iously he began to hint at the existence of persons
who would be glad to remove her. Wulf caught at the notion, and replied
to it with searching questions, till Philammon, finding plain speaking
the better part of cunning, told him openly the whole events of the
morning, and the mystery which Arsenius had half revealed, and then
shuddered with mingled joy and horror, as Wulf, after ruminating over
the matter for a weary five minutes, made answer--

'And what if Pelagia herself were your sister?'

Philammon was bursting forth in some passionate answer, when the old man
stopped him and went on slowly, looking him through and through--

'Because, when a penniless young monk claims kin with a woman who is
drinking out of the wine-cups of the Caesars, and filling a place for
a share of which kings' daughters have been thankful--and will be again
before long--why then, though an old man may be too good-natured to call
it all a lie at first sight, he can't help supposing that the young monk
has an eye to his own personal profit, eh?'

'My profit?' cried poor Philammon, starting up. 'Good God! what object
on earth can I have, but to rescue her from this infamy to purity and
holiness?'

He had touched the wrong chord.

'Infamy? you accursed Egyptian slave!' cried the prince, starting up in
his turn, red with passion, and clutching at the whip which hung
over his head. 'Infamy? As if she, and you too, ought not to consider
yourselves blest in her being allowed to wash the feet of an Amal!'

'Oh' forgive me!' said Philammon, terrified at the fruits of his own
clumsiness. 'But you forget--you forget, she is not married to him!'

'Married to him? A freedwoman? No; thank Freya! he has not fallen as
low as that, at least: and never shall, if I kill the witch with my own
hands. A freedwoman!'

Poor Philammon! And he had been told but that morning that he was a
slave. He hid his face in his hands, and burst into an agony of tears.

'Come, come,' said the testy warrior, softened at once. 'Woman's tears
don't matter, but somehow I never could bear to make a man cry. When you
are cool, and have learnt common courtesy, we'll talk more about this.
So! Hush; enough is enough. Here comes the supper, and I am as hungry as
Loke.'

And he commenced devouring like his namesake' 'the gray beast of the
wood,' and forcing, in his rough hospitable way, Philammon to devour
also much against his will and stomach.

'There. I feel happier no