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He knew well enough that the slave by the threshold would not believe in that excuse, lentiles being plentiful enough. Terror had robbed Athribis' deceitful tongue of its usual cunning, and now he silently bewailed his startled answer. If the slave by the threshold should report to Heraklas' mother the fact that Athribis had been away!
"Dost thou believe on the Son of God?" It seemed to Heraklas that there came to him, also, Christ's solemn question. With awe-struck lips, Heraklas whispered, out of a heart that craved its answer, "Who is he, Lord, that I might believe on him?" Heraklas bent above his roll. The answer of the Lord was there. "It is He that talketh with thee." The lad dropped his papyrus, and covered his face.
"How art thou bound, my Timokles?" asked Heraklas, when they had embraced and wept together. "My feet are bound with naught but cords, but a chain about my body fasteneth me to a hook in the wall," answered Timokles. "Thou canst not release me, my brother! Flee, while thou canst!" "Nay, but I will try," whispered Heraklas resolutely.
"What is the writing, that he hideth it there?" the slave questioned himself. Heraklas continued to read. Stretched on his perch, and straining his neck to look, Athribis deemed the time long. His prying eyes noted carefully the distance of the loose brick from the floor. Athribis did not recognize the papyrus as one that he had seen before.
Furiously, with all his strength, he dug and pulled till the staple yielded, and he fell down among the prisoners. But the drunken men on deck did not hear. Heraklas labored on, till at last he threw his arms about his brother. "Stand up, my Timokles," he begged. "See if thou art not free!" Timokles arose. Nothing hindered him. "O Heraklas!" he whispered, trembling with excitement.
He had not been long hidden before he heard near him the sound of a great sigh and the rattling of a chain, as of some animal half-wakened from sleep. "It is some wild animal that is to be taken to Rome," suspected Heraklas, not without a little uneasiness at his own proximity to the beast. It was likely that the creature was well secured, yet the lad crept farther away.
Plucking from his girdle his carnelian buckle, that signified to an Egyptian the blood of Isis, said to wash away the sins of the wearer, Heraklas leaned forward, and flung the rosy ornament far into the white foam of the waves below. He could not wear that heathen sign, even though his mother had given the ornament to him.
But no prayer to Re or hymn to Horus escaped Heraklas' lips. How should he, who rejoiced in the knowledge of sins forgiven, pray more to false gods? A holy awe and a great joy wrapped his soul.
He bowed in awe. For a long time he knelt there, pouring out his soul in prayer but not to Egypt's gods. And that which is written of the blind man was fulfilled in Heraklas, also "And he said, Lord, I believe. And he worshiped him." When Heraklas rose from his knees, the sun was high in mid-heaven. It was the time at home when his mother would burn myrrh to the sun.
Only the swaying of the water against the dock answered him. He sprang up and walked out on the dyke that stretched toward the isle of Pharos. Opposite him, the ship showed still more plainly than from the docks. Heraklas made out the prayer inscribed on the vessel: "Do thou, O Isis, preserve in safety this ship over the blue waves." "O Timokles!
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