'Ay, they were men,' growled Wulf.

'As for me,' went on the Amal, 'the biggest thing I ever killed was a snake in the Donau fens. How long was he, prince? You had time to see, for you sat eating your dinner and looking on, while he was trying to crack my bones.'

'Four fathom,' answered Wulf.

'With a wild bull lying by him, which he had just killed. I spoilt his dinner, eh, Wulf?'

'Yes,' said the old grumbler, mollified, 'that was a right good fight.'

'Why don't you make a saga about it, then, instead of about right and wrong, and such things?'

'Because I am turned philosopher. I shall go and hear that Alruna-maiden this afternoon.'

'Well said. Let us go too, young men: it will pa.s.s the time, at all events.'

'Oh, no! no! no! do not! you shall not!' almost shrieked Pelagia.

'Why not, then, pretty one?'

'She is a witch-she-I will never love you again if you dare to go. Your only reason is that Agilmund's report of her beauty.'

'So? You are afraid of my liking her golden locks better than your black ones?'

'I? Afraid?' And she leapt up, panting with pretty rage. 'Come, we will go too-at once-and brave this nun, who fancies herself too wise to speak to a woman, and too pure to love a man! Lookout my jewels! Saddle my white mule! We will go royally. We will not be ashamed of Cupid's livery, my girls-saffron shawl and all! Come, and let us see whether saucy Aphrodite is not a match after all for Pallas Athene and her owl!'

And she darted out of the cloister.

The three younger men burst into a roar of laughter, while Wulf looked with grim approval.

'So you want to go and hear the philosopher, prince?' said Smid.

'Wheresoever a holy and a wise woman speaks, a warrior need not be ashamed of listening. Did not Alaric bid us spare the nuns in Rome, comrade? And though I am no Christian as he was, I thought it no shame for Odin's man to take their blessing; nor will I to take this one's, Smid, son of Troll.'

CHAPTER XIII: THE BOTTOM OF THE ABYSS

'Here am I, at last!' said Raphael Aben-Ezra to himself. 'Fairly and safely landed at the very bottom of the bottomless; disporting myself on the firm floor of the primeval nothing, and finding my new element, like boys when they begin to swim, not so impracticable after all. No man, angel, or demon, can this day cast it in my teeth that I am weak enough to believe or disbelieve any phenomenon or theory in or concerning heaven or earth; or even that any such heaven, earth, phenomena, or theories exist-or otherwise.... I trust that is a sufficiently exhaustive statement of my opinions? .... I am certainly not dogmatic enough to deny-or to a.s.sert either-that there are sensations.... far too numerous for comfort .... but as for proceeding any further, by induction, deduction, a.n.a.lysis, or synthesis, I utterly decline the office of Arachne, and will spin no more cobwebs out of my own inside-if I have any. Sensations? What are they, but parts of oneself-if one has a self! What put this child's fancy into one's head, that there is anything outside of one which produces them? You have exactly similar feelings in your dreams, and you know that there is no reality corresponding to them-No, you don't! How dare you be dogmatic enough to affirm that? Why should not your dreams be as real as your waking thoughts? Why should not your dreams be the reality, and your waking thoughts the dream? What matter which?

'What matter indeed? Here have I been staring for years-unless that, too, is a dream, which it very probably is-at every mountebank "ism" which ever tumbled and capered on the philosophic tight-rope; and they are every one of them dead dolls, wooden, worked with wires, which are pet.i.tiones principii.... Each philosopher begs the question in hand, and then marches forward, as brave as a triumph, and prides himself-on proving it all afterwards. No wonder that his theory fits the universe, when he has first clipped the universe to fit his theory. Have I not tried my hand at many a one-starting, too, no one can deny, with the very minimum of clipping,.... for I suppose one cannot begin lower than at simple "I am I".... unless-which is equally demonstrable-at "I am not I." I recollect-or dream-that I offered that sweet dream, Hypatia, to deduce all things in heaven and earth, from the Astronomics of Hipparchus to the number of plumes in an archangel's wing, from that one simple proposition, if she would but write me out a demonstration of it first, as some sort of [Greek expression] for the apex of my inverted pyramid. But she disdained.... People are apt to disdain what they know they cannot do.... "It was an axiom," it was, "like one and one making two.".... How cross the sweet dream was, at my telling her that I did not consider that any axiom either, and that one thing and one thing seeming to us to be two things, was no more proof that they really were two, and not three hundred and sixty-five, than a man seeming to be an honest man, proved him not to be a rogue; and at my asking her, moreover, when she appealed to universal experience, how she proved that the combined folly of all fools resulted in wisdom!

