Five minutes afterwards, Philammon, dripping, bruised, and bleeding, was crawling up the water-steps at the lower end of the lane. A woman rushed from the postern door, and stood on the quay edge, gazing with clasped hands into the ca.n.a.l. The moon fell full on her face. It was Pelagia. She saw him, knew him, and recoiled.

'Sister!-my sister! Forgive me!'

'Murderer!' she shrieked, and dashing aside his outspread hands, fled wildly up the pa.s.sage.

The way was blocked with bales of merchandise: but the dancer bounded over them like a deer; while Philammon, half stunned by his fall, and blinded by his dripping locks, stumbled, fell, and lay, unable to rise. She held on for a few yards towards the torch-lit mob, which was surging and roaring in the main street above, then turned suddenly into a side alley, and vanished; while Philammon lay groaning upon the pavement, without a purpose or a hope upon earth.

Five minutes more, and Wulf was gazing over the broken parapet, at the head of twenty terrified spectators, male and female, whom Pelagia's shriek had summoned.

He alone suspected that Philammon had been there; and shuddering at the thought of what might have happened, he kept his secret.

But all knew that Pelagia had been on the tower; all had seen the Amal go up thither. Where were they now? And why was the little postern gate found open, and shut only just in time to prevent the entrance of the mob?

Wulf stood, revolving in a brain but too well practised in such cases, all possible contingencies of death and horror. At last-

'A rope and a light, Smid!' he almost whispered.

They were brought, and Wulf, resisting all the entreaties of the younger men to allow them to go on the perilous search, lowered himself through the breach.

He was about two-thirds down, when he shook the rope, and called in a stifled voice, to those above-

'Haul up. I have seen enough.'

Breathless with curiosity and fear, they hauled him up. He stood among them for a few moments, silent, as if stunned by the weight of some enormous woe.

'Is he dead?'

'Odin has taken his son home, wolves of the Goths!' And he held out his right hand to the awe-struck ring, and burst into an agony of weeping.... A clotted tress of long fair hair lay in his palm.

It was s.n.a.t.c.hed; handed from man to man.... One after another recognised the beloved golden locks. And then, to the utter astonishment of the girls who stood round, the great simple hearts, too brave to be ashamed of tears, broke out and wailed like children .... Their Amal! Their heavenly man! Odin's own son, their joy and pride, and glory! Their 'Kingdom of heaven,' as his name declared him, who was all that each wished to be, and more, and yet belonged to them, bone of their bone, flesh of their flesh! Ah, it is bitter to all true human hearts to be robbed of their ideal, even though that ideal be that of a mere wild bull, and soulless gladiator....

At last Smid spoke-

'Heroes, this is Odin's doom; and the All-father is just. Had we listened to Prince Wulf four months ago, this had never been. We have been cowards and sluggards, and Odin is angry with his children. Let us swear to be Prince Wulf's men and follow him to-morrow where he will!'

Wulf grasped his outstretched hand lovingly- 'No, Smid, son of Troll! These words are not yours to speak. Agilmund son of Cniva, G.o.deric son of Ermenric, you are Balts, and to you the succession appertains. Draw lots here, which of you shall be our chieftain.'

'No! no! Wulf!' cried both the youths at once. 'You are the hero! you are the Sagaman! We are not worthy; we have been cowards and sluggards, like the rest. Wolves of the Goths, follow the Wolf, even though he lead you to the land of the giants!'

A roar of applause followed.

'Lift him on the shield,' cried G.o.deric, tearing off his buckler. 'Lift him on the shield! Hail, Wulf king! Wulf, king of Egypt!'

And the rest of the Goths, attracted by the noise, rushed up the tower-stairs in time to join in the mighty shout of 'Wulf, king of Egypt!'-as careless of the vast mult.i.tude which yelled and surged without, as boys are of the snow against the window-pane.

'No!' said Wulf solemnly, as he stood on the uplifted shield. 'If I be indeed your king, and ye my men, wolves of the Goths, to-morrow we will go forth of this place, hated of Odin, rank with the innocent blood of the Alruna maid. Back to Adolf; back to our own people! Will you go?'

'Back to Adolf!' shouted the men.

