The old man nodded. “I shall be sleeping here and stay until shortly after sunrise,” he replied. “Go now, you are tired and hungry.”
With a respectful bow, Joseph walked on, and as dusk fell arrived at the little settlement. Here, much as in a monastery, lived a group of so-called cenobites, Christians from various towns and villages who had built shelters in this solitary place in order to devote themselves without disturbance to a simple, pure life of quiet contemplation. Joseph was given water, food, and a place to sleep, and since it was apparent how tired he was, his hosts spared him questions and conversation. One cenobite recited a prayer while the others knelt; all pronounced the Amen together.
At any other time the community of these pious men would have been a joy to him, but now he had only one thing in mind, and at dawn he hastened back to the place where he had left the old man. He found him lying asleep on the ground, rolled in a thin mat, and sat down under the trees off to one side, to await the man’s awakening. Soon the sleeper became restive. He awoke, unwrapped himself from the mat, and stood up awkwardly, stretching his stiffened limbs. Then he knelt and made his prayer. When he rose again, Joseph approached and bowed silently.
“Have you already eaten?” the stranger asked.
“No. It is my habit to eat only once a day, and only after sunset. Are you hungry, your Reverence?”
“We are on a journey,” the man replied, “and we are both no longer young men. It is better for us to eat a bite before we go on.”
Joseph opened his pouch and offered some of his dates. He had also received a millet roll from the friendly folk with whom he had spent the night, and he now shared this with the old man.
“We can go,” the old man said after they had eaten.
“Oh, are we going together?” Joseph exclaimed with pleasure.
“Certainly. You have asked me to guide you to Dion. Come along.”
Joseph looked at him in happy astonishment. “How kind you are, your Reverence!” he exclaimed, and began framing ceremonious thanks. But the stranger silenced him with a curt gesture.
“God alone is kind,” he said. “Let us go now. And stop calling me ‘your Reverence.’ What is the point of civilities and courtesies between two old hermits?”
The tall man set off with long strides, and Joseph kept pace with him. The sun had risen fully. The guide seemed sure of his direction, and promised that by noon they would reach a shady spot where they could rest during the hours of hottest sun. Thereafter they spoke no more on their way.
When they reached the resting place after several strenuous hours in the baking heat, and lay down in the shade of some vast boulders, Joseph again addressed his guide. He asked how many days’ marches they would need to reach Dion Pugil.
“That depends on you alone,” the old man said.
“On me?” Joseph exclaimed. “Oh, if it depended on me alone I would be standing before him right now.”
The old man did not seem any more inclined to conversation than before.
“We shall see,” he said curtly, turning on his side and closing his eyes. Joseph did not like to be in the position of observing him while he slumbered; he moved quietly off to one side, lay down, and unexpectedly fell asleep, for he had lain long awake during the night. His guide roused him when the time for resuming their journey had come.
Late in the afternoon they arrived at a camping place with water, trees, and a bit of grass. Here they drank and washed, and the old man decided to make a halt. Joseph timidly objected.
“You said today,” he pointed out, “that it depended on me how soon or late I would reach Father Dion. I would gladly press on for many hours if I could actually reach him today or tomorrow.”
“Oh no,” the other man replied. “We have gone far enough for the day.”
“Forgive me,” Joseph said, “but can’t you understand my impatience?”
“I understand it. But it will not help you.”
“Why did you say it depends on me?”
“It is as I said. As soon as you are sure of your desire to confess and know that you are ready to make the confession, you will be able to make it.”
“Even today?”
“Even today.”
Astonished, Joseph stared at the quiet old face.
“Is it possible?” he cried, overwhelmed. “Are you yourself Father Dion?”
The old man nodded.
“Rest here under the trees,” he said in a kindly voice, “but don’t sleep. Compose yourself, and I too will rest and compose myself. Then you may tell me what you crave to tell me.”
Thus Joseph suddenly found himself at his goal. Now he could scarcely understand how it was that he had not recognized the venerable man sooner, after having walked beside him for an entire day. He withdrew, knelt and prayed, and rallied his thoughts. After an hour he returned and asked whether Dion was ready.
