Homo Sum — Complete by Georg Ebers (great novels .TXT) 📖

her cheeks; Marthana held her hand and stroked it, and the senator stepped to the window and sighed deeply as he looked down into the dark court. Sorrow lay on all their hearts like a heavy leaden burden. All was still in the spacious room, only now and then a loud, long-drawn cry of the wailing women rang through the quiet night and reached them through the open window; it was a heavy hour, rich in vain, but silent self-accusation, in anxiety, and short prayers; poor in hope or consolation.

Presently Petrus heaved a deep sigh, and Dorothea rose to go up to him and to say to him some sincere word of affection; but just then the dogs in the yard barked, and the agonized father said softly—in deep dejection, and prepared for the worst:

“Most likely it is they.”

The deaconess pressed his hand in hers, but drew back when a light tap was heard at the court-yard gate. “It is not Jethro and Antonius.” said Petrus, “they have a key.”

Marthana had gone up to him, and she clung to him as he leaned far out of the window and called to whoever it was that had tapped:

“Who is that knocking?”

The dogs barked so loud that neither the senator nor the women were able to hear the answer which seemed to be returned.

“Listen to Argus,” said Dorothea, “he never howls like that, but when you come home or one of us, or when he is pleased.”

Petrus laid his finger on his lips and sounded a clear, shrill whistle, and as the dogs, obedient to this signal, were silent, he once more called out, “Whoever you may be, say plainly who you are, that I may open the gate.”

They were kept waiting some few minutes for the answer, and the senator was on the point of repeating his enquiry, when a gentle voice timidly came from the gate to the window, saying, “It is I, Petrus, the fugitive Sirona.” Hardly had the words tremulously pierced the silence, when Marthana broke from her father, whose hand was resting on her shoulder, and flew out of the door, down the steps and out to the gate.

“Sirona; poor, dear Sirona,” cried the girl as she pushed back the bolt; as soon as she had opened the door and Sirona had entered the court, she threw herself on her neck, and kissed and stroked her as if she were her long lost sister found again; then, without allowing her to speak, she seized her hand and drew her—in spite of the slight resistance she offered—with many affectionate exclamations up the steps and into the sitting-room. Petrus and Dorothea met her on the threshold, and the latter pressed her to her heart, kissed her forehead and said, “Poor woman; we know now that we have done you an injustice, and will try to make it good.” The senator too went up to her, took her hand and added his greetings to those of his wife, for he knew not whether she had as yet heard of her husband’s end.

Sirona could not find a word in reply. She had expected to be expelled as a castaway when she came down the mountain, losing her way in the darkness. Her sandals were cut by the sharp rocks, and hung in strips to her bleeding feet, her beautiful hair was tumbled by the night-wind, and her white robe looked like a ragged beggar’s garment, for she had torn it to make bandages for Polykarp’s wound.

Some hours had already passed since she had left her patient—her heart full of dread for him and of anxiety as to the hard reception she might meet with from his parents.

How her hand shook with fear of Petrus and Dorothea as she raised the brazen knocker of the senator’s door, and now—a father, a mother, a sister opened their arms to her, and an affectionate home smiled upon her. Her heart and soul overflowed with boundless emotion and unlimited thankfulness, and weeping loudly, she pressed her clasped hands to her breast.

But she spared only a few moments for the enjoyment of these feelings of delight, for there was no happiness for her without Polykarp, and it was for his sake that she had undertaken this perilous night-journey. Marthana had tenderly approached her, but she gently put her aside, saying, “Not just now, dear girl. I have already wasted an hour, for I lost my way in the ravines. Get ready Petrus to come back to the mountain with me at once, for—but do not be startled Dorothea, Paulus says that the worst danger is over, and if Polykarp—”

“For God’s sake, do you know where he is?” cried Dorothea, and her cheeks crimsoned while Petrus turned pale, and, interrupting her, asked in breathless anxiety, “Where is Polykarp, and what has happened to him?”

“Prepare yourself to hear bad news,” said Sirona, looking at the pair with mournful anxiety as if to crave their pardon for the evil tidings she was obliged to bring. “Polykarp had a fall on a sharp stone and so wounded his head. Paulus brought him to me this morning before he set out against the Blemmyes, that I might nurse him. I have incessantly cooled his wound, and towards mid-day he opened his eyes and knew me again, and said you would be anxious about him. After sundown he went to sleep, but he is not wholly free from fever, and as soon as Paulus came in I set out to quiet your anxiety and to entreat you to give me a cooling potion, that I may return to him with it at once.” The deepest sorrow sounded in Sirona’s accents as she told her story, and tears had started to her eyes as she related to the parents what had befallen their son. Petrus and Dorothea listened as to a singer, who, dressed indeed in robes of mourning, nevertheless sings a lay of return and hope to a harp wreathed with flowers.

“Quick, quick, Marthana,” cried Dorothea eagerly and with sparkling eyes, before Sirona had ended. “Quick, the basket with the bandages. I will mix the fever-draught myself.” Petrus went up to the Gaulish woman.

“It is really no worse than you represent?” he asked in a low voice. “He is alive? and Paulus—”

“Paulus says,” interrupted Sirona, “that with good nursing the sick man will be well in a few weeks.”

“And you can lead me to him?”

“Oh, alas! alas!” Sirona cried, striking her hand against her forehead. “I shall never succeed in finding my way back, for I noticed no way-marks! But stay—Before us a penitent from Memphis, who has been dead a few weeks—”

“Old Serapion?” asked Petrus.

“That was his name,” exclaimed Sirona. “Do you know his cave?”

“How should I?” replied Petrus. “But perhaps Agapitus—”

“The spring where I got the water to cool Polykarp’s wound, Paulus calls the partridge’s-spring.”

“The partridge’s-spring,” repeated the senator, “I know that.” With a deep sigh he took his staff, and called to Dorothea, “Do you prepare the draught, the bandages, torches, and your good litter, while I knock at our neighbor Magadon’s door, and ask him to lend us slaves.”

“Let me go with you,” said Marthana. “No, no; you stay here with your mother.”