And he would have been certainly filled with the same in five minutes more, in some shape too ugly to be mentioned: but, as even sinful women have hearts in them, Pelagia shrieked out-- 'Amalric! Amalric! do not let them! I cannot bear it!'

'The warriors are free men, my darling, and know what is proper. And what can the life of such a brute be to you?'

Before he could stop her, Pelagia had sprung from her cushions, and thrown herself into the midst of the laughing ring of wild beasts.

'Spare him! spare him for my sake!' shrieked she.

'Oh, my pretty lady! you mustn't interrupt warriors' sport!'

In an instant she had torn off her shawl, and thrown it over Philammon; and as she stood, with all the outlines of her beautiful limbs revealed through the thin robe of spangled gauze-- 'Let the man who dares, touch him beneath that shawl!--though it be a saffron one!'

The Goths drew back. For Pelagia herself they had as little respect as the rest of the world had. But for a moment she was not the Messalina of Alexandria, but a woman; and true to the old woman- worshipping instinct, they looked one and all at her flashing eyes, full of n.o.ble pity and indignation, as well as of mere woman's terror--and drew back, and whispered together.

Whether the good spirit or the evil one would conquer, seemed for a moment doubtful, when Pelagia felt a heavy hand on her shoulder, and turning, saw Wulf the son of Ovida.

'Go back, pretty woman! Men, I claim the boy. Smid, give him to me. He is your man. You could have killed him if you had chosen, and did not; and no one else shall.'

'Give him us, Prince Wulf! We have not seen blood for many a day!'

'You might have seen rivers of it, if you had had the hearts to go onward. The boy is mine, and a brave boy. He has upset a warrior fairly this day, and spared him; and we will make a warrior of him in return.'

And he lifted up the prostrate monk.

'You are my man now. Do you like fighting?'

Philammon, not understanding the language in which he was addressed, could only shake his head--though if he had known what its import was, he could hardly in honesty have said, No.

'He shakes his head! He does not like it! He is craven! Let us have him!'

'I had killed kings when you were shooting frogs,' cried Smid. 'Listen to me, my sons! A coward grips sharply at first, and loosens his hand after a while, because his blood is soon hot and soon cold. A brave man's grip grows the firmer the longer he holds, because the spirit of Odin comes upon him. I watched the boy's hands on my threat; and he will make a man; and I will make him one. However, we may as well make him useful at once; so give him an oar.'

'Well,' answered his new protector, 'he can as well row us as be rowed by us; and if we are to go back to a cow's death and the pool of Hela, the quicker we go the better.'

And as the men settled themselves again to their oars, one was put into Philammon's hand, which he managed with such strength and skill that his late tormentors, who, in spite of an occasional inclination to robbery and murder, were thoroughly good-natured, honest fellows, clapped him on the back, and praised him as heartily as they had just now heartily intended to torture him to death, and then went forward, as many of them as were not rowing, to examine the strange beast which they had just slaughtered, pawing him over from tusks to tail, putting their heads into his mouth, trying their knives on his hide, comparing him to all beasts, like and unlike, which they had ever seen, and laughing and shoving each other about with the fun and childish wonder of a party of schoolboys; till Smid, who was the wit of the party, settled the comparative anatomy of the subject for them- 'Valhalla! I've found out what he's most like!--One of those big blue plums, which gave us all the stomach-ache when we were encamped in the orchards above Ravenna!'

CHAPTER IV.

: MIRIAM.

One morning in the same week, Hypatia's favourite maid entered her chamber with a somewhat terrified face.

'The old Jewess, madam--the hag who has been watching so often lately under the wall opposite. She frightened us all out of our senses last evening by peeping in. We all said she had the evil eye, if any one ever had--'

'Well, what of her?'

'She is below, madam, and will speak with you. Not that I care for her; I have my amulet on. I hope you have?'

'Silly girl! Those who have been initiated as I have in the mysteries of the G.o.ds, can defy spirits and command them. Do you suppose that the favourite of Pallas Athene will condescend to charms and magic? Send her up.'

The girl retreated, with a look half of awe, half of doubt, at the lofty pretensions of her mistress, and returned with old Miriam, keeping, however, prudently behind her, in order to test as little as possible the power of her own amulet by avoiding the basilisk eye which had terrified her.

Miriam came in, and advancing to the proud beauty, who remained seated, made an obeisance down to the very floor, without, however, taking her eyes for an instant off Hypatia's face.

