The place he reached toward evening was a small, lovely green oasis. He saw towering trees, heard a goat bleating, and thought he detected the outlines of roofs amid the green shadows. It seemed to him too that he could scent the presence of men. As he hesitantly drew closer, he felt as if he were being watched. He stopped and looked around. Under one of the outermost trees, he saw a figure sitting bolt upright. It was an old man with a hoary beard and a dignified but stern and rigid face, staring at him. The man had evidently been looking at him for some time. His eyes were keen and hard, but without expression, like the eyes of a man who is used to observing but without either curiosity or sympathy, who lets people and things approach him and tries to discern their nature, but neither attracts nor invites them.
“Praise be to Jesus Christ,” Joseph said.
The old man answered in a murmur.
“I beg your pardon,” Joseph said. “Are you a stranger like myself, or are you an inhabitant of this beautiful oasis?”
“A stranger,” the white-bearded man said.
“Perhaps you can tell me, your Reverence, whether it is possible to reach the road to Ascalon from here?”
“It is possible,” the old man said. Now he slowly stood up, rather stiffly, a gaunt giant. He stood and gazed out into the empty expanse of desert. Joseph felt that this aged giant had little wish for conversation, but he ventured one more query.
“Permit me just one other question, your Reverence,” he said politely, and saw the man’s eyes return from his abstraction and focus on him. Coolly, attentively, they looked at him.
“Do you by any chance know where Father Dion, called Dion Pugil, may be found?”
The stranger’s brows contracted and his eyes became a trace colder.
“I know him,” he said curtly.
“You know him?” Joseph exclaimed. “Oh, then tell me, for it is to Father Dion I am journeying.”
From his superior height the old man scrutinized him. He took his time answering. At last he stepped backward to his tree trunk, slowly settled to the ground again, and sat leaning against the trunk in his previous position. With a slight movement of his hand he invited Joseph to sit also. Submissively, Joseph obeyed the gesture, feeling as he sat down the great weariness in his limbs; but he forgot this promptly in order to focus his full attention on the old man, who seemed lost in meditation. A trace of unfriendly sternness appeared upon his dignified countenance. But that was overlaid by another expression, virtually another face that seemed like a transparent mask: an expression of ancient and solitary suffering which pride and dignity would not allow him to express.
A long time passed before the old man’s eyes returned to him. Then he again scrutinized Joseph sharply and suddenly asked in a commanding tone: ““Who are you?”
“I am a penitent,” Joseph said. “I have led a life of withdrawal from the world for many years.”
“I can see that. I asked who you are.”
“My name is Joseph, Joseph Famulus.”
When Joseph gave his name, the old man did not stir, but his eyebrows drew together so sharply that for a while his eyes became almost invisible. He seemed to be stunned, troubled, or disappointed by the information he had received. Or perhaps it was only a tiring of the eyes, a distractedness, some small attack of weakness such as old people are prone to. At any rate he remained utterly motionless, kept his eyes shut for a while, and when he opened them again their gaze seemed changed, seemed to have become still older, still lonelier, still flintier and long-suffering, if that were possible. Slowly, his lips parted and he asked: “I have heard of you. Are you the one to whom the people go to confess?”
Abashed, Joseph said he was. He felt this recognition as an unpleasant exposure. For the second time on his journey he was ashamed to encounter his reputation.
Again the old man asked in his terse way: “And so now you are on your way to Dion Pugil? What do you want of him?”
“I would like to confess to him.”
“What do you expect to gain by that?”
“I don’t know. I trust him, and in fact it seems to me that a voice from above has sent me to him.”
“And after you have confessed to him, what then?”
“Then I shall do what he commands.”
“And suppose he advises or commands you wrongly?”
“I shall not ask whether it is right or wrong, but simply obey.”
The old man said no more. The sun had moved far down toward the horizon. A bird cried among the leaves of the tree. Since the old man remained silent, Joseph stood up. Shyly, he reverted to his request.
“You said you knew where Father Dion can be found. May I ask you to tell me the place and describe the way to it?”
The old man’s lips contracted in a kind of feeble smile. “Do you think you will be welcome to him?” he asked softly.
Strangely disconcerted by the question, Joseph did not reply. He stood there abashed. At last he said: “May I at least hope to see you again?”
