'Better so; better in public,' said Philammon to himself; and, turning, he joined the crowd.

Onward, with chant and dirge, they swept out through the Sun-gate, upon the harbour esplanade, and wheeled to the right along the quay, while the torchlight bathed in a red glare the great front of the Caesareum, and the tall obelisks before it, and the masts of the thousand ships which lay in the harbour on their left; and last, but not least, before the huge dim ma.s.s of the palace which bounded the esplanade in front, a long line of glittering helmets and cuira.s.ses, behind a barrier of cables which stretched from the sh.o.r.e to the corner of the museum.

There was a sudden halt; a low ominous growl; and then the mob pressed onward from behind, surged up almost to the barrier. The soldiers dropped the points of their lances, and stood firm. Again the mob recoiled; again surged forward. Fierce cries arose; some of the boldest stooped to pick up stones: but, luckily, the pavement was too firm for them....Another moment, and the whole soldiery of Alexandria would have been fighting for life and death against fifty thousand Christians....

But Cyril had not forgotten his generalship. Reckless as that night's events proved him to be about arousing the pa.s.sions of his subjects, he was yet far too wary to risk the odium and the danger of a night attack, which, even if successful, would have cost the lives of hundreds. He knew well enough the numbers and the courage of the enemy, and the certainty that, in case of a collision, no quarter would be given or accepted on either side .... Beside, if a battle must take place--and that, of course, must happen sooner or later--it must not happen in his presence and under his sanction. He was in the right now, and Orestes in the wrong; and in the right he would keep--at least till his express to Byzantium should have returned, and Orestes was either proscribed or superseded. So looking forward to some such chance as this, the wary prelate had schooled his aides-de-camp, the deacons of the city, and went on his way up the steps of the Caesareum, knowing that they could be trusted to keep the peace outside.

And they did their work well. Before a blow had been struck, or even an insult pa.s.sed on either side, they had burst through the front rank of the mob, and by stout threats of excommunication, enjoined not only peace, but absolute silence until the sacred ceremony which was about to take place should be completed; and enforced their commands by marching up and down like sentries between the hostile ranks for the next weary two hours, till the very soldiers broke out into expressions of admiration, and the tribune of the cohort, who ad no great objection, but also no great wish, fight, paid them a high-flown compliment on their laudable endeavours to maintain public order, and received the somewhat ambiguous reply, that the 'weapons of their warfare were not carnal, that they wrestled not against flesh and blood, but against princ.i.p.alities and powers,' .... an answer which the tribune, being now somewhat sleepy, thought it best to leave unexplained.

In the meanwhile, there had pa.s.sed up the steps of the Temple a gorgeous line of priests, among whom glittered, more gorgeous than all, the stately figure of the pontiff. They were followed close by thousands of monks, not only from Alexandria and Nitria, but from all the adjoining towns and monasteries. And as Philammon, unable for some half hour more to force his way into the church, watched their endless stream, he could well believe the boast which he had so often heard in Alexandria, that one half of the population of Egypt was at that moment in 'religious orders.'

After the monks, the laity began to enter but even then so vast was the crowd, and so dense the crush upon the steps, that before he could force his way into the church, Cyril's sermon had begun. ...............