Her countenance was haggard and bony, with broad sharp-cut lips, stamped with a strangely mingled expression of strength and sensuality. Put the feature about her which instantly fixed Hypatia's attention, and from which she could not in spite of herself withdraw it, was the dry, glittering, coal-black eye which glared out from underneath the gray fringe of her swarthy brows, between black locks covered with gold coins. Hypatia could look at nothing but those eyes; and she reddened, and grew all but unphilosophically angry, as she saw that the old woman intended her to look at them, and feel the strange power which she evidently wished them to exercise.

After a moment's silence, Miriam drew a letter from her bosom, and with a second low obeisance presented it.

'From whom is this?'

'Perhaps the letter itself will tell the beautiful lady, the fortunate lady, the discerning lady,' answered she, in a fawning, wheedling tone. 'How should a poor old Jewess know great folks' secrets?'

'Great folks?--'

Hypatia looked at the seal which fixed a silk cord round the letter. It was Orestes'; and so was the handwriting .... Strange that he should have chosen such a messenger! What message could it be which required such secrecy?

She clapped her hands for the maid. 'Let this woman wait in the ante-room.' Miriam glided out backwards, bowing as she went. As Hypatia looked up over the letter to see whether she was alone, she caught a last glance of that eye still fixed upon her, and an expression in Miriam's face which made her, she knew not why, shudder and turn chill.

'Foolish that I am! What can that witch be to me? But now for the letter.'

'To the most n.o.ble and most beautiful, the mistress of philosophy, beloved of Athene, her pupil and slave sends greeting.'....

'My slave! and no name mentioned!'

'There are those who consider that the favourite hen of Honorius, which bears the name of the Imperial City, would thrive better under a new feeder; and the Count of Africa has been despatched by himself and by the immortal G.o.ds to superintend for the present the poultry- yard of the Caesars--at least during the absence of Adolf and Placidia. There are those also who consider that in his absence the Numidian lion might be prevailed on to become the yoke-fellow of the Egyptian crocodile; and a farm which, ploughed by such a pair, should extend from the upper cataract to the Pillars of Hercules, might have charms even for a philosopher. But while the ploughman is without a nymph, Arcadia is imperfect. What were Dionusos without his Ariadne, Ares without Aphrodite, Zeus without Hera? Even Artemis has her Endymion; Athens alone remains unwedded; but only because Hephaestus was too rough a wooer. Such is not he who now offers to the representative of Athene the opportunity of sharing that which may be with the help of her wisdom, which without her is impossible. [Greek expression omitted] Shall Eros, invincible for ages, be balked at last of the n.o.blest game against which he ever drew his bow?'....

If Hypatia's colour had faded a moment before under the withering glance of the old Jewess, it rose again swiftly enough, as she read line after line of this strange epistle; till at last, crushing it together in her hand, she rose and hurried into the adjoining library, where Theon sat over his books.

'Father, do you know anything of this? Look what Orestes has dared to send me by the hands of some base Jewish witch!'--And she spread the letter before him, and stood impatient, her whole figure dilated with pride and anger, as the old man read it slowly and carefully, and then looked up, apparently not ill pleased with the contents.

'What, father?' asked she, half reproachfully. 'Do not you, too, feel the insult which has been put upon your daughter?'

'My dear child,' with a puzzled look, 'do you not see that he offers you--'

'I know what he offers me, father. The Empire of Africa .... I am to descend from the mountain heights of science, from the contemplation of the unchangeable and ineffable glories, into the foul fields and farmyards of earthly practical life, and become a drudge among political chicanery, and the petty ambitions, and sins, and falsehoods of the earthly herd .... And the price which he offers me--me, the stainless--me, the virgin--me, the un-tamed, -- is-his hand! Pallas Athene! dost thou not blush with thy child?'

'But, my child--my child,--an empire--'

'Would the empire of the world restore my lost self-respect-my just pride? Would it save my cheek from blushes every time I recollected that I bore the hateful and degrading name of wife?--The property, the puppet of a man--submitting to his pleasure--bearing his children--wearing myself out with all the nauseous cares of wifehood--no longer able to glory in myself, pure and self- sustained, but forced by day and night to recollect that my very beauty is no longer the sacrament of Athene's love for me, but the plaything of a man;--and such a man as that! Luxurious, frivolous, heartless--courting my society, as he has done for years, only to pick up and turn to his own base earthly uses the sc.r.a.ps which fall from the festal table of the G.o.ds! I have encouraged him too much-- vain fool that I have been! No, I wrong myself! It was only--I thought--I thought that by his being seen at our doors, the cause of the immortal G.o.ds would gain honour and strength in the eyes of the mult.i.tude .... I have tried to feed the altars of heaven with earthly fuel .... And this is my just reward! I will write to him this moment,--return by the fitting messenger which he has sent, insult for insult!'

