rich, prosperous; the last sands, I cannot stay them. My religion, a good policy–Julian was my friend. But now he is gone–where? My soul is empty–nothing beyond–very dark–I am afraid. But you know something better. You found something that made you willing to give up your life for it–it, must have been almost like dying–yet you were happy. What was it you found? See, I am giving you everything. I have forgiven you. Now forgive me. Tell me, what is it? Your secret, your faith–give it to me before I go.”

At the sound of this broken pleading a strange passion of pity and love took the young man by the throat. His voice shook a little as he answered eagerly:

“Father, there is nothing to forgive. I am your son; I will gladly tell you all that I know. I will give you the secret. Father, you must believe with all your heart, and soul, and strength in–“

Where was the word–the word that he had been used to utter night and morning, the word that had meant to him more than he had ever known? What had become of it?

He groped for it in the dark room of his mind. He had thought he could lay his hand upon it in a moment, but it was gone. Some one had taken it away. Everything else was most clear to him: the terror of death; the lonely soul appealing from his father’s eyes; the instant need of comfort and help. But at the one point where he looked for help he could find nothing; only an empty space. The word of hope had vanished. He felt for it blindly and in desperate haste.

“Father, wait! I have forgotten something–it has slipped away from me. I shall find it in a moment. There is hope–I will tell you presently–oh, wait!”

The bony hand gripped his like a vice; the glazed eyes opened wider. “Tell me,” whispered the old man; “tell me quickly, for I must go.”

The voice sank into a dull rattle. The fingers closed once more, and relaxed. The light behind the eyes went out.

Hermas, the master of the House of the Golden Pillars, was keeping watch by the dead.

IV

The break with the old life was as clean as if it had been cut with a knife. Some faint image of a hermit’s cell, a bare lodging in a back street of Antioch, a class-room full of earnest students, remained in Hermas’ memory. Some dull echo of the voice of John the Presbyter, and the measured sound of chanting, and the murmur of great congregations, still lingered in his ears; but it was like something that had happened to another person, something that he had read long ago, but of which he had lost the meaning.