--'What went ye out for to see? A man clothed in soft raiment? Nay, such are in kings' palaces, and in the palaces of prefects who would needs be emperors, and cast away the Lord's bonds from them-- of whom it is written, that He that sitteth in the heavens laugheth them to scorn, and taketh the wicked in their own snare, and maketh the devices of princes of none effect. Ay, in king's palaces, and in theatres too, where the rich of this world, poor in faith, deny their covenant, and defile their baptismal robes that they may do honour to the devourers of the earth. Woe to them who think that they may partake of the cup of the Lord and the cup of devils. Woe to them who will praise with the same mouth Aphrodite the fiend, and her of whom it is written that He was born of a pure Virgin. Let such be excommunicate from the cup of the Lord, and from the congregation of the Lord, till they have purged away their sins by penance and by almsgiving. But for you, ye poor of this world, rich in faith, you whom the rich despise, hale before the judgment seats, and blaspheme that holy name whereby ye are called--what went ye out into the wilderness to see? A prophet?--Ay, and more than a prophet--a martyr! More than a prophet, more than a king, more than a prefect whose theatre was the sands of the desert, whose throne was the cross, whose crown was bestowed, not by heathen philosophers and daughters of Satan, deceiving men with the works of their fathers, but by angels and archangels; a crown of glory, the victor's laurel, which grows for ever in the paradise of the highest heaven. Call him no more Ammonius, call him Thaumasius, wonderful! Wonderful in his poverty, wonderful in his zeal, wonderful in his faith, wonderful in his fort.i.tude, wonderful in his death, most wonderful in the manner of that death. Oh thrice blessed, who has merited the honour of the cross itself! What can follow, but that one so honoured in the flesh should also be honoured in the life which he now lives, and that from the virtue of these thrice-holy limbs the leper should be cleansed, the dumb should speak, the very dead be raised? Yes; it were impiety to doubt it. Consecrated by the cross, this flesh shall not only rest in hope but work in power. Approach, and be healed! Approach, and see the glory of the saints, the glory of the poor. Approach, and learn that that which man despises, G.o.d hath highly esteemed; that that which man rejects, G.o.d accepts; that that which man punishes, G.o.d rewards. Approach, and see how G.o.d hath chosen the foolish things of this world to confound the wise, and the weak things of this world to confound the strong. Man abhors the cross: The Son of G.o.d condescended to endure it! Man tramples on the poor: The Son of G.o.d hath not where to lay His head. Man pa.s.ses by the sick as useless: The Son of G.o.d chooses them to be partakers of His sufferings, that the glory of G.o.d may be made manifest in them. Man curses the publican, while he employs him to fill his coffers with the plunder of the poor: The Son of G.o.d calls him from the receipt of custom to be an apostle, higher than the kings of the earth. Man casts away the harlot like a faded flower, when he has tempted her to become the slave of sin for a season; and the Son of G.o.d calls her, the defiled, the despised, the forsaken, to Himself, accepts her tears, blesses her offering, and declares that her sins are forgiven, for she hath loved much; while to whom little is forgiven the same loveth little....'

Philammon heard no more. With the pa.s.sionate and impulsive nature of a Greek fanatic, he burst forward through the crowd, towards the steps which led to the choir, and above which, in front of the altar, stood the corpse of Ammonius, enclosed in a coffin of gla.s.s, beneath a gorgeous canopy; and never stopping till he found himself in front of Cyril's pulpit, he threw himself upon his face upon the pavement, spread out his arms in the form of a cross, and lay silent and motionless before the feet of the mult.i.tude.

There was a sudden whisper and rustle in the congregation: but Cyril, after a moment's pause, went on-- 'Man, in his pride and self-sufficiency, despises humiliation, and penance, and the broken and the contrite heart; and tells thee that only as long as thou doest well unto thyself will he speak well of thee: the Son of G.o.d says that he that humbleth himself, even as this our penitent brother, he it is who shall be exalted. He it is of whom it is written that his father saw him afar off, and ran to meet him, and bade put the best robe on him, and a ring on his hand, and shoes on his feet, and make merry and be glad with the choir of angels who rejoice over one sinner that repenteth. Arise, my son, whoso-ever thou art; and go in peace for this night, remembering that he who said, "My belly cleaveth unto the pavement," hath also said, "Rejoice not against me, Satan, mine enemy, for when I fall I shall arise!"'

A thunder-clap of applause, surely as pardonable as any an Alexandrian church ever heard, followed this dexterous, and yet most righteous, turn of the patriarch's oratory: but Philammon raised himself slowly and fearfully to his knees, and blushing scarlet endured the gaze of ten thousand eyes.

Suddenly, from beside the pulpit, an old man sprang forward, and clasped him round the neck. It was a.r.s.enius.

'My son! my son!' sobbed he, almost aloud.

'Slave, as well as son, if you will!' whispered Philammon. 'One boon from the patriarch; and then home to the Laura for ever!'