'In the name of Heaven, my daughter!--for your father's sake!--for my sake! Hypatia!--my pride, my joy, my only hope!--have pity on my gray hairs!'

And the poor old man flung himself at her feet, and clasped her knees imploringly.

Tenderly she lifted him up, and wound her long arms round him, and laid his head on her white shoulder, and her tears fell fast upon his gray hair; but her lip was firm and determined.

'Think of my pride--my glory in your glory; think of me .... Not for myself! You know I never cared for myself!' sobbed out the old man. 'But to die seeing you empress!'

'Unless I died first in childbed, father, as many a woman dies who is weak enough to become a slave, and submit to tortures only fit for slaves.'

'But--but--said the old man, racking his bewildered brains for some argument far enough removed from nature and common sense to have an effect on the beautiful fanatic--'but the cause of the G.o.ds! What you might do for it! .... Remember Julian!'

Hypatia's arms dropped suddenly. Yes; it was true! The thought flashed across her mind with mingled delight and terror .... Visions of her childhood rose swift and thick--temples--sacrifices-- priesthoods--colleges--museums! What might she not do? What might she not make Africa? Give her ten years of power, and the hated name of Christian might be forgotten, and Athene Polias, colossal in ivory and gold, watching in calm triumph over the harbours of a heathen Alexandria .... But the price!

And she hid her face in her hands, and bursting into bitter tears, walked slowly away into her own chamber, her whole body convulsed with the internal struggle.

The old man looked after her, anxiously and perplexed, and then followed, hesitating. She was sitting at the table, her face buried in her hands. He did not dare to disturb her. In addition to all the affection, the wisdom, the glorious beauty, on which his whole heart fed day by day, he believed her to be the possessor of those supernatural powers and favours to which she so boldly laid claim. And he stood watching her in the doorway, praying in his heart to all G.o.ds and demons, princ.i.p.alities and powers, from Athene down to his daughter's guardian spirit, to move a determination which he was too weak to gainsay, and yet too rational to approve.

At last the struggle was over, and she looked up, clear, calm, and glorious again.

'It shall be. For the sake of the immortal G.o.ds--for the sake of art, and science, and learning, and philosophy .... It shall be. If the G.o.ds demand a victim, here am I. If a second time in the history of the ages the Grecian fleet cannot sail forth, conquering and civilising, without the sacrifice of a virgin, I give my throat to the knife. Father, call me no more Hypatia: call me Iphigenia!'

'And me Agamemnon?' asked the old man, attempting a faint jest through his tears of joy. 'I daresay you think me a very cruel father; but--'

'Spare me, father--I have spared you.'

And she began to write her answer.

'I have accepted his offer--conditionally, that is. And on whether he have courage or not to fulfil that condition depends-- Do not ask me what it is. While Cyril is leader of the Christian mob, it may be safer for you, my father, that you should be able to deny all knowledge of my answer. Be content. I have said this--that if he will do as I would have him do, I will do as you would have me do.'

'Have you not been too rash? Have you not demanded of him something which, for the sake of public opinion, he dare not grant openly, and yet which he may allow you to do for yourself when once--'

'I have. If I am to be a victim, the sacrificing priest shall at least be a man, and not a coward and a time-server. If he believes this Christian faith, let him defend it against me; for either it or I shall perish. If he does not--as he does not--let him give up living in a lie, and taking on his lips blasphemies against the immortals, from which his heart and reason revolt!'

And she clapped her hands again for the maid-servant, gave her the letter silently, shut the doors of her chamber, and tried to resume her Commentary on Plotinus. Alas! what were all the wire-drawn dreams of metaphysics to her in that real and human struggle of the heart? What availed it to define the process by which individual souls emanated from the universal one, while her own soul had, singly and on its own responsibility, to decide so terrible an act of will? or to write fine words with pen and ink about the immutability of the supreme Reason, while her own reason was left there to struggle for its life amid a roaring sh.o.r.eless waste of doubts and darkness? Oh, how grand, and clear, and logical it had all looked half an hour ago! And how irrefragably she had been deducing from it all, syllogism after syllogism, the non-existence of evil!--how it was but a lower form of good, one of the countless products of the one great all-pervading mind which could not err or change, only so strange and recondite in its form as to excite antipathy in all minds but that of the philosopher, who learnt to see the stem which connected the apparently bitter fruit with the perfect root from whence it sprang. Could she see the stem there?-- the connection between the pure and supreme Reason, and the hideous caresses of the debauched and cowardly Orestes? was not that evil pure, unadulterate with any vein of good, past, present, or future? ....

