“Well? You have done very well for fifteen years without your sister—why can you not do as well now? You don’t recollect her—you don’t love her.”
“Not love her? I would die for her—die for you if you will but help me to see her!”
“You would, would you? And if I brought you to her, what then! What if she were Pelagia herself, what then? She is happy enough now, and rich enough. Could you make her happier or richer?”
“Can you ask? I must—I will—reclaim her from the infamy in which I am sure she lives.”
“Ah ha, sir monk! I expected as much. I know, none knows better, what those fine words mean. The burnt child dreads the fire; but the burnt old woman quenches it, you will find. Now listen. I do not say that you shall not see her—I do not say that Pelagia herself is not the woman whom you seek—but—you are in my power. Don’t frown and pout. I can deliver you as a slave to Arsenius when I choose. One word from me to Orestes, and you are in fetters as a fugitive.”
“I will escape!” cried he fiercely.
“Escape me?”—She laughed, pointing to the teraph—“Me, who, if you fled beyond Kaf, or dived to the depths of the ocean, could make these dead lips confess where you were, and command demons to bear you back to me upon their wings! Escape me! Better to obey me, and see your sister.”
Philammon shuddered, and submitted. The spell of the woman’s eye, the terror of her words, which he half believed, and the agony of longing, conquered him, and he gasped out—
“I will obey you—only—only—”
“Only you are not quite a man yet, but half a monk still, eh? I must know that before I help you, my pretty boy. Are you a monk still, or a man?”
“What do you mean?”
“Ah, ha, ha!” laughed she shrilly. “And these Christian dogs don’t know what a man means? Are you a monk, then? leaving the man alone, as above your understanding.”
“I?—I am a student of philosophy.”
“But no man?”
“I am a man, I suppose.”
“I don’t; if you had been, you would have been making love like a man to that heathen woman many a month ago.”
“I—to her?”
“Yes, I—to her!” said Miriam, coarsely imitating his tone of shocked humility. “I, the poor penniless boy-scholar, to her, the great, rich, wise, worshipped she-philosopher, who holds the sacred keys of the inner shrine of the east wind—and just because I am a man, and the handsomest man in Alexandria, and she a woman, and the vainest woman in Alexandria; and therefore I am stronger than she, and can twist her round my finger, and bring her to her knees at my feet when I like, as soon I open my eyes, and discover that I am a man. Eh, boy! Did she ever teach you that among her mathematics and metaphysics, and gods and goddesses?”
Philammon stood blushing scarlet. The sweet poison had entered, and every vein glowed with it for the first time in his life. Miriam saw her advantage.
“There, there—don’t be frightened at your new lesson. After all, I liked you from the first moment I saw you, and asked the teraph about you, and I got an answer—such an answer! You shall know it some day. At all events, it set the poor old softhearted Jewess on throwing away her money. Did you ever guess from whom your monthly gold piece came?”
Philammon started, and Miriam burst into loud, shrill laughter.
“From Hypatia, I’ll warrant! From the fair Greek woman, of course—vain child that you are—never thinking of the poor old Jewess.”
“And did you? did you?” gasped Philammon. “Have I to thank you, then, for that strange generosity?”
“Not to thank me, but to obey me; for mind, I can prove your debt to me, every obol, and claim it if I choose. But don’t fear; I won’t be hard on you, just because you are in my power. I hate everyone who is not so. As soon as I have a hold on them, I begin to love them. Old folks, like children, are fond of their own playthings.”
“And I am yours, then?” said Philammon fiercely.
“You are indeed, my beautiful boy,” answered she, looking up with so insinuating a smile that he could not be angry. “After all, I know how to toss my balls gently—and for these forty years I have only lived to make young folks happy; so you need not be afraid of the poor softhearted old woman. Now—you saved Orestes’s life yesterday.”
“How did you find out that?”
“I? I know everything. I know what the swallows say when they pass each other on the wing, and what the fishes think of in the summer sea. You, too, will be able to guess some day, without the teraph’s help. But in the meantime you must enter Orestes’s service. Why?—What are you hesitating about? Do you not know that you are high in his favour? He will make you secretary—raise you to be chamberlain some day, if you know how to make good use of your fortune.”
Philammon stood in astonished silence; and at last—
“Servant to that man? What care I for him or his honours? Why do you tantalise me thus? I have no wish on earth but to see my sister!”
“You will be far more likely to see her if you belong to the court of a great officer—perhaps more than an officer—than if you remain a penniless monk. Not that I believe you. Your only wish on earth, eh? Do you not care, then, ever to see the fair Hypatia again?”
“I? Why should I not see her? Am I not her pupil?”
“She will not have pupils much longer, my child. If you wish to hear her wisdom—and much good may it do you—you must go for it henceforth somewhat nearer to Orestes’s palace than the lecture-room is. Ah! you start. Have I
