o hung back in
perplexity, and cast a piteous look towards Wulf.

Wulf answered it by a shake of the head which gave Philammon courage
to stammer out a courteous refusal. The Amal swore an oath at him which
made the cloister ring again, and with a quiet shove of his heavy hand,
sent him staggering half across the court: but Wulf interposed.

'The boy is mine, prince. He is no drunkard, and I will not let him
become one. Would to heaven,' added he, under his breath, 'that I could
say the same to some others. Send us out our supper here, when you are
done. Half a sheep or so will do between us, and enough of the strongest
to wash it down with. Smid knows my quantity.'

'Why in heaven's name are you not coming in?'

'That mob will be trying to burst the gates again before two hours are
out; and as some one must stand sentry, it may as well be a man who will
not have his ears stopped up by wine and women's kisses. The boy will
stay with me.'

So the party went in, leaving Wulf and Philammon alone in the outer
hall.

There the two sat for some half hour, casting stealthy glances at each
other, and wondering perhaps, each of them vainly enough, what was going
on in the opposite brain. Philammon, though his heart was full of his
sister, could not help noticing the air of deep sadness which hung about
the scarred and weather-beaten features of the old warrior. The grimness
which he had remarked on their first meeting seemed to be now changed
into a settled melancholy. The furrows round his mouth and eyes had
become deeper and sharper. Some perpetual indignation seemed smouldering
in the knitted brow and protruding upper lip. He sat there silent and
motionless for some half hour, his chin resting on his hands, and
they again upon the butt of his axe, apparently in deep thought, and
listening with a silent sneer to the clinking of glasses and dishes
within.

Philammon felt too much respect, both for his age and his stately
sadness, to break the silence. At last some louder burst of merriment
than usual aroused him.

'What do you call that?' said he, speaking in Greek.

'Folly and vanity.'

'And what does she there--the Alruna--the prophet-woman, call it?'

'Whom do you mean?'

'Why, the Greek woman whom we went to hear talk this morning.'

'Folly and vanity.'

'Why can't she cure that Roman hairdresser there of it, then?'

Philammon was silent--'Why not, indeed!'

'Do you think she could cure any one of it?'