True;--she might keep her spirit pure amid it all; she might sacrifice the base body, and enn.o.ble the soul by the self-sacrifice .... And yet, would not that increase the horror, the agony, the evil of it-to her, at least, most real evil, not to be explained away-and yet the G.o.ds required it? Were they just, merciful in that? Was it like them, to torture her, their last unshaken votary? Did they require it? Was it not required of them by some higher power, of whom they were only the emanations, the tools, the puppets?--and required of that higher power by some still higher one--some nameless, absolute destiny of which Orestes and she, and all heaven and earth, were but the victims, dragged along in an inevitable vortex, helpless, hopeless, toward that for which each was meant?--And she was meant for this! The thought was unbearable; it turned her giddy. No! she would not! She would rebel! Like Prometheus, she would dare destiny, and brave its worst! And she sprang up to recall the letter .... Miriam was gone; and she threw herself on the floor, and wept bitterly.

And her peace of mind would certainly not have been improved, could she have seen old Miriam hurry home with her letter to a dingy house in the Jews' quarter, where it was un-sealed, read, and sealed up again with such marvellous skill, that no eye could have detected the change; and finally, still less would she have been comforted could she have heard the conversation which was going on in a summer-room of Orestes' palace, between that ill.u.s.trious statesman and Raphael Aben-Ezra, who were lying on two divans opposite each other, whiling away, by a throw or two of dice, the anxious moments which delayed her answer.

'Trays again! The devil is in you, Raphael!'

'I always thought he was,' answered Raphael, sweeping up the gold pieces....

'When will that old witch be back?'

'When she has read through your letter and Hypatia's answer.'

'Read them?'

'Of course. You don't fancy she is going to be fool enough to carry a message without knowing what it is? Don't be angry; she won't tell. She would give one of those two grave-lights there, which she calls her eyes, to see the thing prosper.'

'Why?'

'Your excellency will know when the letter comes. Here she is; I hear steps in the cloister. Now, one bet before they enter. I give you two to one she asks you to turn pagan.'

'What in? Negro-boys?'

'Anything you like.'

'Taken. Come in, slaves?'

And Hypocorisma entered, pouting.

'That Jewish fury is outside with a letter, and has the impudence to say she won't let me bring it in!'

'Bring her in then. Quick!'

'I wonder what I am here for, if people have secrets that I am not to know,' grumbled the spoilt youth.

'Do you want a blue ribbon round those white sides of yours, you monkey?' answered Orestes. 'Because, if you do, the hippopotamus hide hangs ready outside.'

'Let us make him kneel down here for a couple of hours, and use him as a dice-board,' said Raphael, 'as you used to do to the girls in Armenia.'

'Ah, you recollect that?--and how the barbarian papas used to grumble, till I had to crucify one or two, eh? That was something like life! I love those out-of-the-way stations, where n.o.body asks questions: but here one might as well live among the monks in Nitria. Here comes Canidia! Ah, the answer? Hand it here, my queen of go-betweens!'

Orestes read it--and his countenance fell.

'I have won?'

'Out of the room, slaves! and no listening!'

'I have won then?'

Orestes tossed the letter across to him, and Raphael read-- 'The immortal G.o.ds accept no divided worship; and he who would command the counsels of their prophetess must remember that they will vouchsafe to her no illumination till their lost honours be restored. If he who aspires to be the lord of Africa dare trample on the hateful cross, and restore the Caesareum to those for whose worship it was built--if he dare proclaim aloud with his lips, and in his deeds, that contempt for novel and barbarous superst.i.tions, which his taste and reason have already taught him, then he would prove himself one with whom it were a glory to labour, to dare, to die in a great cause. But till then--'

And so the letter ended.

'What am I to do?'

'Take her at her word.'

'Good heavens! I shall be excommunicated! And--and--what is to become of my soul?'

'What will become of it in any case, my most excellent lord?' answered Raphael blandly.

'You mean--I know what you cursed Jews think will happen to every one but yourselves. But what would the world say? I an apostate! And in the face of Cyril and the populace! I daren't, I tell you!'

'No one asked your excellency to apostatise.'

'Why, what? What did you say just now?'