Chapter IV: Part 4

Malchus took up the spade and, going into the cell, began to shovel the sand from the oratory. It was hard work for a body weakened by long fasting, and as he labored the sweat ran down his body and fell from his face in drops into the sand. He labored all morning and on, with flagging strength, into the afternoon; but before he had half cleared the chamber he was breathless and exhausted. Meanwhile Serapion had been scooping away the sand outside the cell with his hands and had brought to light some of the stones of the ruined wall and also a wooden door and a great earthenware trough. They rested for a while in the shadow of the cell and ate and drank a little, "for," Serapion said, "when the body labors for the soul it is worthy of its hire. To-morrow," he continued, "you must pile these loose stones into a heap ready to hand for rebuilding, for if you do not the sand will soon bury them again. But, as you see, we have found none of the old roofing. The thatch has long since been scattered by the winds and who knows what has happened to the fallen beams. But two miles westward from here there is a grove. It is the place of which I told you, where there is a spring at which I fill my water skin. There you can cut some new beams for your roof and gather reeds or grass for the thatch. There, too, you will find fallen palm leaves for your weaving. Take up the ax and we will set out now. There I shall leave you, for I must go back to my cell. There is no wind, and will not be to-day or to-night, so you will easily find your way back here by following our footprints. But first let us move the loaves and water skin into the oratory and set up the door to close the entrance."

When this had been done, Malchus and Serapion set out slowly through the burning sand.... Malchus stood alone under tall palm trees whose fans wove a shady roof overhead. There were other trees, too, and parched herbage and spiny thickets. The ground was strewn with fallen palm leaves and here and there a fallen tree or a broken branch. The pool of the water spring was parched dry; withered leaves stuck like scabs to its white stones. Not a breath stirred. A silence more awful than the open silence of the desert held the place under a spell. Malchus felt himself crushed by the weight of its solitude. Serapion had just left him, carrying with him a great bunch of dry palm leaves which he had collected for his weaving, and Malchus, standing there alone, felt that there was no longer any reason for living. For some minutes he stood immovable, lost in a mournful revery; then with a great effort he flung off his oppression as if it had been a physical burden and took up the ax.

He chose a fallen bough of suitable thickness and began to lop off the twigs and then to hack it into equal lengths. The wood was hard and the loud ring of the ax broke profanely on the silence. He cut three roof timbers; it was the most he could carry; and he realized for the first time how many journeys to the grove he would have to make before he had collected enough wood to cover his roof. Now he hoisted the three timbers on to his shoulders, and, straightening his back, began to move away. Burdened as he was, his feet plowed deeply into the loose sand and several times he had to throw down the timbers to ease his bruised shoulders.

By the time he had come within the sight of his cell the light was reddening toward sunset. The scene before him reminded him of that other sunset when Serapion had gone away to fill the water skin. The same process would repeat itself now--the brief glaring holocaust of earth and heaven, and then the ashen death which so quickly followed it, and Malchus remembered the grim wraith which had taken substance before his eyes out of the sand. But Serapion had warned him not to allow his mind to indulge in idle imaginings, and, having thrown down his burden, he began to collect together some of the scattered stones of the ruin into an orderly pile. But before he could do much the light faded and he lifted away the door from the entrance of the oratory, went in, and, having set up the door again behind him, began to pray. It had been a strenuous day, and body and soul thrilled with a sense of accomplishment. He prayed easily and joyfully, asking for strength and blessing in the life that lay before him.

As the rolling tracts of desert stretched every way from the small point of earth which was his cell, so, it seemed to Malchus, his future life stretched forward into the years, clear and smooth from the moment in which he stood. He confronted it calmly, and a sense of greatness--the greatness of time and of space and the great spaces of the spirit before which the other greatnesses are as nothing--filled his soul. He rose refreshed from his prayer, and having eaten a loaf he lay down to sleep, for Serapion had warned him that during the period in which he labored daily at the rebuilding of his cell it would be necessary for him to take more food and sleep than at other times.

Throughout all that time Malchus lived contented, his energy divided between prayer and hard bodily labor. His body was healthy with the daily toil and his mind, sufficiently occupied by the work, kept clean and limpid; the turbid sediment of past miseries, vain regrets, and tormenting desires, had sunk away into unconsciousness. The cell growing daily before his eyes, the difficulties of inexperience confronted and solved, the expeditions to the grove for wood and later for stones--for he used up all the stones he could find near the cell and still needed more--kept his life free from monotony, and it was not until, after many weeks, the work was nearing completion that he remembered that the life he was living was not the hermit's life, but only the preparation for it. Then he began to look forward with something like fear to the day when all would be finished, for then there would again be a great emptiness in his life. Then he would stand face to face with himself once more and it would need all his strength to live worthily in the sight of God. Then would come an end, or almost an end, to his journeys to the grove and his life outside his cell, for Serapion had told him that the hermit must never leave his cell except in case of necessity. Malchus knew that the life he was leading at present was not in itself profitable, for though it protected him from evil, it did not enable him to advance in spiritual excellence. It was a life apart from good or evil, like the life of an animal: and, thinking how calm and even pleasant it had become to him, he remembered how Serapion had said that it was not well, except for a very little while, for the soul to be at rest.