'Oh, twice-blest night,' rolled on above the deep rich voice of Cyril, 'which beholds at once the coronation of a martyr and the conversion of a sinner; which increases at the same time the ranks of the church triumphant, and of the church militant; and pierces celestial essences with a twofold rapture of thanksgiving, as they welcome on high a victorious, and on earth a repentant, brother!'

And at a sign from Cyril, Peter the Reader stepped forward, and led away, gently enough, the two weepers, who were welcomed as they pa.s.sed by the blessings, and prayers, and tears even of those fierce fanatics of Nitria. Nay, Peter himself, as he turned to leave them together in the sacristy, held out his hand to Philammon.

'I ask your forgiveness,' said the poor boy, who plunged eagerly and with a sort of delight into any and every self-abas.e.m.e.nt.

'And I accord it,' quoth Peter; and returned to the church, looking, and probably feeling, in a far more pleasant mood than usual.

CHAPTER XXVII.

: THE PRODIGAL'S RETURN.

About ten o'clock the next morning, as Hypatia, worn out with sleepless sorrow, was trying to arrange her thoughts for the farewell lecture, her favourite maid announced that a messenger from Synesius waited below. A letter from Synesius? A gleam of hope flashed across her mind. From him, surely, might come something of comfort, of advice. Ah! if he only knew how sorely she was bested!

'Let him send up his letter.'

'He refuses to deliver it to any one but yourself. And I think,'-- added the damsel, who had, to tell the truth, at that moment in her purse a substantial reason for so thinking--'I think it might be worth your ladyship's while to see him.'

Hypatia shook her head impatiently.

'He seems to know you well, madam, though he refuses to tell his name: but he bade me put you in mind of a black agate--I cannot tell what he meant--of a black agate, and a spirit which was to appear when you rubbed it.'

Hypatia turned pale as death. Was it Philammon again? She felt for the talisman--it was gone! She must have lost it last night in Miriam's chamber. Now she saw the true purpose of the old hag's plot--....deceived, tricked, doubly tricked! And what new plot was this?

'Tell him to leave the letter, and begone .... My father? What? Who is this? Who are you bringing to me at such a moment?'

And as she spoke, Theon ushered into the chamber no other than Raphael Aben-Ezra, and then retired.

He advanced slowly towards her, and falling on one knee, placed in her hand Synesius's letter.

Hypatia trembled from head to foot at the unexpected apparition .... Well; at least he could know nothing of last night and its disgrace. But not daring to look him in the face, she took the letter and opened it .... If she had hoped for comfort from it, her hope was not realised.

'Synesius to the Philosopher: 'Even if Fortune cannot take from me all things, yet what she can take she will. And yet of two things, at least, she shall not rob me--to prefer that which is best, and to succour the oppressed. Heaven forbid that she should overpower my judgment, as well as the rest of me! Therefore I do hate injustice; for that I can do: and my will is to stop it; but the power to do so is among the things of which she has bereaved me-before, too, she bereaved me of my children....

'"Once, in old times, Milesian men were strong."

And there was a time when I, too, was a comfort to my friends, and when you used to call me a blessing to every one except myself, as I squandered for the benefit of others the favour with which the great regarded me .... My hands they were--then .... But now I am left desolate of all: unless you have any power. For you and virtue I count among those good things, of which none can deprive me. But you always have power, and will have it, surely, now--using it as n.o.bly as you do.

'As for Nicaeus and Philolaus, two n.o.ble youths, and kinsmen of my own, let it be the business of all who honour you, both private men and magistrates, to see that they return possessors of their just rights.' [Footnote: An authentic letter of Synesius to Hypatia.]

'Of all who honour me!' said she, with a bitter sigh: and then looked up quickly at Raphael, as if fearful of having betrayed herself. She turned deadly pale. In his eyes was a look of solemn pity, which told her that he knew--not all?--surely not all?

'Have you seen the--Miriam?' gasped she, rushing desperately at that which she most dreaded.

'Not yet. I arrived but one hour ago; and Hypatia's welfare is still more important to me than my own.'

'My welfare? It is gone!'

'So much the better. I never found mine till I lost it.'

