On that point, indeed, he obtained nothing but fresh invective; but when his companions, after talking of the triumph which the true faith had gained that morning, went on to speak of the great overthrow of Paganism twenty years before, under the patriarch Theophilus; of Olympiodorus and his mob, who held the Serapeium for many days by force of arms against the Christians, making sallies into the city, and torturing and murdering the prisoners whom they took; of the martyrs who, among those very pillars which overhung their heads, had died in torments rather than sacrifice to Serapis; and of the final victory, and the soldier who, in presence of the trembling mob, clove the great jaw of the colossal idol, and snapped forever the spell of heathenism, Philammon’s heart burned to distinguish himself like that soldier, and to wipe out his qualms of conscience by some more unquestionable deed of Christian prowess. There were no idols now to break: but there was philosophy—“Why not carry war into the heart of the enemy’s camp, and beard Satan in his very den? Why does not some man of God go boldly into the lecture-room of the sorceress, and testify against her to her face?”
“Do it yourself, if you dare,” said Peter. “We have no wish to get our brains knocked out by all the profligate young gentlemen in the city.”
“I will do it,” said Philammon.
“That is, if his holiness allows you to make such a fool of yourself.”
“Take care, sir, of your words. You revile the blessed martyrs, from St. Stephen to St. Telemachus, when you call such a deed foolishness.”
“I shall most certainly inform his holiness of your insolence.”
“Do so,” said Philammon, who, possessed with a new idea, wished for nothing more. And there the matter dropped for the time.
“The presumption of the young in this generation is growing insufferable,” said Peter to his master that evening.
“So much the better. They put their elders on their mettle in the race of good works. But who has been presuming today?”
“That mad boy whom Pambo sent up from the deserts dared to offer himself as champion of the faith against Hypatia. He actually proposed to go into her lecture-room and argue with her to her face. What think you of that for a specimen of youthful modesty and self-distrust?”
Cyril was silent a while.
“What answer am I to have the honour of taking back? A month’s relegation to Nitria on bread and water? You, I am sure, will not allow such things to go unpunished; indeed, if they do, there is an end to all authority and discipline.”
Cyril was still silent; whilst Peter’s brow clouded fast. At last he answered—
“The cause wants martyrs. Send the boy to me.”
Peter went down with a shrug, and an expression of face which looked but too like envy, and ushered up the trembling youth, who dropped on his knees as soon as he entered.
“So you wish to go into the heathen woman’s lecture-room, and defy her? Have you courage for it?”
“God will give it me.”
“You will be murdered by her pupils.”
“I can defend myself,” said Philammon, with a pardonable glance downward at his sinewy limbs. “And if not: what death more glorious than martyrdom?”
Cyril smiled genially enough. “Promise me two things.”
“Two thousand, if you will.”
“Two are quite difficult enough to keep. Youth is rash in promises, and rasher in forgetting them. Promise me that, whatever happens, you will not strike the first blow.”
“I do.”
“Promise me again, that you will not argue with her.”
“What then?”
“Contradict, denounce, defy. But give no reasons. If you do, you are lost. She is subtler than the serpent, skilled in all the tricks of logic, and you will become a laughingstock, and run away in shame. Promise me.”
“I do.”
“Then go.”
“When?”
“The sooner the better. At what hour does the accursed woman lecture tomorrow, Peter?”
“We saw her going to the Museum at nine this morning.”
“Then go at nine tomorrow. There is money for you.”
“What is this for?” asked Philammon, fingering curiously the first coins which he ever had handled in his life.
“To pay for your entrance. To the philosopher none enters without money. Not so to the Church of God, open all day long to the beggar and the slave. If you convert her, well. And if not.” … And he added to himself between his teeth, “And if not, well also—perhaps better.”
“Ay!” said Peter bitterly, as he ushered Philammon out. “Go up to Ramoth Gilead, and prosper, young fool! What evil spirit sent you here to feed the noble patriarch’s only weakness?”
“What do you mean?” asked Philammon, as fiercely as he dare.
“The fancy that preachings, and protestations, and martyrdoms can drive out the Canaanites, who can only be got rid of with the sword of the Lord and of Gideon. His uncle Theophilus knew that well enough. If he had not, Olympiodorus might have been master of Alexandria, and incense burning before Serapis to this day. Ay, go, and let her convert you! Touch the accursed thing, like Achan, and see if you do not end by having it in your tent. Keep company with the daughters of Midian, and see if you do not join yourself to Baal poor, and eat the offerings of the dead!”
And with this encouraging sentence, the two parted for the night.
VIII
The East Wind
As Hypatia went forth the next morning, in all her glory, with a crowd of philosophers and philosophasters, students, and fine gentlemen, following her in reverend admiration across the street to her lecture-room, a ragged beggar-man, accompanied by a huge and villainous-looking dog, planted himself right before her, and extending a dirty hand, whined for an alms.
Hypatia, whose refined taste could never endure the sight, much less the contact, of anything squalid and degraded, recoiled a little, and bade
