But why should that make Hypatia or any one else attractive?
And the poor little child of nature gazed in deep bewilderment at a crowd of new questions, as a butterfly might at the pages of the book on which it has settled, and was sad and discontented--not with herself, for was she not Pelagia the perfect ?--but with these strange fancies which came into other people's heads .-- Why should not every one be as happy as they could?
And who knew better than she how to be happy, and to make others happy ?....
'Look at that old monk standing on the pavement, Amalric! Why does he stare so at me?
Tell him to go away.' The person at whom she pointed, a delicate-featured old man, with a venerable white beard, seemed to hear her; for he turned with a sudden start, and then, to Pelagia's astonishment, put his hands before his face, and burst convulsively into tears.
'What does he mean by behaving in that way?
Bring him here to me this moment! I will know!' cried she, petulantly catching at the new object, in order to escape from her own thoughts.
In a moment a Goth had led up the weeper, who came without demur to the side of Pelagia's mule.
'Why were you so rude as to burst out crying in my face ?' asked she petulantly.
The old man looked up sadly and tenderly, and answered in a low voice, meant only for her ear-- 'And how can I help weeping, when I see anything as beautiful as you are destined to the flames of hell for ever ?' 'The flames of hell ?' said Pelagia, with a shudder.

'What for ?' 'Do you not know ?' asked the old man, with a look of sad surprise.

'Have you forgotten what you are ?' 'I?
I never hurt a fly!' 'Why do you look so terrified, my darling?
What have you been saying to her, you old villain ?' and the Amal raised his whip.
'Oh! do not strike him.

Come, come to-morrow, and tell me what you mean.' 'No, we will have no monks within our doors, frightening silly women.
Off, sirrah! and thank the lady that you have escaped with a whole skin.' And the Amal caught the bridle of Pelagia's mule, and pushed forward, leaving the old man gazing sadly after them.
But the beautiful sinner was evidently not the object which had brought the old monk of the desert into a neighbourhood so strange and ungenial to his habits; for, recovering himself in a few moments, he hurried on to the door of the Museum, and there planted himself, scanning earnestly the faces of the passers-out, and meeting, of course, with his due share of student ribaldry.
'Well, old cat, and what mouse are you on the watch for, at the hole's mouth here ?' 'Just come inside, and see whether the mice will not singe your whiskers for you....' 'Here is my mouse, gentlemen,' answered the old monk, with a bow and a smile, as he laid his hand on Philammon's arm, and presented to his astonished eyes the delicate features and high retreating forehead of Arsenius.
'My father,' cried the boy, in the first impulse of affectionate recognition; and then--he had expected some such meeting all along, but now that it was come at last, he turned pale as death.

The students saw his emotion.
'Hands off, old Heautontimoroumenos! He belongs to our guild now! Monks have no more business with sons than with wives.