'What do you mean?'

Raphael lingered, yet without withdrawing his gaze, as if he had something of importance to say, which he longed and yet feared to utter. At last-- 'At least, you will confess that I am better drest than when we met last. I have returned, you see, like a certain demoniac of Gadara, about whom we used to argue, clothed--and perhaps also in my right mind .... G.o.d knows!'

'Raphael! are you come here to mock me? You know--you cannot have been here an hour without knowing--that but yesterday I dreamed of being'--and she drooped her eyes--'an empress; that to-day I am ruined; to-morrow, perhaps, proscribed. Have you no speech for me but your old sarcasms and ambiguities?'

Raphael stood silent and motionless.

'Why do you not speak? What is the meaning of this sad, earnest look, so different from your former self? .... You have something strange to tell me!'

'I have,' said he, speaking very slowly. 'What--what would Hypatia answer if, after all, Aben-Ezra said like the dying Julian, "The Galilean has conquered"?'

'Julian never said it! It is a monkish calumny.'

'But I say it.'

'Impossible!'

'I say it!'

'As your dying speech? The true Raphael Aben-Ezra, then, lives no more!'

'But he may be born again.'

'And die to philosophy, that he may be born again into barbaric superst.i.tion! Oh worthy metempsychosis! Farewell, sir!' And she rose to go.

'Hear me!--hear me patiently this once, n.o.ble, beloved Hypatia! One more sneer of yours, and I may become again the same case-hardened fiend which you knew me of old--to all, at least, but you. Oh, do not think me ungrateful, forgetful! What do I not owe to you, whose pure and lofty words alone kept smouldering in me the dim remembrance that there was a Right, a Truth, an unseen world of spirits, after whose pattern man should aspire to live?'

She paused, and listened in wonder. What faith had she of her own? She would at least hear what he had found....

'Hypatia, I am older than you--wiser than you, if wisdom be the fruit of the tree of knowledge. You know but one side of the medal, Hypatia, and the fairer; I have seen its reverse as well as its obverse. Through every form of human thought, of human action, of human sin and folly, have I been wandering for years, and found no rest--as little in wisdom as in folly, in spiritual dreams as in sensual brutality. I could not rest in your Platonism--I will tell you why hereafter. I went on to Stoicism, Epicurism, Cynicism, Scepticism, and in that lowest deep I found a lower depth, when I became sceptical of Scepticism itself.'

'There is a lower deep still,' thought Hypatia to herself, as she recollected last night's magic; but she did not speak.

'Then in utter abas.e.m.e.nt, I confessed myself lower than the brutes, who had a law, and obeyed it, while I was my own lawless G.o.d, devil, harpy, whirlwind .... I needed even my own dog to awaken in me the brute consciousness of my own existence, or of anything without myself. I took her, the dog, for my teacher, and obeyed her, for she was wiser than I. And she led me back--the poor dumb beast-- like a G.o.d-sent and G.o.d-obeying angel, to human nature, to mercy, to self-sacrifice, to belief, to worship--to pure and wedded love.'

Hypatia started .... And in the struggle to hide her own bewilderment, answered almost without knowing it-- 'Wedded love? .... Wedded love? Is that, then, the paltry bait by which Raphael Aben-Ezra has been tempted to desert philosophy?'

'Thank Heaven!' said Raphael to himself. 'She does not care for me, then! If she had, pride would have kept her from that sneer.' Yes, my dear lady,' answered he aloud, 'to desert philosophy, to search after wisdom; because wisdom itself had sought for me, and found me. But, indeed, I had hoped that you would have approved of my following your example for once in my life, and resolving, like you, to enter into the estate of wedlock.'

'Do not sneer at me!' cried she, in her turn, looking up at him with shame and horror, which made him repent of uttering the words. 'If you do not know--you will soon, too soon! Never mention that hateful dream to me, if you wish to have speech of me more!'

A pang of remorse shot through Raphael's heart. Who but he himself had plotted that evil marriage? But she gave him no opportunity of answering her, and went on hurriedly-- 'Speak to me rather about yourself. What is this strange and sudden betrothal? What has it to do with Christianity? I had thought that it was rather by the glories of celibacy--gross and superst.i.tious as their notions of it are--that the Galileans tempted their converts.'

