Arsenius still hung back, with eyes brimming with tears; but Philammon himself put an end to the parley.
“What is the meaning of all this? Are you, too, in a conspiracy against me? Speak, Arsenius!”
“This is the meaning of it, blinded sinner!” cried Peter. “That you are by law the slave of Arsenius, lawfully bought with his money in the city of Ravenna; and that he has the power, and, as I trust, for the sake of your salvation, the will also, to compel you to accompany him.”
Philammon recoiled across the pavement, with eyes flashing defiance. A slave! The light of heaven grew black to him. … Oh, that Hypatia might never know his shame! Yet it was impossible. Too dreadful to be true. …
“You lie!” almost shrieked he. “I am the son of a noble citizen of Athens. Arsenius told me so, but this moment, with his own lips!”
“Ah, but he bought you—bought you in the public market; and he can prove it!”
“Hear me—hear me, my son!” cried the old man, springing toward him. Philammon, in his fury, mistook the gesture and thrust him fiercely back.
“Your son!—your slave! Do not insult the name of son by applying it to me. Yes, sir; your slave in body, but not in soul! Ay, seize me—drag home the fugitive—scourge him—brand him—chain him in the mill, if you can; but even for that the free heart has a remedy. If you will not let me live as a philosopher, you shall see me die like one!”
“Seize the fellow, my brethren!” cried Peter, while Arsenius, utterly unable to restrain either party, hid his face and wept.
“Wretches!” cried the boy; “you shall never take me alive, while I have teeth or nails left. Treat me as a brute beast, and I will defend myself as such!”
“Out of the way there, rascals! Place for the Prefect! What are you squabbling about here, you unmannerly monks?” shouted peremptory voices from behind. The crowd parted, and disclosed the apparitors of Orestes, who followed in his robes of office.
A sudden hope flashed before Philammon, and in an instant he had burst through the mob, and was clinging to the Prefect’s chariot.
“I am a freeborn Athenian, whom these monks wish to kidnap back into slavery! I claim your protection!”
“And you shall have it, right or wrong, my handsome fellow. By Heaven, you are much too good-looking to be made a monk of! What do you mean, you villains, by attempting to kidnap free men? Is it not enough for you to lock up every mad girl whom you can dupe, but you must—”
“His master is here present, your Excellency, who will swear to the purchase.”
“Or to anything else for the glory of God. Out of the way! And take care, you tall scoundrel, that I do not get a handle against you. You have been one of my marked men for many a month. Off!”
“His master demands the rights of the law as a Roman citizen,” said Peter, pushing forward Arsenius.
“If he be a Roman citizen, let him come and make his claim at the tribune tomorrow, in legal form. But I would have you remember, ancient sir, that I shall require you to prove your citizenship before we proceed to the question of purchase.”
“The law does not demand that,” quoth Peter.
“Knock that fellow down, apparitor!” Whereat Peter vanished, and an ominous growl rose from the mob of monks.
“What am I to do, most noble sir?” said Philammon.
“Whatever you like, till the third hour tomorrow—if you are fool enough to appear at the tribune. If you will take my advice, you will knock down these fellows right and left, and run for your life.” And Orestes drove on.
Philammon saw that it was his only chance, and did so; and in another minute he found himself rushing headlong into the archway of Pelagia’s house, with a dozen monks at his heels. As luck would have it, the outer gates, at which the Goths had just entered, were still open; but the inner ones which led into the court beyond were fast. He tried them, but in vain. There was an open door in the wall on his right: he rushed through it, into a long range of stables, and into the arms of Wulf and Smid, who were unsaddling and feeding, like true warriors, their own horses.
“Souls of my fathers!” shouted Smid, “here’s our young monk come back! What brings you here head over heels in this way, young curly-pate?”
“Save me from those wretches!” pointing to the monks, who were peeping into the doorway.
Wulf seemed to understand it all in a moment; for, snatching up a heavy whip, he rushed at the foe, and with a few tremendous strokes cleared the doorway, and shut-to the door.
Philammon was going to explain and thank, but Smid stopped his mouth.
“Never mind, young one, you are our guest now. Come in, and you shall be as welcome as ever. See what comes of running away from us at first.”
“You do not seem to have benefited much by leaving me for the monks,” said old Wulf. “Come in by the inner door. Smid! go and turn those monks out of the gateway.”
But the mob, after battering the door for a few minutes, had yielded to the agonised entreaties of