That night he awoke in sudden fear with the sense that evil was close to him, and next morning he saw that the sand round about his cell was pitted by many footprints. They were the footprints of cloven-footed creatures. One of them, larger it seemed than the rest, had entered the doorless outer chamber and had stood at the very door of the oratory, and Malchus, knowing that the powers of evil were drawing closer about him, thenceforward forced himself to work and pray more strenuously and to eat and sleep less.

_Chapter
Ten_

And with the end of the labor of building came the end of contentment; for now all the easy purposes had gone out of his life and there remained only the high purpose of the hermit, too remote and difficult, it seemed, except for the rare moments of ecstasy. For some time he lived sunk in a profound depression. His body, deprived of healthy labor, rose up and tormented him. He prayed for long hours both day and night, but no comfort came to him from his prayers and it seemed to him that time had swept onward and left him stagnating, body and soul, in a shallow pool. His cell became hateful to him, and the weaving with which he tried to combat idleness was now a joyless drudgery. He felt nothing of that spiritual zeal which he had hoped would come to him when he had finally laid aside all worldly cares. Far from it. His life grew torpid and inert, lower than the life of the lowest beasts. His soul was an empty husk, his body vile, and his mind, emptied of all living occupation, began more and more to lose itself in the past. Old memories crowded about him and imprisoned him in their ghostly being and it was only by a fierce and exhausting watchfulness that he was able to drive them off. But they took revenge upon him by returning to him in his sleep, and he would wake horror-stricken from long rambling dreams of feasts and, worse, of sudden meetings with Helena or one of his earlier loves. One night Helena stood close beside him and touched him, sending a shudder through his flesh, half rapture and half terror, and he awoke suddenly with the sense of her penetrating every bone in his body. His cell was dark and cold as a tomb; a terrible silence held the desert and he felt the invisible presence of evil waiting breathless to fasten upon him. He sprang up and, beating his breast with his clenched fists, he prayed with a loud voice to shut out the unendurable silence. Could it be that in the sight of God a man was responsible even for his dreams? The violence of his nature was roused once again. By a great effort he threw off the deadly torpor which oppressed him and resolved to submit himself to a still more rigorous rule of life. Thereafter he ate only once in two days and slept for three hours only in forty-eight. He left his cell only once, at dawn, for his need, and when he did so he covered his face with his cloak for fear that the beauty of the world should weaken his spirit; and, that no opening should be left through which idle thoughts and waking dreams could assail him, he set himself an unalterable routine of recitation, prayer, meditation, and manual labor.

So he lived for many weeks; but in vain. For even when he had so schooled his body that his mouth and belly had almost ceased to clamor for water and food, his mind tormented him by urging him continually to go out from his cell, and whenever he ate or drank, the evil spirit of unrest tempted him, whispering, "Sip a little more water and eat another small crust of bread, for when these are finished it will be necessary for you to go out and seek more." But one morning, when only three more loaves remained, he opened the door of his cell and found a sackful of loaves leaning against it; and he took in the loaves, understanding that they had been sent for a sign that he must not leave his cell. But next day, when he was weaving, he finished the last of the palm leaves, and the spirit of unrest said, "Now at least you must go out, for unless you collect more leaves you will be without work for your hands." But Malchus hardened his resolve and, taking the largest mat he had woven, he picked it to pieces and so provided himself with enough material for many days' work. But soon he had finished the last drop of his supply of water and the spirit of unrest within him was glad, because now he would have to go to the grove to draw water, since man cannot live for long without water. But Malchus was strict with himself and determined that he would wait for a whole day without water, so that he might discover beyond doubt if it was God's will that he should go out of his cell. And throughout the next day no water came; his lips and tongue were parched and even the little water in the trough had been sucked up by the heat, so that he could not soak the leaf strips for his weaving. Then joy sprang into his heart and he took down the water skin and went out into the sunlight.

