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.
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.

The burden of sin that had oppressed him, the hopeless burden which had not ceased to cause Heraklas misery even when he made offerings to Isis and poured forth prayers to Serapis, was gone, gone at the touch of Jesus.
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.
"O Isis," murmured Heraklas, as he lost sight of the carnelian buckle within the waves, "I care not for thy blood! I know whose blood hath washed away my stain." With reverent rejoicing, he concealed his papyrus and turned homeward.
He passed into the great city.

A woman was worshiping before a statue of the god Chonsu, the moon.