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of the ways of it. So he made up his mind to see it, and be filled with the fruit of his own devices.

      And he would have been certainly filled with the same in five minutes more, in some shape too ugly to be mentioned: but, as even sinful women have hearts in them, Pelagia shrieked out—

      ‘Amalric! Amalric! do not let them! I cannot bear it!’

      ‘The warriors are free men, my darling, and know what is proper. And what can the life of such a brute be to you?’

      Before he could stop her, Pelagia had sprung from her cushions, and thrown herself into the midst of the laughing ring of wild beasts.

      ‘Spare him! spare him for my sake!’ shrieked she.

      ‘Oh, my pretty lady! you mustn’t interrupt warriors’ sport!’

      In an instant she had torn off her shawl, and thrown it over Philammon; and as she stood, with all the outlines of her beautiful limbs revealed through the thin robe of spangled gauze—

      ‘Let the man who dares, touch him beneath that shawl!—though it be a saffron one!’

      The Goths drew back. For Pelagia herself they had as little respect as the rest of the world had. But for a moment she was not the Messalina of Alexandria, but a woman; and true to the old woman-worshipping instinct, they looked one and all at her flashing eyes, full of noble pity and indignation, as well as of mere woman’s terror—and drew back, and whispered together.

      Whether the good spirit or the evil one would conquer, seemed for a moment doubtful, when Pelagia felt a heavy hand on her shoulder, and turning, saw Wulf the son of Ovida.

      ‘Go back, pretty woman! Men, I claim the boy. Smid, give him to me. He is your man. You could have killed him if you had chosen, and did not; and no one else shall.’

      ‘Give him us, Prince Wulf! We have not seen blood for many a day!’

      ‘You might have seen rivers of it, if you had had the hearts to go onward. The boy is mine, and a brave boy. He has upset a warrior fairly this day, and spared him; and we will make a warrior of him in return.’

      And he lifted up the prostrate monk.

      ‘You are my man now. Do you like fighting?’

      Philammon, not understanding the language in which he was addressed, could only shake his head—though if he had known what its import was, he could hardly in honesty have said, No.

      ‘He shakes his head! He does not like it! He is craven! Let us have him!’

      ‘I had killed kings when you were shooting frogs,’ cried Smid. ‘Listen to me, my sons! A coward grips sharply at first, and loosens his hand after a while, because his blood is soon hot and soon cold. A brave man’s grip grows the firmer the longer he holds, because the spirit of Odin comes upon him. I watched the boy’s hands on my threat; and he will make a man; and I will make him one. However, we may as well make him useful at once; so give him an oar.’

      ‘Well,’ answered his new protector, ‘he can as well row us as he rowed by us; and if we are to go back to a cow’s death and the pool of Hela, the quicker we go the better.’

      And as the men settled themselves again to their oars, one was put into Philammon’s hand, which he managed with such strength and skill that his late tormentors, who, in spite of an occasional inclination to robbery and murder, were thoroughly good-natured, honest fellows, clapped him on the back, and praised him as heartily as they had just now heartily intended to torture him to death, and then went forward, as many of them as were not rowing, to examine the strange beast which they had just slaughtered, pawing him over from tusks to tail, putting their heads into his mouth, trying their knives on his hide, comparing him to all beasts, like and unlike, which they had ever seen, and laughing and shoving each other about with the fun and childish wonder of a party of schoolboys; till Smid, who was the wit of the party, settled the comparative anatomy of the subject for them—‘Valhalla! I’ve found out what he’s most like!—One of those big blue plums, which gave us all the stomach-ache when we were encamped in the orchards above Ravenna!’

CHAPTER IV: MIRIAM

       Table of Contents

      One morning in the same week, Hypatia’s favourite maid entered her chamber with a somewhat terrified face.

      ‘The old Jewess, madam—the hag who has been watching so often lately under the wall opposite. She frightened us all out of our senses last evening by peeping in. We all said she had the evil eye, if any one ever had—’

      ‘Well, what of her?’

      ‘She is below, madam, and will speak with you. Not that I care for her; I have my amulet on. I hope you have?’

      ‘Silly girl! Those who have been initiated as I have in the mysteries of the gods, can defy spirits and command them. Do you suppose that the favourite of Pallas Athene will condescend to charms and magic? Send her up.’

      The girl retreated, with a look half of awe, half of doubt, at the lofty pretensions of her mistress, and returned with old Miriam, keeping, however, prudently behind her, in order to test as little as possible the power of her own amulet by avoiding the basilisk eye which had terrified her.

      Miriam came in, and advancing to the proud beauty, who remained seated, made an obeisance down to the very floor, without, however, taking her eyes for an instant off Hypatia’s face.

      Her countenance was haggard and bony, with broad sharp-cut lips, stamped with a strangely mingled expression of strength and sensuality. Put the feature about her which instantly fixed Hypatia’s attention, and from which she could not in spite of herself withdraw it, was the dry, glittering, coal-black eye which glared out from underneath the gray fringe of her swarthy brows, between black locks covered with gold coins. Hypatia could look at nothing but those eyes; and she reddened, and grew all but unphilosophically angry, as she saw that the old woman intended her to look at them, and feel the strange power which she evidently wished them to exercise.

      After a moment’s silence, Miriam drew a letter from her bosom, and with a second low obeisance presented it.

      ‘From whom is this?’

      ‘Perhaps the letter itself will tell the beautiful lady, the fortunate lady, the discerning lady,’ answered she, in a fawning, wheedling tone. ‘How should a poor old Jewess know great folks’ secrets?’

      ‘Great folks?—’

      Hypatia looked at the seal which fixed a silk cord round the letter. It was Orestes’; and so was the handwriting. … Strange that he should have chosen such a messenger! What message could it be which required such secrecy?

      She clapped her hands for the maid. ‘Let this woman wait in the ante-room.’ Miriam glided out backwards, bowing as she went. As Hypatia looked up over the letter to see whether she was alone, she caught a last glance of that eye still fixed upon her, and an expression in Miriam’s face which made her, she knew not why, shudder and turn chill.

      ‘Foolish that I am! What can that witch be to me? But now for the letter.’

      ‘To the most noble and most beautiful, the mistress of philosophy, beloved of Athene, her pupil and slave sends greeting.’. …

      ‘My slave! and no name mentioned!’

      ‘There are those who consider that the favourite hen of Honorius, which bears the name of the Imperial City, would thrive better under a new feeder; and the Count of Africa has been despatched by himself and by the immortal gods to superintend for the present the poultry-yard of the Caesars—at least during the absence of Adolf and Placidia. There are those also who consider that in his absence the Numidian lion might be prevailed on to become the yoke-fellow of the Egyptian