He started up. Ah, no, he was not dead as he had thought: life was beating within him, surging up strong and tenacious like the eagle amongst the stones.

‘I must remain up here all night,’ he told himself. ‘If I can get through this night without seeing her I shall be saved.’

He went outside and sat down beside Antiochus. The sun was sinking in a crimson sky, the shadows of the high rocks were lengthening over the enclosure and the wind-tossed bushes, and in the same way as he could not distinguish objects clearly in the uncertain light without, so Paul could not tell which of the two desires within him was the strongest. Presently he said:

‘The old man cannot speak now, he is dying. It is time to administer extreme unction, and if he dies we must arrange for the body to be moved. It will be necessary …’ he added as though to himself, but did not dare to complete the sentence, ‘it will be necessary to spend the night here.’

Antiochus got up and began to make preparations for the ceremony. He opened the box, pressing the silver fasteners with enjoyment, and drew out the white cloth and the amphora of oil: then he unfolded his red cope and put it on – he might have been himself the priest! When everything was ready they went back into the hut, where the grandson, on his knees, was supporting the dying man’s head. Antiochus knelt down on the other side, with the folds of his cope spread out on the ground. He laid the white cloth over the stone that served as a table, and the scarlet of his cope was reflected in the silver amphora. The keeper, too, knelt down outside the hut, with his dog beside him.

Then the priest anointed the old man’s forehead, and the palms of his hands which had never sought to do violence to anyone, and his feet which had borne him far from men as from evil itself.

The setting sun shone direct into the hut with a last dazzling splendour, lighting up Antiochus in his scarlet cope, so that between the old man and the priest he looked like a live coal amongst dead cinders.

‘I shall have to go back,’ thought Paul. ‘I have no excuse for remaining here.’ Presently he went outside the hut and said: ‘There is no hope, he is quite unconscious.’

‘Comatose,’ said the keeper with precision.

‘He cannot live more than a few hours and arrangements must be made for transporting the body down to the village,’ continued Paul; and he longed to add, ‘And I must stay here all night,’ but he was ashamed of his untruth.

Moreover he was beginning now to feel the need of walking and a craving to get back to the village. As night fell the thought of sin began subtly to attract him again and drew him in with the invisible net of darkness. He felt it and was afraid; but he kept guard over himself, and he knew his conscience was awake and ready to uphold him.