PHOCAS
“Towards the end of the third century A.D., a holy man named Phocas dwelt outside the gate of Sinope . . . and lived by cultivating a little garden. . . . One night, some strangers knocked at his door, and he invited them to enter. . . . They told him that they were sent in search of a certain Phocas, who had been denounced as a Christian, and that they were commissioned to kill him wheresoever they should find him. The servant of God, without betraying any surprise, conducted them to a chamber of repose, . . . went into his garden and dug a grave amid the flowers. The next morning he went to his guests and told them: ‘I myself am Phocas.’ They started back, unwilling to imbrue their hands in the blood of their host, but he encouraged them, saying: ‘Since it is the will of God, I am ready to die in His cause.’ Then they led him to the brink of the grave, struck off his head and buried him therein.”
The dim blue twilight of the stars
Against the window lay,
The night wind whisper’d thro’ the trees,
The strangers slept: when from his knees
Phocas arose, and silently
Went down the garden-way.
48