The day was still mild and it was a relief to move his cramped limbs and to gaze once again into the pure, unconfined freedom of the desert. The air was clean and cool against his skin and he recalled that moment in the green hollow when he had lowered himself slowly and rapturously into the pool. His progress was slow because of the deep, powdery sand and the weakness of his body, but it had now become natural to him that the ground on which he walked should always be sand, and he plodded on undistressed till the delightful green of the grove came in sight, and then took him to its shadowy heart. The spring, as he had expected, was flowing again. Where the white, parched stones had been, a crystal basin stood brimful, and the spell of the water had called up a fresh leafy fringe about it with flowers springing up among the green. Sprays of silver bubbles twirled up through the dark, clear, solid water. It was as if the spirit of peace and coolness had taken form in a crystal. Malchus sat down by the spring and wept. He made no attempt to restrain his tears, but allowed them to flow on, finding a relief in them as though all the hard and stubborn things in his heart were melting away. After he had sat there for a long time he rose and filled the water skin and, laying it down by the spring, he began to collect the fallen palm leaves. And as he roved from palm tree to palm tree with his eyes continually on the ground, the pleasure-lover in him kept asking him why he should not always live in this grove and why Serapion should not live there, too. What had they gained by living solitary in the barren desert that they could not have gained by living here? Then the fanatic in him showed him to himself as the great saint depending on no earthly support whether of human love, earthly beauty or pleasant food and drink; and, thinking of the weeks during which he had lived in solitude and of the exiguous diet he had endured, he grew reconciled to his arid life, for was he not already of that company of chosen souls whose lives are beautiful in the sight of God?

He had collected enough palm leaves, and now he raised his eyes from the ground. He had wandered a long way from the spring, and, hoisting the bunch of leaves on his shoulder, he turned and began to make his way back to it, for there he had left the water skin. When he reached the spring he was astonished to see a man sitting beside it. His hair was grizzled; he was almost an old man. Two newly skinned pelts lay on the ground beside him. He had laid them with the inward sides uppermost to dry in the sun. The livid surfaces shone like polished granite and flies buzzed loudly about them.

"Where do you come from?" Malchus asked him, "and how long have you been in the desert?"

"I am a hunter, as you see," the stranger replied, "and I have been in this country for eleven months. During all that time you are the first man I have seen."

The two, unwilling to part in that inhuman solitude, stayed long in talking, their eyes scanning each other as if in wonder at the sight of a human creature. At length, with a sigh Malchus took up his water skin and, full of sadness and discouragement, journeyed toward his cell. When his knees began to fail under him and it became necessary for him to rest a little, he threw down his burden and, lying down beside it, fell into a melancholy meditation. Then he rose to his knees and smiting himself upon the face cried out: "O Malchus, well may you think that you have done nothing, for you have not endured even the solitude of this hunter, who is a man of the world and no hermit." And he went on his way even more slowly than ever, for despair was upon him, and he felt a great reluctance to return to his cell. It was as though during those few hours of liberty he had escaped into another world--a tender world of green leaves, running water, and human sympathy--and at the first sight of his cell across the sandhills he felt like one returning to prison. Yet he knew that it was his true self which was driving him back and which told him now that he had sinned that day in lingering beyond what was necessary in the grove and delaying in talk with the hunter....

With the night, as if it were the instant sign of his relapse, the creatures of darkness gathered about his cell, howling in a dismal, mocking chorus, answered by wilder shrieks from the distance, as though other hordes were hastening up from the heart of the desert. Once there was a beating upon his door, as if the evil spirits, grown bolder, were clamoring for entrance. Then a long silence; and Malchus listened, his forehead wet with fear, for he knew that the demons had not departed, but were lurking silent about him. Suddenly some soft, light thing struck him on the face. He flung out his arms in terror and loathing, and there followed a wild beating of hands against the bars of his window. He dared not raise his voice for fear he should betray the corner in which he cowered; but he prayed silently, fervently, and without remission, often making the holy sign upon the darkness. Then, as if tortured by the sign, the creatures set up their howls again. It seemed that they were all round the cell; he could hear them breathing and buffeting against the door. It was not until the dawn was near that all became silent again, and now it seemed that the silence was empty. The evil spirits had gone. Malchus, exhausted by fear and the urgency of his praying, fell asleep.

Many hours later he awoke to a gentle, continuous noise, as if heavy drops were pattering on the sand or the sands themselves on every side were seething and shuffling with a life of their own. His fears leaped up once more, but when he opened his eyes he saw that the sun was shining. The honest light of day restored his courage and he rose and opened the door of his cell. His heart leaped to his throat, but next moment he was reassured, for when he had realized what he saw it was harmless enough. A large flock of sheep was passing his door. The expanse of broad, woolly backs spread before him, each with its own agitated movement. It was like the Nile in flood, its surface broken into hundreds of muddy waves and eddies. At the edges of the flock he saw the meek shaven heads, and here and there the pink strip of a panting tongue. The rank, oily smell of fleeces filled the air. An old shepherd was leading them--the only upright figure in the humble crowd--and seeing Malchus at his door, he turned aside to speak to him, sitting down by the cell with his back against its wall. He was a Lybian and it was with some difficulty that they conversed. The flock, deprived of its leader, stood still, and as Malchus and the shepherd talked, their talk was accompanied by a chorus of melancholy bleating. Above its long droning rose individual voices of every tone from the deep and guttural to the plaintive wail. It was a sound infinitely hopeless, like the crying of children led into captivity.