'"I am I" an axiom, indeed! What right have I to say that I am not any one else? How do I know it? How do I know that there is any one else for me not to be? I, or rather something, feel a number of sensations, longings, thoughts, fancies-the great devil take them all-fresh ones every moment, and each at war tooth and nail with all the rest; and then on the strength of this infinite multiplicity and contradiction, of which alone I am aware, I am to be illogical enough to stand up, and say, "I by myself I," and swear stoutly that I am one thing, when all I am conscious of is the devil only knows how many things. Of all quaint deductions from experience, that is the quaintest! Would it not be more philosophical to conclude that I, who never saw or felt or heard this which I call myself, am what I have seen, heard, and felt-and no more and no less-that sensation which I call that horse, that dead man, that jacka.s.s, those forty thousand two-legged jacka.s.ses who appear to be running for their lives below there, having got hold of this same notion of their being one thing each-as I choose to fancy in my foolish habit of imputing to them the same disease of thought which I find in myself-crucify the word!-The folly of my ancestors-if I ever had any-prevents my having any better expression.... Why should I not be all I feel-that sky, those clouds-the whole universe? Hercules! what a creative genius my sensorium must be!-I'll take to writing' poetry-a mock-epic, in seventy-two books, ent.i.tled "The Universe: or, Raphael Aben-Ezra," and take Homer's Margites for my model. Homer's? Mine! Why must not the Margites, like everything else, have been a sensation of my own? Hypatia used to say Homer's poetry was a part of her.... only she could not prove it.... but I have proved that the Margites is a part of me.... not that I believe my own proof-scepticism forbid! Oh, would to heaven that the said whole disagreeable universe were annihilated, if it were only just to settle by fair experiment whether any of master "I" remained when they were gone! Buzzard and dogmatist! And how do you know that that would settle it? And if it did-why need it be settled?....

'I daresay there is an answer pat for all this. I could write a pretty one myself in half an hour. But then I should not believe it .... nor the rejoinder to that.... nor the demurrer to that again .... So.... I am both sleepy and hungry.... or rather, sleepiness and hunger are me. Which is it! Heigh-ho....' and Raphael finished his meditation by a mighty yawn.

This hopeful oration was delivered in a fitting lecture-room. Between the bare walls of a doleful fire-scarred tower in the Campagna of Rome, standing upon a knoll of dry brown gra.s.s, ringed with a few grim pines, blasted and black with smoke; there sat Raphael Aben-Ezra, working out the last formula of the great world problem-'Given Self; to find G.o.d.' Through the doorless stone archway he could see a long vista of the plain below, covered with broken trees, trampled crops, smoking villas, and all the ugly scars of recent war, far onward to the quiet purple mountains and the silver sea, towards which struggled, far in the distance, long dark lines of moving specks, flowing together, breaking up, stopping short, recoiling back to surge forward by some fresh channel, while now and then a glitter of keen white sparks ran through the dense black ma.s.ses.... The Count of Africa had thrown for the empire of the world-and lost.

'Brave old Sun!' said Raphael, 'how merrily he flashes off the sword-blades yonder, and never cares that every tiny spark brings a death-shriek after it! Why should he? It is no concern of his. Astrologers are fools. His business is to shine; and on the whole, he is one of my few satisfactory sensations. How now? This is questionably pleasant!'

As he spoke, a column of troops came marching across the field, straight towards his retreat.

'If these new sensations of mine find me here, they will infallibly produce in me a new sensation, which will render all further ones impossible.... Well? What kinder thing could they do for me?.... Ay-but how do I know that they would do it? What possible proof is there that if a two-legged phantasm pokes a hard iron-gray phantasm in among my sensations, those sensations will be my last? Is the fact of my turning pale, and lying still, and being in a day or two converted into crows' flesh, any reason why I should not feel? And how do I know that would happen? It seems to happen to certain sensations of my eyeball-or something else-who cares? which I call soldiers; but what possible a.n.a.logy can there be between what seems to happen to those single sensations called soldiers, and what may or may not really happen to all my sensations put together, which I call me? Should I bear apples if a phantasm seemed to come and plant me? Then why should I die if another phantasm seemed to come and poke me in the ribs?

'Still I don't intend to deny it.... I am no dogmatist. Positively the phantasms are marching straight for my tower! Well, it may be safer to run away, on the chance. But as for losing feeling,' continued he, rising and cramming a few mouldy crusts into his wallet, 'that, like everything else, is past proof. Why-if now, when I have some sort of excuse for fancying myself one thing in one place, I am driven mad with the number of my sensations, what will it be when I am eaten, and turned to dust, and undeniably many things in many places.... Will not the sensations be multiplied by-unbearable! I would swear at the thought, if I had anything to swear by! To be trans.m.u.ted into the sensoria of forty different nasty carrion crows, besides two or three foxes, and a large black beetle! I'll run away, just like anybody else.... if anybody existed. Come, Bran! ...............

'Bran! where are you; unlucky inseparable sensation of mine? Picking up a dinner already off these dead soldiers? Well, the pity is that this foolish contradictory taste of mine, while it makes me hungry, forbids me to follow your example. Why am I to take lessons from my soldier-phantasms, and not from my canine one? Illogical! Bran! Bran!' and he went out and whistled in vain for the dog.

