So he sought solitude.
But the wind brought to his ears sounds resembling death-rattles; the tears of the dew reminded him of heavier drops, and every evening, the sun would spread blood in the sky, and every night, in his dreams, he lived over his parricide.
He made himself a hair-cloth lined with iron spikes.

On his knees, he ascended every hill that was crowned with a chapel.

But the unrelenting thought spoiled the splendour of the tabernacles and tortured him in the midst of his penances.
He did not rebel against God, who had inflicted his action, but he despaired at the thought that he had committed it.
He had such a horror of himself that he took all sorts of risks.
He rescued paralytics from fire and children from waves.

But the ocean scorned him and the flames spared him.

Time did not allay his torment, which became so intolerable that he resolved to die.
One day, while he was stooping over a fountain to judge of its depth, an old man appeared on the other side.