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

‘Just what I was about to remark—there are certain judicial formalities, considered generally to be conducive to the stability, if not necessary to the existence, of the Roman empire—’

‘I say, don’t talk so much,’ shouted a Goth, ‘If you want to have the hanging of him yourself, do. We thought we would save you trouble.’

‘Ah, my excellent friend, would you rob me of the delicate pleasure of revenge? I intend to spend at least four hours to-morrow in killing this pious martyr. He will have a good time to think, between the beginning and the end of the rack.’

‘Do you hear that, master monk?’ said Smid, chucking him under the chin, while the rest of the party seemed to think the whole business an excellent joke, and divided their ridicule openly enough between the Prefect and his victim.

‘The man of blood has said it. I am a martyr,’ answered the monk in a dogged voice.

‘You will take a good deal of time in becoming one.’

‘Death may be long, but glory is everlasting.’

‘True. I forgot that, and will save you the said glory, if I can help it, for a year or two. Who was it struck me with the stone?’

No answer.

‘Tell me, and the moment he is in my lictors’ hands I pardon you freely.’

The monk laughed. ‘Pardon? Pardon me eternal bliss, and the things unspeakable, which God has prepared for those who love Him? Tyrant and butcher! I struck thee, thou second Dioclesian—I hurled the stone—I, Ammonius. Would to heaven that it had smitten thee through, thou Sisera, like the nail of Jael the Kenite!’

‘Thanks, my friend. Heroes, you have a cellar for monks as well as for wine? I will trouble you with this hero’s psalm-singing tonight, and send my apparitors for him in the morning.’

‘If he begins howling when we are in bed, your men won’t find much of him left in the morning,’ said the Amal. ‘But here come the slaves, announcing dinner.’

‘Stay,’ said Orestes; ‘there is one more with whom I have an account to settle—that young philosopher there.’

‘Oh, he is coming in, too. He never was drunk in his life, I’ll warrant, poor fellow, and it’s high time for him to begin.’ And the Amal laid a good-natured bear’s paw on Philammon’s shoulder, who hung back in perplexity, and cast a piteous look towards Wulf.

Wulf answered it by a shake of the head which gave Philammon courage to stammer out a courteous refusal. The Amal swore an oath at him which made the cloister ring again, and with a quiet shove of his heavy hand, sent him staggering half across the court: but Wulf interposed.

‘The boy is mine, prince. He is no drunkard, and I will not let him become one. Would to heaven,’ added he, under his breath, ‘that I could say the same to some others. Send us out our supper here, when you are done. Half a sheep or so will do between us, and enough of the strongest to wash it down with. Smid knows my quantity.’

‘Why in heaven’s name are you not coming in?’

‘That mob will be trying to burst the gates again before two hours are out; and as some one must stand sentry, it may as well be a man who will not have his ears stopped up by wine and women’s kisses. The boy will stay with me.’

So the party went in, leaving Wulf and Philammon alone in the outer hall.

There the two sat for some half hour, casting stealthy glances at each other, and wondering perhaps, each of them vainly enough, what was going on in the opposite brain. Philammon, though his heart was full of his sister, could not help noticing the air of deep sadness which hung about the scarred and weather-beaten features of the old warrior. The grimness which he had remarked on their first meeting seemed to be now changed into a settled melancholy. The furrows round his mouth and eyes had become deeper and sharper. Some perpetual indignation seemed smouldering in the knitted brow and protruding upper lip. He sat there silent and motionless for some half hour, his chin resting on his hands, and they again upon the butt of his axe, apparently in deep thought, and listening with a silent sneer to the clinking of glasses and dishes within.

Philammon felt too much respect, both for his age and his stately sadness, to break the silence. At last some louder burst of merriment than usual aroused him.

‘What do you call that?’ said he, speaking in Greek.

‘Folly and vanity.’

‘And what does she there—the Alruna—the prophet-woman, call it?’

‘Whom do you mean?’

‘Why, the Greek woman whom we went to hear talk this morning.’

‘Folly and vanity.’

‘Why can’t she cure that Roman hairdresser there of it, then?’

Philammon was silent—‘Why not, indeed!’

‘Do you think she could cure any one of it?’

‘Of what?’

‘Of getting drunk, and wasting their strength and their fame, and their hard-won treasures upon eating and drinking, and fine clothes, and bad women.’

‘She is most pure herself, and she preaches purity to all who hear her.’

‘Curse preaching. I have preached for these four months.’

‘Perhaps she may have some more winning arguments—perhaps—’

‘I know. Such a beautiful bit of flesh and blood as she is might get a hearing, when a grizzled old head-splitter like me was called a dotard. Eh? Well. It’s natural.’

A long silence.

‘She is a grand woman. I never saw such a one, and I have seen many. There was a prophetess once, lived in an island in the Weser-stream—and when a man saw her, even before she spoke a word, one longed to crawl to her feet on all fours, and say, “There, tread on me; I am not fit for you to wipe your feet upon.” And many a warrior did it.... Perhaps I may have done it myself, before now .... And this one is strangely like her. She would make a prince’s wife, now.’

Philammon started. What new feeling was it, which made him indignant at the notion?

‘Beauty? What’s body without soul? What’s beauty without wisdom? What’s beauty without chastity? Best! fool! wallowing in the mire which every hog has fouled!’

‘Like a jewel of gold in a swine’s snout, so is a fair woman who is without discretion.’

‘Who said that?’

‘Solomon, the king of Israel.’

‘I