beautiful
woman, as Adam did before them, and their sons do after them--Drink, I
say--and believed that God had really made the world, and not the devil,
and had given them the lordship over it, as you will find out to your
cost some day.'

Philammon heard, and could not answer; and on she rambled.

'And music, too? Our priests were not afraid of sackbut and psaltery,
dulcimer and trumpet, in the house of the Lord; for they knew who had
given them the cunning to make them. Our prophets were not afraid of
calling for music, when they wished to prophesy, and letting it soften
and raise their souls, and open and quicken them till they saw into the
inner harmony of things, and beheld the future in the present; for they
knew who made the melody and harmony, and made them the outward symbols
of the inward song which runs through sun and stars, storm and tempest,
fulfilling his word--in that these sham philosophers the heathen are
wiser than those Christian monks. Try it!--try it! Come with me! Leave
these sleepers here, and come to my rooms. You long to be as wise as
Solomon. Then get at wisdom as Solomon did, and give your heart first to
know folly and madness.... You have read the Book of the Preacher?'

Poor Philammon! He was no longer master of himself. The arguments--the
wine--the terrible spell of the old woman's voice and eye, and the
strong overpowering will which showed out through them, dragged him
along in spite of himself. As if in a dream, he followed her up the
stairs.

'There, throw away that stupid, ugly, shapeless philosopher's cloak.
So! You have on the white tunic I gave you? And now you look as a human
being should. And you have been to the baths to-day? Well--you have the
comfort of feeling now like other people, and having that alabaster skin
as white as it was created, instead of being tanned like a brute's hide.
Drink, I say! Ay--what was that face, that figure, made for? Bring a
mirror here, hussy! There, look in that and judge for yourself? Were
those lips rounded for nothing? Why were those eyes set in your head,
and made to sparkle bright as jewels, sweet as mountain honey? Why were
those curls laid ready for soft fingers to twine themselves among
them, and look all the whiter among the glossy black knots? Judge for
yourself!'

Alas! poor Philammon!

'And after all,' thought he, 'is it not true, as well as pleasant?'

'Sing to the poor boy, girls!--sing to him! and teach him for the first