'You will not leave us to be murdered?' cried one of the girls. 'The mob are breaking the gates already!'

'Silence, silly one! Men-we have one thing to do. The Amal must not go to the Valhalla without fair attendance.'

'Not the poor girls?' said Agilmund, who took for granted that Wulf would wish to celebrate the Amal's funeral in true Gothic fashion by a slaughter of slaves.

'No.... One of them I saw behave this very afternoon worthy of a Vala. And they, too-they may make heroes' wives after all, yet .... Women are better than I fancied, even the worst of them. No. Go down, heroes, and throw the gates open; and call in the Greek hounds to the funeral supper of a son of Odin.'

'Throw the gates open?'

'Yes. G.o.deric, take a dozen men, and be ready in the east hall. Agilmund, go with a dozen to the west side of the court-there in the kitchen; and wait till you hear my war-cry. Smid and the rest of you, come with me through the stables close to the gate-as silent as Hela.'

And they went down-to meet, full on the stairs below, old Miriam.

Breathless and exhausted by her exertion, she had fallen heavily before Philammon's strong arm; and lying half stunned for a while, recovered just in time to meet her doom.

She knew that it was come, and faced it like herself.

'Take the witch!' said Wulf slowly-'Take the corrupter of heroes-the cause of all our sorrows!'

Miriam looked at him with a quiet smile.

'The witch is accustomed long ago to hear fools lay on her the consequences of their own l.u.s.t and laziness.'

'Hew her down, Smid, son of Troll, that she may pa.s.s the Amal's soul and gladden it on her way to Niflheim.'

Smid did it: but so terrible were the eyes which glared upon him from those sunken sockets, that his sight was dazzled. The axe turned aside, and struck her shoulder. She reeled, but did not fall.

'It is enough,' she said quietly.

'The accursed Grendel's daughter numbed my arm!' said Smid. 'Let her go! No man shall say that I struck a woman twice.'

'Nidhogg waits for her, soon or late,' answered Wulf.

And Miriam, coolly folding her shawl around her, turned and walked steadily down the stair; while all men breathed more freely, as if delivered from some accursed and supernatural spell.

'And now,' said Wulf, 'to your posts, and vengeance!'

The mob had weltered and howled ineffectually around the house for some half-hour. But the lofty walls, opening on the street only by a few narrow windows in the higher stories, rendered it an impregnable fortress. Suddenly, the iron gates were drawn back, disclosing to the front rank the court, glaring empty and silent and ghastly in the moonlight. For an instant they recoiled, with a vague horror, and dread of treachery: but the ma.s.s behind pressed them onward, and in swept the murderers of Hypatia, till the court was full of choking wretches, surging against the walls and pillars in aimless fury. And then, from under the archway on each side, rushed a body of tall armed men, driving back all incomers more; the gates slid together again upon their grooves and the wild beasts of Alexandria were trapped at last.

And then began a murder grim and great. From three different doors issued a line of Goths, whose helmets and mail-shirts made them invulnerable to the clumsy weapons of the mob, and began hewing their way right through the living ma.s.s, helpless from their close-packed array. True, they were but as one to ten; but what are ten curs before one lion?.... And the moon rose higher and higher, staring down ghastly and unmoved upon that doomed court of the furies, and still the bills and swords hewed on and on, and the Goths drew the corpses, as they found room, towards a dark pile in the midst, where old Wulf sat upon a heap of slain, singing the praises of the Amal and the glories of Valhalla, while the shrieks of his lute rose shrill above the shrieks of the flying and the wounded, and its wild waltz-time danced and rollicked on swifter and swifter as the old singer maddened, in awful mockery of the terror and agony around.

And so, by men and purposes which recked not of her, as is the wont of Providence, was the blood of Hypatia avenged in part that night. In part only. For Peter the Reader, and his especial a.s.sociates, were safe in sanctuary at the Caesareum, clinging to the altar. Terrified at the storm which they had raised, and fearing the consequences of an attack upon the palace, they had left the mob to run riot at its will; and escaped the swords of the Goths to be reserved for the more awful punishment of impunity.

CHAPTER x.x.x: EVERY MAN TO HIS OWN PLACE