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 anyone 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? Beast! 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 never heard of him. But he was a right Sagaman, whoever said it. And she is a pure maiden, that other one?”
“Spotless as the”—blessed Virgin, Philammon was going to say—but checked himself. There were sad recollections about the words.
Wulf sat silent for a few minutes, while Philammon’s thoughts reverted at once to the new purpose for which alone life seemed worth having. … To find his sister! That one thought had in a few hours changed and matured the boy into the man. Hitherto he had been only the leaf before the wind, the puppet of every new impression; but now circumstance, which had been leading him along in such soft fetters for many a month, was become his deadly foe; and all his energy and cunning, all his little knowledge of man and of society, rose up sturdily and shrewdly to fight in this new cause. Wulf was now no longer a phenomenon to be wondered at, but an instrument to be used. The broken hints which he had just given of discontent with Pelagia’s presence inspired the boy with sudden hope, and cautiously he began to hint at the existence of persons who would be glad to remove her. Wulf caught at the notion, and replied to it with searching questions, till Philammon, finding plain speaking the better part of cunning, told him openly the whole events of the morning, and the mystery which Arsenius had half revealed, and then shuddered with mingled joy and horror, as Wulf, after ruminating over the matter for a weary five minutes, made answer—
“And what if Pelagia herself were your sister?”
Philammon was bursting forth in some passionate answer, when the old man stopped him and went on slowly, looking him through and through—
“Because, when a penniless young monk claims kin with a woman who is drinking out of the wine-cups of the Caesars, and filling a place for a share of which kings’ daughters have been thankful—and will be again before long—why then, though an old man may be too good-natured to call it all a lie at first sight, he can’t help supposing that the young monk has an eye to his own personal profit, eh?”
“My profit?” cried poor Philammon, starting up. “Good God! what object on earth can I have, but to rescue her from this infamy to purity and holiness?”
He had touched the wrong chord.
“Infamy? you accursed Egyptian slave!” cried the prince, starting up in his turn, red with passion, and clutching at the whip which hung over his head. “Infamy? As if she, and you too, ought not to consider yourselves blest in her being allowed to wash the feet of an Amal!”
“Oh, forgive me!” said Philammon, terrified at the fruits of his own clumsiness. “But you forget—you forget, she is not married to him!”
“Married to him? A freedwoman? No; thank Freya! he has not fallen as low as that, at least: and never shall, if I kill the witch with my own hands. A freedwoman!”
Poor Philammon! And he had been told but that morning that he was a slave. He hid his face in his hands, and burst into an agony of tears.
“Come, come,” said the testy warrior, softened at once. “Woman’s tears don’t matter, but somehow I never could bear to make a man cry. When you are cool, and have learnt common courtesy, we’ll talk more about this. So! Hush; enough is enough. Here comes the supper, and I am as hungry as Loki.”
And he commenced devouring like his namesake, “the gray beast of the wood,” and forcing, in his rough hospitable way, Philammon to devour also much against his will and stomach.
“There. I feel