"What are you doing here in the desert?" Malchus asked the shepherd. "There is nothing here for your sheep to eat."

"I am taking them down to the marsh of Scete to eat the green herb," the shepherd replied. "My village is twenty miles from here, and once a year, after the flooding of the river, we lead the flocks down to eat of the herb. Now they are hungry and exhausted, as you see, but I hope to bring them to the marsh by midnight."

He wore a little bag slung about his shoulders, and now he pulled it round on to his lap and opened it. Malchus saw that it contained a bunch of some kind of greenery. "What is this?" he asked.

"This is my food," the old man replied.

"And have you nothing else to eat?"

The shepherd shook his head. "For the last thirty years," he answered, "I have eaten nothing else. I eat once a day and drink as much water as I need. By living thus I am more free than if my body needed the food which can be found only in villages and human habitations. I am free, too, of the need of money and I give the wages paid me by the owner of the sheep to those of my people who need it." While speaking the shepherd had risen to his feet, and the wide expanse of woolly backs, as if in response to his movement, was stirred once again by numberless agitations. Then Malchus fell down at the feet of the shepherd: "O my father," he wailed, "I imagined in my pride that I had attained to abstinence, but you are worthy of a greater reward than I, for I have eaten bread which is made for me by others and have drunk water which another has drawn for me."

The old man looked down upon Malchus in bewilderment, and then as if wishing to escape, turned and moved slowly upon his way. And immediately the flock began to advance, jostling together and then expanding; then, closing together again, it settled into its habitual density, following the slow steps of its shepherd.

"When do you return?" Malchus shouted after the old man.

The shepherd slowly turned his head. "You will not see me again," he shouted back. "They will graze along the marsh northward for several days and we shall return another way."

Soon the faintest sound of them had drained away into the silence of the desert, and by noon even the sight of them was no more than a pale irregular stain on a linen cloth....

During that day Malchus found that his despair, so far from having been relieved by his recent escape from solitude, had increased. Pondering in his cell upon his meetings with the hunter and the shepherd, he understood that God had driven him out of his cell in order that he might learn from them that all he had achieved in the life of solitude and fasting was in itself nothing and that others had accomplished much more in the mere course of their business; and as he examined his life, he knew that, for all his desire to pursue excellence, it was stagnant. Yet what else could he do but pray? Despair came upon him, and thenceforward he was even more restless than before. He found himself inventing small reasons to leave his cell, and when he had set his mind against them he felt none of the triumph of conquest, but only a darker despair. And more and more he was tormented by dreams, dreams that rose from his buried desires, setting before him fearful temptations to which sometimes he yielded with a frenzied self-abandonment. Then he awoke with the terror of sin upon him and the dreadful certainty that evil--evil in the material form of horrible physical presences--was closing inexorably about him. In the worst of all these dreams it seemed that his whole life had become a mockery and a snare. It was the familiar scene of a feast at the house of Diocles, the scene that haunted him so persistently. He himself, in the dream, kept changing from the old Malchus to Malchus the hermit; for his impulse was to obey his desires, but when he began to do so immediately a freezing fear held him back. And all the material things of his dream changed, too, from one nature to another. He reached out his hand to a peach, but when it touched his lips it was changed to vileness and corruption. The wine in his glass turned in his mouth to mud and sand. Last of all, Helena, leaping from one of the couches as the girl Thaïs had done at that last feast in the house of Diocles, came across the dining hall toward him with her lovely, half-mocking smile. He smiled back at her, stretching out his arms; but, when she drew nearer, a white terror like leprosy laid hold of him and he thrust her off, covering his face with one hand. But Helena forced herself upon him, bending over him, weighing upon him; and gazing up at her in mortal terror, he saw that she had changed to a vile hag with parched skin and bleared and yellow eyes. He struggled wildly. A great weight on his chest smothered his cries, but at length he broke through the dream into consciousness as through a thicket of terrifying deceits. He was awake now, but still some foul creature was fastened upon him. He felt its weight; the filthy stench of it sickened him. He thrust out his hands and they touched coarse hair. Then a great cry burst from him and he was free. Close under his window a loud howling broke out. Showers of sand fell upon his face and the door of his cell swung to and fro on its hinges. He sprang to his feet and ran out in terror into the open. There he was received into clouds of wind-blown sand, and, rushing on through the storm, he descended the slope, half running and half falling, to the level ground below. He ran on in the blind hope that he was running toward Serapion, and at last, stumbling in the clogging sand, he fell on his face and lay where he fell, insensible.