'So had I, my dearest lady,' answered he, as, glad to turn the subject for a moment, and perhaps a little nettled by her contemptuous tone, he resumed something of his old arch and careless manner. 'But--there is no accounting for man's agreeable inconsistencies--one morning I found myself, to my astonishment, seized by two bishops, and betrothed, whether I chose or not, to a young lady who but a few days before had been destined for a nunnery.'

'Two bishops?'

'I speak simple truth. The one was Synesius of course;--that most incoherent and most benevolent of busybodies chose to betray me behind my back:-but I will not trouble you with that part of my story. The real wonder is that the other episcopal match-maker was Augustine of Hippo himself!'

'Anything to bribe a convert,' said Hypatia contemptuously.

'I a.s.sure you, no. He informed me, and her also, openly and uncivilly enough, that he thought us very much to be pitied for so great a fall .... But as we neither of us seemed to have any call for the higher life of celibacy, he could not press it on us .... We should have trouble in the flesh. But if we married we had not sinned. To which I answered that my humility was quite content to sit in the very lowest ranks, with Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob .... He replied by an encomium on virginity, in which I seemed to hear again the voice of Hypatia herself.'

'And sneered at it inwardly, as you used to sneer at me.'

'Really I was in no sneering mood at that moment; and whatsoever I may have felt inclined to reply, he was kind enough to say for me and himself the next minute.'

'What do you mean?'

'He went on, to my utter astonishment, by such a eulogium on wedlock as I never heard from Jew or heathen, and ended by advice to young married folk so thoroughly excellent and to the point, that I could not help telling him, when he stopped; what a pity I thought it that he had not himself married, and made some good woman happy by putting his own recipes into practice .... And at that, Hypatia, I saw an expression on his face which made me wish for the moment that I had bitten out this impudent tongue of mine, before I so rashly touched some deep old wound .... That man has wept bitter tears ere now, be sure of it .... But he turned the conversation instantly, like a well-bred gentleman as he is, by saying, with the sweetest smile, that though he had made it a solemn rule never to be a party to making up any marriage, yet in our case Heaven had so plainly pointed us out for each other, etc. etc., that he could not refuse himself the pleasure .... and ended by a blessing as kindly as ever came from the lips of man.'

'You seem wonderfully taken with the sophist of Hippo,' said Hypatia impatiently; 'and forget, perhaps, that his opinions, especially when, as you confess, they are utterly inconsistent with themselves, are not quite as important to me as they seem to have become to you.'

'Whether he be consistent or not about marriage,' said Raphael, somewhat proudly, 'I care little. I went to him to tell me, not about the relation of the s.e.xes, on which point I am probably as good a judge as he--but about G.o.d and on that subject he told me enough to bring me back to Alexandria, that I might undo, if possible, somewhat of the wrong which I have done to Hypatia.'

'What wrong have you done me? .... You are silent? Be sure, at least, that whatsoever it may be, you will not wipe it out by trying to make a proselyte of me!'

'Be not too sure of that. I have found too great a treasure not to wish to share it with Theon's daughter.'

'A treasure?' said she, half scornfully.

'Yes, indeed. You recollect my last words, when we parted there below a few months ago?'

Hypatia was silent. One terrible possibility at which he had hinted flashed across her memory for the first time since; .... but she spurned proudly from her the heaven-sent warning.

'I told you that, like Diogenes, I went forth to seek a man. Did I not promise you, that when I had found one you should be the first to hear of him? And I have found a man.'

Hypatia waved her beautiful hand. 'I know whom you would say .... that crucified one. Be it so. I want not a man, but a G.o.d.'

'What sort of a G.o.d, Hypatia? A G.o.d made up of our own intellectual notions, or rather of negations of them--of infinity and eternity, and invisibility, and impa.s.sibility--and why not of immortality, too, Hypatia? For I recollect we used to agree that it was a carnal degrading of the Supreme One to predicate of Him so merely human a thing as virtue.'