'Bran! unhappy phantom, who will not vanish by night or day, lying on my chest even in dreams; and who would not even let me vanish, and solve the problem-though I don't believe there is any-why did you drag me out of the sea there at Ostia? Why did you not let me become a whole shoal of crabs? How did you know, or I either, that they may not be very jolly fellows, and not in the least troubled with philosophic doubts?.... But perhaps there were no crabs, but only phantasms of crabs.... And, on the other hand, if the crab-phantasms give jolly sensations, why should not the crow-phantasms? So whichever way it turns out, no matter; and I may as well wait here, and seem to become crows, as I certainly shall do.-Bran!.... Why should I wait for her? What pleasure can it be to me to have the feeling of a four-legged, brindled, lop-eared, toad-mouthed thing always between what seem to be my legs? There she is! Where have you been, madam? Don't you see I am in marching order, with staff and wallet ready shouldered? Come!'

But the dog, looking up in his face as only dogs can look, ran toward the back of the ruin, and up to him again, and back again, until he followed her.

'What's this? Here is a new sensation with a vengeance! O storm and cloud of material appearances, were there not enough of you already, that you must add to your number these also? Bran! Bran! Could you find no other day in the year but this, whereon to present my ears with the squeals of-one-two-three-nine blind puppies?'

Bran answered by rushing into the hole where her new family lay tumbling and squalling, bringing out one in her mouth, and laying it at his feet.

'Needless, I a.s.sure you. I am perfectly aware of the state of the case already. What! another? Silly old thing!-do you fancy, as the fine ladies do, that burdening the world with noisy likenesses of your precious self, is a thing of which to be proud? Why, she's bringing out the whole litter!.... What was I thinking of last? Ah-the argument was self-contradictory, was it, because I could not argue without using the very terms which I repudiated. Well.... And-why should it not be contradictory; Why not? One must face that too, after all. Why should not a thing be true and false also? What harm in a thing's being false? What necessity for it to be true? True? What is truth? Why should a thing be the worse for being illogical? Why should there be any logic at all? Did I ever see a little beast flying about with "Logic" labelled on its back? What do I know of it, but as a sensation of my own mind-if I have any? What proof is that that I am to obey it, and not it me? If a flea bites me I get rid of that sensation; and if logic bothers me, I'll get rid of that too. Phantasms must be taught to vanish courteously. One's only hope of comfort lies in kicking feebly against the tyranny of one's own boring notions and sensations-every philosopher confesses that-and what G.o.d is logic, pray, that it is to be the sole exception?.... What, old lady? I give you fair warning, you must choose this day, like any nun, between the ties of family and those of duty.'

Bran seized him by the skirt, and pulled him down towards the puppies; took up one of the puppies and lifted it towards him; and then repeated the action with another.

'You unconscionable old brute! You don't actually dare to expect the to carry your puppies for you?' and he turned to go.

Bran sat down on her tail and began howling.

'Farewell, old dog! you have been a pleasant dream after all.... But if you will go the way of all phantasms.'.... And he walked away.

Bran ran with him, leaping and barking; then recollected her family and ran back; tried to bring them, one by one, in her mouth, and then to bring them all at once; and failing sat down and howled.

'Come, Bran! Come, old girl!'

She raced halfway up to him; then halfway back again to the puppies; then towards him again: and then suddenly gave it up, and dropping her tail, walked slowly back to the blind suppliants, with a deep reproachful growl.

'* * *!' said Raphael with a mighty oath; 'you are right after all! Here are nine things come into the world, phantasms or not, there it is; I can't deny it. They are something, and you are something, old dog; or at least like enough to something to do instead of it; and you are not I, and as good as I, and they too, for aught I know, and have as good a right to live as I; and by the seven planets and all the rest of it, I'll carry them!'

And he went back, tied up the puppies in his blanket, and set forth, Bran barking, squeaking, wagging, leaping, running between his legs and upsetting him, in her agonies of joy.

'Forward! Whither you will, old lady! The world is wide. You shall be my guide, tutor, queen of philosophy, for the sake of this mere common sense of yours. Forward, you new Hypatia! I promise you I will attend no lectures but yours this day!'

He toiled on, every now and then stepping across a dead body, or clambering a wall out of the road, to avoid some plunging, shrieking horse, or obscene knot of prowling camp followers, who were already stripping and plundering the slain.... At last, in front of a large villa, now a black and smoking skeleton, he leaped a wall, and found himself landed on a heap of corpses.... They were piled up against the garden fence for many yards. The struggle had been fierce there some three hours before.

'Put me out of my misery! In mercy kill me!' moaned a voice beneath his feet.

Raphael looked down; the poor wretch was slashed and mutilated beyond all hope.

'Certainly, friend, if you wish it,' and he drew his dagger. The poor fellow stretched out his throat, and awaited the stroke with a ghastly smile. Raphael caught his eye; his heart failed him, and he rose.

'What do you advise, Bran?' But the dog was far ahead, leaping and barking impatiently.