_Chapter
Eleven_

When he came to himself the night was gone. The dawn, an unfathomable dome of cool yellow flame, towered immensely above the yellow aisles and ambulatories of the desert.

Having spent some time in prayer, he went on his way northward, confident that when he came within the region of Serapion's cell he would recognize it. But as he labored on, the country was still strange--a land, it seemed, never before visited by living thing--and the hour passed by at which he should have arrived, and the sun rose toward noon, dropping its fiery weight upon the sand and striking up again from the baked sand with the heavy glow of a furnace, till it seemed to Malchus that he was being tortured before a great fire. His lips were gummed to each other and some nerve or artery in his brain pulsed as if it would burst and destroy him. When noon was long past, he turned round in despair, but, thinking it possible that he had wandered out too far in the direction of the river, he bore a little to the westward as he made his way south again. But still the desert had an alien face, and as it drew on toward evening he gave up all hope that he would find his way and, exhausted, bewildered, and full of a vague dread, he was on the point of lying down to rest when he saw that he was standing a few yards from the foot of the familiar slope. Above him he could see the upper part of the cell itself, and outside, near the edge of the slope, a figure was standing immovable with arms raised sideways in the form of the Cross. At the sight of it he reeled and fell, as though some tension within him had snapped. It was as if all his troubles had suddenly fallen from him. He was so weak that he had to climb the slope on his hands and knees.

When he reached the terrace, Serapion had lowered his arms and was waiting as though he had expected him. "Prisoner! Prisoner!" he called out to him. "Why have you cast away your liberty?" And Malchus knew that by _liberty_ Serapion meant the liberty of his cell, and that he called him _prisoner_ because in his wisdom he had understood that he was a slave to his unrest. Seeing that Malchus was exhausted, Serapion made him sit down outside the cell and, bringing out water and bread and some dried dates, he bade him eat and drink; and Malchus told the old man all his troubles, asking him if in the sight of God a man was responsible for his dreams.

"Have you not read," answered Serapion, "what our Redeemer answered Satan when Satan had said that he would send his people against the people of God? 'And if they do evil unto thy chosen ones,' said Satan, 'I cannot help it, and I will trip them up even though I can do so only in dreams of the night.' But our Redeemer replied: 'If a still-born child can inherit his father's possessions, then also dreams shall be accounted a sin to my chosen ones.'"

"And what of evil thoughts?" asked Malchus.

"It is Satan, not we, who sows them," Serapion replied; "but it is our business not to welcome them. Evil thoughts are like the savors of boiled meat and roast meat that issue from a cook-house. All who go past smell the savors, but one man will go in and eat, and another, who does not wish to eat, will smell the savors as he passes and go on his way."

Then Malchus spoke of the spirit of unrest which had taken hold of him, urging him ceaselessly to go forth from his cell, and he told Serapion how, when at last he had been compelled to go out, he had met the hunter and the shepherd and learned from their manner of life that his own fasting and loneliness were as nothing, "so that now," he said, "my life seems vain and as it were without salt and I do not any longer derive profit from the relaxation of weaving. It is as though God had turned his face from me. What then, must I do?" he asked; "for whether I stay in my cell and fight the temptation or whether I yield to it and go out, my trouble continues. Help me, my father, with your wisdom and experience, for if you do not, the powers of evil will fasten upon me inescapably."

The old man looked kindly upon Malchus and, sitting down beside him, began to instruct him. "When the spirit of unrest is upon you," he said, "you must fight against it and not fly from it, for if you go out of your cell you will find that from which you fly wherever you go. But when you have conquered the temptation you can go out, for then you will go out in a state of peace. But even if you cannot escape from this trouble, still you must stay in your cell, since this, for the hermit, is the first of rules. Go back, then, when you have had some sleep here, and close the door of your cell. But, for the rest, you must eat, drink, and sleep as much as you desire and you must give up the weaving, for this is no longer profitable to you."

"But if I give up fasting, watching, and labor," said Malchus, in amazement, "shall I not be falling away still more from the hermit rule?"

"Have I not told you, my son," answered Serapion, "that fasting, watching, solitude, and labors, and even virginity itself, are in themselves nothing, but are good only as a means to spiritual excellence?"

But to the self-torturing nature of Malchus it was hard not to believe that these things had a virtue in themselves, and the thought of relinquishing what he had so hardly achieved filled him with fear.

