Hypatia — or New Foes with an Old Face by Charles Kingsley (most popular novels of all time .TXT) 📕

‘I do not think it. She seemed struck by my talking Athenian Greek, and having come from Athens.’

‘And how long since she came from Athens?’ said Arsenius, after a pause. ‘Who knows?’

‘Just after it was sacked by the barbarians,’ said the little porter, who, beginning to suspect a mystery, was peaking and peering like an excited parrot. ‘The old dame brought her hither among a cargo of captive boys and girls.’

‘The time agrees.... Can this Miriam be found?’

‘A sapient and courteous question for a monk to ask! Do you not know that Cyril has expelled all Jews four months ago?’

‘True, true.... Alas!’ said the old man to himself, ‘how little the rulers of this world guess their own power! They move a finger carelessly, and forget that that finger may crush to death hundreds whose names they never heard—and every soul of them as precious in God’s sight as Cyril’s own.’

‘What is the matter, my father?’ asked Philammon. ‘You seem deeply moved about this woman....’

‘And she is Miriam’s slave?’

‘Her freedwoman this four years past,’ said the porter. ‘The good lady—for reasons doubtless excellent in themselves, though not altogether patent to the philosophic mind—thought good to turn her loose on the Alexandrian republic, to seek what she might devour.’

‘God help her! And you are certain that Miriam is not in Alexandria?’

The little porter turned very red, and Philammon did so likewise; but he remembered his promise, and kept it.

‘You both know something of her, I can see. You cannot deceive an old statesman, sir!’—turning to the little porter with a look of authority—‘poor monk though he be now. If you think fitting to tell me what you know, I promise you that neither she nor you shall be losers by your confidence in me. If not, I shall find means to discover.’

Both stood silent.

‘Philammon, my son! and art thou too in league against—no, not against me; against thyself, poor misguided boy?’

‘Against myself?’

‘Yes—I have said it. But unless you will trust me, I cannot trust you.’

‘I have promised.’

‘And I, sir statesman, or monk, or both, or neither, have sworn by the immortal gods!’ said the porter, looking very big.

Arsenius paused.

‘There are those who hold that an oath by an idol, being nothing, is of itself void. I do not agree with them. If thou thinkest it sin to break thine oath, to thee it is sin. And for thee, my poor child, thy promise is sacred, were it made to Iscariot himself. But hear me. Can either of you, by asking this woman, be so far absolved as to give me speech of her? Tell her—that is, if she be in Alexandria, which God grant—all that has passed between us here, and tell her, on the solemn oath of a Christian, that Arsenius, whose name she knows well, will neither injure nor betray her. Will you do this?’

‘Arsenius?’ said the little porter, with a look of mingled awe and pity.

The old man smiled. ‘Arsenius, who was once called the Father of the Emperors. Even she will trust that name.’

‘I will go this moment’ sir; I will fly!’ and off rushed the little porter.

‘The little fellow forgets,’ said Arsenius, with a smile, ‘to how much he has confessed already, and how easy it were now to trace him to the old hag’s lair.... Philammon, my son.... I have many tears to weep over thee—but they must wait a while, I have thee safe now,’ and the old man clutched his arm. ‘Thou wilt not leave thy poor old father? Thou wilt not desert me for the heathen woman?’

‘I will stay with you, I promise you, indeed! if—if you will not say unjust things of her.’

‘I will speak evil of no one, accuse no one, but myself. I will not say one harsh word to thee, my poor boy. But listen now! Thou knowest that thou camest from Athens. Knowest thou that it was I who brought thee hither?’

‘You?’

‘I, my son: but when I brought thee to the Laura, it seemed right that thou, as the son of a noble gentleman, shouldest hear nothing of it. But tell me: dost thou recollect father or mother, brother or sister; or anything of thy home in Athens?’

‘No.’

‘Thanks be to God. But, Philammon, if thou hadst had a sister-hush! And if—I only say if—,

‘A sister!’ interrupted Philammon. ‘Pelagia?’

‘God forbid, my son! But a sister thou hadst once—some three years older than thee she seemed.’

‘What! did you know her?’

‘I saw her but once—on one sad day.—Poor children both! I will not sadden you by telling you where and how.’

‘And why did you not bring her hither with me? You surely had not the heart to part us?’

‘Ah, my son, what right had an old monk with a fair young girl? And, indeed, even had I had the courage, it would have been impossible. There were others, richer than I, to whose covetousness her youth and beauty seemed a precious prize. When I saw her last, she was in company with an ancient Jewess. Heaven grant that this Miriam may prove to be the one!’

‘And I have a sister!’ gasped Philammon, his eyes bursting with tears. ‘We must find her! You will help me?—Now—this moment! There is nothing else to be thought of, spoken of, done, henceforth, till she is found!’

‘Ah, my son, my son! Better, better, perhaps, to leave her in the hands of God! What if she were dead? To discover that, would be to discover needless sorrow. And what if—God grant that it be not so! she had only a name to live, and were dead, worse than dead, in sinful pleasure—’

‘We would save her, or die trying to save her! Is it not enough for me that she is my sister?’ Arsenius shook his head. He little knew the strange new light and warmth which his words had poured in upon the young heart beside him. ‘A sister!’ What mysterious virtue was there in that simple word, which made Philammon’s brain reel and his heart throb madly? A sister! not merely a friend, an equal, a help-mate, given by God Himself, for loving whom none, not even a monk, could blame him.—Not merely something delicate, weak, beautiful—for of course she must be beautiful-whom he might cherish, guide, support, deliver, die for, and find death delicious. Yes—all that, and more than that, lay in the sacred word. For those divided and partial notions had flitted across his mind too rapidly to stir such passion