But the recluse now lost consciousness, and when some minutes later he once more opened his eyes his head was resting softly in the lap of a young girl, and it was the voice of his beloved Klea that asked him tenderly.
"You poor dear father! How came you here in the desert, and into the hands of these murderers?
Do you know me--your Klea?
And he who is looking for your wounds--which are not visible at all--he is the Roman Publius Scipio.

Now first tell us where the dagger hit you that I may bind it up quickly--I am half a physician, and understand these things as you know." The recluse tried to turn his head towards Klea's, but the effort was in vain, and he said in a low voice: "Prop me up against the slanting wall of the tomb shrine yonder; and you, child, sit down opposite to me, for I would fain look at you while I die.

Gently, gently, my friend Publius, for I feel as if all my limbs were made of Phoenician glass, and might break at the least touch.

Thank you, my young friend--you have strong arms, and you may lift me a little higher yet.

So--now I can bear it; nay, I am well content, I am to be envied--for the moon shows me your dear face, my child, and I see tears on your cheeks, tears for me, a surly old man.