"Do as I tell you, my son," said Serapion, seeing his hesitation, "and afterward, as other inclinations come to you, follow them so long as they are without offense. And in your prayers do not ask for one thing after another, but let your prayer be about the thing that is troubling you at the time. Then, after you have overcome that trouble, you may turn in prayer to other things. But if, when you are troubled by one passion, you set it aside and pray about another, the first passion will never be wholly cast out. For you it is necessary to conquer the spirit of unrest, and to do this you must stay in your cell and go out only in case of extreme necessity. To-morrow I will accompany you to your cell and bring away the mats you have woven, for I am going soon to Alexandria to sell those that I have made and I will sell yours at the same time. For you it would not yet be safe to go into the world even for a few hours."

When Malchus had returned to his cell and taken up the life which Serapion had prescribed, he began to discover by degrees the wisdom of the old man's instructions. For at first the consolation of food, drink, and sleep and the escape from the monotony of weaving loosened the cord of his unrest and a mellowness came into his heart. It became once more an easy and joyful thing to pray and it seemed to him that his prayers were answered. When evil thoughts came to him he was no longer afraid, but he turned aside his attention from them, saying: "I have nothing to do with this thought and I do not desire it. Let the sin of it be upon Satan." And after a little time he felt a desire to work again at the weaving of mats, and, taking up one of the neglected palm leaves, he began to tear it into strips, and when he had enough strips he put them to soak, and next day he fell to work with the old zeal, weaving a mat of wonderful fineness. And as he wove he reflected that even so the meditations and prayers of the righteous are woven together into a garment for the soul. After another interval of time he felt the impulse to rise in the night and pray, and then also to deny himself food and drink. So by overcoming the spirit of unrest he was drawn back, of his own desire, to the hermit's way; and for some time all seemed to be well with him.

But not for long. For soon the evil spirits, seeing that they could no longer dismay him by evil dreams and terrors of the night, began to tempt him subtly with things which seemed to be innocent and beautiful. And one night, after Malchus had been fasting for three whole days, an evil spirit appeared to him in the form of that vision of a winged man which once he had seen standing on the altar of Serapion's cell. Again Malchus saw that the feathers of his wings were plumed with golden beams and he was filled with delight and wonder and, crouching upon his knees before the altar, he remained for a long time gazing in ecstasy at the angel. Then the angel bent toward him and spoke.

"Malchus," he said, "I have been sent to comfort and exhort you because of your great abstinence. For the abstinence of the shepherd is now as nothing compared with yours."

And next day the evil spirits entered his cell in the form of flies, and when they saw that Malchus refrained from eating and drinking on that day also (though it had been his purpose to fast for three days only), they laughed and clapped their hands; but their laughter was nothing more, for Malchus, than the droning of flies.

Toward evening two young men came and knocked at the door and one of them said to Malchus: "Give us something to eat and some water to drink, my father, for we are broken with hunger, our mouths are parched with thirst, and we have still a long way to go."

Malchus brought them in and set bread and water before them; but he himself stood apart and ate nothing. And the elder of the young men said to him, "Will you not eat with us, my father?"

But Malchus shook his head. "Food and drink," he said, "are not necessary to me."

At that the two young men made a sign of astonishment to each other and Malchus heard the elder whisper to the younger, "This is a great saint." Then, having finished eating and drinking, they rose and went on their way. But as soon as they had gone out it came into Malchus's mind that he ought to have given them food for their journey also; and he took two loaves from the sack and hurried to the door to call them back. But the desert both far and near was empty and there was no new footprint about the door.

Malchus closed the door and, dropping the loaves into the sack, fell to thinking. His mind was troubled by what had happened and his trouble increased when he remembered that by refusing to eat with the young men he had made a boast of his abstinence; for true abstinence, as Serapion had often told him, does not concern that which is without, but only that which is within, and it is better to lay by for a moment the rule of abstinence than to fall into pride and boastfulness. Throughout that night Malchus prayed, confessing his sin and asking for strength to overcome pride; but as he prayed there crept into his mind the memory of the vision of the angel and, believing still that he had acquired merit by his abstinence, he took comfort. But it seemed, that night, as though all the creatures of the desert were holding sinful revel, for far over the sandhills the harsh laughter of fiends echoed through the darkness; and Malchus, hearing it, trembled, not knowing what it might signify. But because he had repented of his second act of pride, the power of the evil spirits over him was diminished: yet since he was not wholly purged of pride, being still blind to that former presumption into which he had been led by the false vision, the hold of Satan was not entirely loosed from him. And Satan, who, like a skillful hunter, is wont to pursue his prey slowly and by artful delays, was content to withdraw to a distance from Malchus till a convenient occasion should come.