Hypatia was silent.

'Now I have always had a sort of fancy that what we wanted, as the first predicate of our Absolute One, was that He was to be not merely an infinite G.o.d--whatever that meant, which I suspect we did not always see quite clearly--or an eternal one--or an omnipotent one--or even merely a one G.o.d at all; none of which predicates, I fear, did we understand more clearly than the first: but that he must be a righteous G.o.d:--or rather, as we used sometimes to say that He was to have no predicate--Righteousness itself. And all along, I could not help remembering that my old sacred Hebrew books told me of such a one; and feeling that they might have something to tell me which--'

'Which I did not tell you! And this, then, caused your air of reserve, and of sly superiority over the woman whom you mocked by calling her your pupil! I little suspected you of so truly Jewish a jealousy! Why, oh why, did you not tell me this?'

'Because I was a beast, Hypatia; and had all but forgotten what this righteousness was like; and was afraid to find out lest it should condemn me. Because I was a devil, Hypatia; and hated righteousness, and neither wished to see you righteous, nor G.o.d righteous either, because then you would both have been unlike myself. G.o.d be merciful to me a sinner!'

She looked up in his face. The man was changed as if by miracle-- and yet not changed. There was the same gallant consciousness of power, the same subtle and humorous twinkle in those strong ripe Jewish features and those glittering eyes; and yet every line in his face was softened, sweetened; the mask of sneering faineance was gone--imploring tenderness and earnestness beamed from his whole countenance. The chrysalis case had fallen off, and disclosed the b.u.t.terfly within. She sat looking at him, and pa.s.sed her hand across her eyes, as if to try whether the apparition would not vanish. He, the subtle!--he, the mocker!--he, the Lucian of Alexandria!--he whose depth and power had awed her, even in his most polluted days .... And this was the end of him....

'It is a freak of cowardly superst.i.tion .... Those Christians have been frightening him about his sins and their Tartarus.'

She looked again into his bright, clear, fearless face, and was ashamed of her own calumny. And this was the end of him--of Synesius--of Augustine--of learned and unlearned, Goth and Roman .... The great flood would have its way, then .... Could she alone fight against it?

She could! Would she submit?--She? Her will should stand firm, her reason free, to the last--to the death if need be .... And yet last night!--last night!

At last she spoke, without looking up.

'And what if you have found a man in that crucified one? Have you found in him a G.o.d also?'

'Does Hypatia recollect Glaucon's definition of the perfectly righteous man? .... How, without being guilty of one unrighteous act, he must labour his life long under the imputation of being utterly unrighteous, in order that his disinterestedness may be thoroughly tested, and by proceeding in such a course, arrive inevitably, as Glaucon says, not only in Athens of old, or in Judaea of old, but, as you yourself will agree, in Christian Alexandria at this moment, at--do you remember, Hypatia?--bonds, and the scourge, and lastly, at the cross itself .... If Plato's idea of the righteous man be a crucified one, why may not mine also? If, as we both--and old Bishop Clemens, too--as good a Platonist as we, remember--and Augustine himself, would agree, Plato in speaking those strange words, spoke not of himself, but by the Spirit of G.o.d, why should not others have spoken by the same Spirit when they spoke the same words?'

'A crucified man .... Yes. But a crucified G.o.d, Raphael! I shudder at the blasphemy.'

'So do my poor dear fellow-countrymen. Are they the more righteous in their daily doings, Hypatia, on account of their fancied reverence for the glory of One who probably knows best how to preserve and manifest His own glory? But you a.s.sent to the definition? Take care!' said he, with one of his arch smiles, 'I have been fighting with Augustine, and have become of late a terrible dialectician. Do you a.s.sent to it?'

'Of course--it is Plato's.'

'But do you a.s.sent merely because it is written in the book called Plato's, or because your reason tells you that it is true? .... You will not tell me. Tell me this, then, at least. Is not the perfectly righteous man the highest specimen of men?'

'Surely,' said she half carelessly: but not unwilling, like a philosopher and a Greek, as a matter of course, to embark in anything like a word-battle, and to shut out sadder thoughts for a moment.