They entered, partook of his simple fruit, drank the milk furnished by his goat, and rested for a time on his rough mat. When day dawned, St. Peter said to him, "Before going hence, hast thou no petition to make to us? Hast thou not some wish? Ask whatever thou wilt in return for thy hospitality. All that thou shalt ask shall be granted unto thee." Then the old man made three wishes, and said: "My sweet Lord, I love life so well, grant me yet five hundred years to live; the days pass so quickly in this peaceful cabin." "Granted," said a sweet and touching voice, which seemed to come, as it were, from the midst of the group. "What else wilt thou have?" "My good Lord, I have a beautiful fig-tree in my garden, which bears such fine fruit that they are often stolen from me. Grant me, then, that whoever climbs into it may not be able to descend until I give him leave; thus I will ensnare the thief." Jesus smiled as he heard this quaint wish, and, bowing his fair head, said: "It shall be done as thou wishest. Hast thou more still to ask? Speak freely, for thou seest that I grant thee all that thou hast wished for." "My dearly loved Lord, I have a wooden chair, on which my friends sit when they come sometimes at night to talk with me. Grant me that whoever rests on it may not be able to rise, and must remain there as long as I shall please." {71} And Jesus approved again, because he loved this guileless old man, who was so simple of heart and made such modest wishes. St. Peter then thanked him, and went forth, followed by his twelve companions, among whom Jesus loved to conceal himself. Years passed by one after the other. One century passed, then another, until finally the last day of the last year arrived, and the venerable Philomen saw the grim traveller Death enter his cabin, who said to him: "Come along, old man! Thou hast eluded me this long time--thanks to an especial favor. Thou hast reached the years of Mathusale. If every one lived as thou hast, I would have no work on earth. Come along, quick. Regulate thy affairs, bid farewell to thy garden, because, with the setting sun, I lead thee forth with me." "O my good dame! if you would but pity me! Ah! yes, if you would have some pity, you would let me live some few days more--only _one_ day, then. It is so good to live!" "No, nothing; not one moment more," replied the sinister guest in a harsh and dry voice. "At least, then, let me once more eat of the fruit of my fig-tree. I have loved them so well; it will be a last consolation to me. But I am too weak to shake the tree, and too old to reach those highest branches. Do you go up, and gather me that fig up there; it is so thoroughly ripened by our eastern sun." "Most willingly. See, old man, I will show thee that Death is not as surly as 'tis said she is."