But, alone in that waste where all things, down to the meanest herb and the smallest grain of sand, are instruments in the hands of Good and Evil, and where the sounds of winds and the crying of beasts are but the earthly embodiments of the voices of angels and devils, Malchus felt that evil had receded from him, and his life for a time became calm and untroubled, and his prayers and the work of his hands were as an unwavering flame ascending into the presence of God. But after many weeks were past the water skin was again empty and it became necessary for Malchus to go out and refill it. And as soon as the heat of noon began to abate he set out, keeping his eyes on the ground that lay before his feet. But an evil spirit had gone before him.

Having arrived at the edge of the grove, he threw down the water skin and began first to collect the fallen palm leaves; for whenever he came to the grove for water he replenished also his stock for weaving. But as he moved from tree to tree, with his eyes on the ground, he came down toward the little valley through which the water overflowed from the spring. The stream was broad and smooth, and tall canes in crowds waded in its shallows, hanging their long green pennons above the water; and as Malchus raised his eyes he saw through the screen of canes that something was moving on the further bank.

It was a girl with a bunch of long canes in her arms, and just as Malchus caught sight of her she laid the bunch on the ground and, kneeling down, bound it together in a bundle. But Malchus, forgetting in a flash all the strict and careful discipline of his new life, stood suddenly still in the grip of an overwhelming excitement, and, leaning against the bole of a palm tree, he stared at her like a tiger watching a drinking gazelle. When she had made the bundle fast she rose upright with a quick, youthful movement. One of her arms moved. She was undoing her sleeveless cotton garment. Then she wriggled her shoulders free and the gown dropped to her feet. She looked surprisingly small and neat without the clumsy gown; her spare, compact little body with the quick, full curves of first maturity shone softly like honey-colored bronze. She stepped clear of the gown and, like some delicately moving little animal, walked down into the shallow water. At first the pool only covered her ankles, then step by step it rose to her knees, and she went on, balancing herself with outstretched arms, till it was more than halfway up each thigh. She carried some small thing in her right hand. It was a knife, and bending down she began to cut the canes, the left hand grasping the tall stems and the right dipping down to cut below the water-level. When she had cut all she was able to hold, she waded back to the bank and laid them by the bundle, and then she returned into the stream to gather more. Where could she have come from? It seemed that she must be not a mortal girl, but the naiad of the spring, and that if she were disturbed she would surely dive down with one slim movement and a single hollow, musical splash, to her home under the water. When at last she had cut all the canes she wanted, she paused for a moment in the water and looked about her.

Malchus had all the while stood immovable, leaning against the tree trunk and partly hidden by it. A suppressed trembling shook him like a palsy, and the girl, as her eyes wandered idly over the bank and among the trees, suddenly caught sight of the parched hairy face and the eyes fixed hungrily upon her. She stared back at Malchus for a moment, and then, turning her back with the charming contempt of a young animal, went up on to the bank and slowly slipped on her gown. Malchus, too, stirred himself, and with a deep-drawn sigh began to retrace his steps to where he had left the water skin. When he had found it and carried it to the spring he was once more within sight of where the girl had been. She was gone now, and, having drawn the water, he departed slowly under the burden. He felt no repentance. His heart was hard and exultant. At that moment he revolted with the whole strength of his being against the God who demanded of His chosen the renunciation of earthly love, the beauty of the flesh, and the joys of the senses, and he was glad that, instead of flying at once from the grove as it was his duty as a hermit to do, he had seized the moment and obeyed the clamorous impulse. But as the seething of the senses died down and he found himself once again in the hard, pure desert, he knew that in that brief hour he had brought to naught all the long months of stern living and that the powers of evil had gained a great ascendancy over him. Perhaps that very night evil spirits would break down the door of his cell, and burst in the window bars, and lay hold upon him body and soul, torturing him until the weak body could resist no longer. Bodily death at such a time would bring with it the death of the immortal soul--an everlasting exile from the sight of the God against whom he had revolted. The thought overwhelmed him with horror and, staggering on his way toward the refuge of his cell, he called upon God like a wild creature howling at the sky. "O God," he wailed, "save me from the death I deserve. Remember, O God, my former life, that I loved without discrimination all things beautiful, and consider how great was my temptation. For was she not beautiful, O God, beautiful as a young gazelle? How can it be that what is so beautiful has no part in the divine nature?" Then, feeling that he had spoken blasphemy, he ceased and began to repeat aloud penitential psalms and prayers for the forgiveness of sins. So he hastened, feeble and breathless, on his way, looking neither before him nor behind, where, on the edge of the grove, the slim, straight-robed figure of a girl stood with one hand shading her eyes, watching him.

