Aphrodite, a
queen in my own right! I have been my own love-charm: when I cease to be
that, let me die!'

'One as mad as the other!' cried Miriam, in utter perplexity. 'Hist!
what is that tramp upon the stairs?'

At this moment heavy footsteps were heard ascending the stairs.... All
three stopped aghast: Philammon, because he thought the visitors were
monks in search of him; Miriam, because she thought they were Orestes's
guards in search of her; and Pelagia, from vague dread of anything and
everything....

'Have you an inner room?' asked the Jewess.

'None.'

The old woman set her lips firmly, and drew her dagger. Pelagia wrapped
her face in her cloak, and stood trembling, bowed down, as if expecting
another blow. The door opened, and in walked, neither monks nor guard,
but Wulf and Smid.

'Heyday, young monk!' cried the latter worthy, with a loud laugh--'Veils
here, too, eh? At your old trade, my worthy portress of hell-gate? Well,
walk out now; we have a little business with this young gentleman.'

And slipping past the unsuspecting Goths, Pelagia and Miriam hurried
downstairs.

'The young one, at least, seems a little ashamed of her errand.... Now,
Wulf, speak low; and I will see that no one is listening at the door.'

Philammon faced his unexpected visitors with a look of angry inquiry.
What right had they, or any man, to intrude at such a moment on his
misery and disgrace?.... But he was disarmed the next instant by old
Wulf, who advanced to him, and looking him fully in the face with an
expression which there was no mistaking, held out his broad, brown hand.

Philammon grasped it, and then covering his face with his hands, burst
into tears.

'You did right. You are a brave boy. If you had died, no man need have
been ashamed to die your death.'

'You were there, then?' sobbed Philammon.

'We were.'

'And what is more,' said Smid, as the poor boy writhed at the admission,
'we were mightily minded, some of us, to have leapt down to you and cut
you a passage out. One man, at least, whom I know of, felt his old blood
as hot for the minute as a four-year-old's. The foul curs! And to hoot
her, after all! Oh that I may have one good hour's hewing at them before
I die!'

'And you shall!' said Wulf. 'Boy, you wish to get this sister of yours
into your power?'

'It is hopeless--hopeless! She will never leave her--the Amal.'

'Are you so sure of that?'

'She told me so with her own lips not ten minut