When he reached his cell he threw down the water skin and the palm leaves, not caring, in his despair, what became of them, and, flinging open the door, he staggered in and fell on his face in the oratory. At first he lay as one stunned, neither praying nor thinking, but after an hour of this prostration he came to his senses and began to pray feverishly, torrentially, like a man in a burning house or a sinking ship, pouring out passionate phrases and ejaculations so rapidly that his mind almost ceased to follow the sense of what his lips uttered. As he prayed, the light began to fail, and it seemed that the shadows that gathered silently into his cell were bodily presences. Soon the darkness would come, and with it the hosts of Satan into whose power he had so recklessly given himself.

But the night fell calm and silent. Not the remotest howl of hyena or jackal disturbed the crystal silence. And as the silence continued unbroken, Malchus, racked by fearful expectancy, became fascinated by it like a bird by the eye of a snake. He waited cold and breathless, more and more certain every minute that it would be shivered suddenly, appallingly, by some diabolical tumult which would be the prelude to his destruction. His mind had grown numb beneath the unendurable suspense, when at last the silence was broken and all his being concentrated into the one act of listening.

Instead of the horrors he was awaiting, it was a gentle, clear voice which had called softly outside his cell, A broken square of primrose-colored moonlight lay on the wall and floor of the oratory. For a time there was deep silence again. Then near the door the same sweet voice sent a thrill of delight through him, speaking a word that he did not understand. A sense of unreality possessed him; he must be asleep and dreaming, and he remembered with a feeling of infinite relief that Serapion had told him that a man is not responsible in the sight of God for his dreams. His fears were gone now, but his sense was still alert and soon he heard a faint sound in the outer room of his cell. He was too exhausted to wonder what it could be, and next moment something touched him in the dark--a hand, it seemed; but not the fierce hand of evil, but a gentle, ingratiating hand that stroked him. Malchus did not move. As in a dream, his will was nerveless and he lay with eyes closed while the groping hand explored him. Then two arms wound themselves about him and a soft cheek was laid against his. "Helena!" he whispered, ardently, and suddenly he threw off his passivity and, freeing his arms, he clasped to his own body the warm body that lay on the floor beside him.

_Chapter
Twelve_

He awoke next morning to a cold despair. He knew that what he had experienced had been no dream, and he knew, too, that one small spark of consciousness, which he had willfully muffled, had affirmed at the time that it was real. He had sinned consciously and willingly; his delusion had been deliberate. He dared not pray, for to take the name of God into his mouth, vile as he was, would itself be mortal sin; and even if he had dared to pray, the prayers of a wretch like himself, who had implored God's help and protection only to scorn it when the moment of temptation came, would, he knew, be no better than an insolent mockery in the ear of Heaven. Now he was alone indeed, cut off not only from the worldly life which he had abandoned, but also from the holy life of the desert and the eternal life which is its reward. He was exhausted by long fasting and the violence of his emotions; and as with eyes fixed starkly on vacancy he contemplated his state, the horror of it numbed his understanding. "It is impossible," he muttered to himself, "impossible that it was not a dream." Slowly and painfully he rose to his feet. His brain reeled and for a moment he could do no more than stand, steadying himself with both hands pressed against the walls. Then with groping hands and feet he staggered into the outer room and so to the doorway of the cell. On the smooth sand outside, the print of small bare feet was set as a witness against him; and, as if for a sign that all his good works had been brought to naught, all the mats that he had woven were gone. Then his gaze fell on the sack of loaves, and a light came into his eyes, for he saw in food and drink a last consolation for his misery. He plunged both arms into the sack, bringing out all the loaves that were left, and, carrying them outside the cell, he sat down beside the full water skin which he had left there on the previous evening. He untied the neck and dipped each loaf into the water. But to dip them only was not enough; the loaves were still too hard to eat. He gnawed at one, holding it in both hands and chawing at it like a dog at a bone. But he could not break the crust, and at last he flung it away from him in fury and, getting on to his knees, he reached an earthenware dish from the table and set the loaves to soak. And as they soaked he crouched beside them, snatching impatiently at one and another and putting them to his teeth. Crouching solitary there, now immovable, now breaking into convulsive activity as he seized a loaf and raised it to his mouth, he looked like a great ape playing with stones. At last the loaves were soft enough and he fell upon them ravenously, stuffing fragment after fragment into his mouth and then bowing his face to the dish and sucking in draughts of water to soften the mass. So he fed, a fierce and uncouth spectacle, while water and a paste of masticated bread exuded from the corners of his mouth and clung to his ragged beard. He did not remember how on that day a year ago he had lain, exquisitely dressed, at table in his own house, the host of one of the most marvelous of all the marvelous feasts for which he and his friends were famed throughout Alexandria. At that feast the guests had been delighted by the novelty of the little silver ovens in which the slaves handed small newly baked loaves, each cunningly molded into a fantastic shape.