CHAPTER XXVI: MIRIAM'S PLOT
He who has worshipped a woman, even against his will and conscience,knows well how storm may follow storm, and earthquake earthquake, beforehis idol be utterly overthrown. And so Philammon found that evening,as he sat pondering over the strange chances of the day; for, as hepondered, his old feelings towards Hypatia began, in spite of thestruggles of his conscience and reason, to revive within him. Not onlypure love of her great loveliness, the righteous instinct which bids uswelcome and honour beauty, whether in man or woman, as something ofreal worth--divine, heavenly, ay, though we know not how, in a most deepsense eternal; which makes our reason give the lie to all merely logicaland sentimental maunderings of moralists about 'the fleeting hues ofthis our painted clay'; telling men, as the old Hebrew Scriptures tellthem, that physical beauty is the deepest of all spiritual symbols;and that though beauty without discretion be the jewel of gold in theswine's snout, yet the jewel of gold it is still, the sacrament of aninward beauty, which ought to be, perhaps hereafter may be, fulfilledin spirit and in truth. Not only this, which whispered to him--andwho shall say that the whisper was of the earth, or of the lowerworld?--'She is too beautiful to be utterly evil'; but the very defectin her creed which he had just discovered, drew him towards her again.She had no Gospel for the Magdalene, because she was a Pagan.... That,then, was the fault of her Paganism, not of herself. She felt forPelagia, but even if she had not, was not that, too, the fault of herPaganism? And for that Paganism who was to be blamed? She?.... Washe the man to affirm that? Had he not seen scandals, stupidities,brutalities, enough to shake even his faith, educated a Christian? Howmuch more excuse for her, more delicate, more acute, more lofty than he;the child, too of a heathen father? Her perfections, were they nother own?--her defects, those of her circumstances?.... And had she notwelcomed him, guarded him, taught him, honoured him?.... Could he turnagainst her? above all now in her distress--perhaps her danger? Was henot bound to her, if by nothing else, by gratitude? Was not he, of allmen, bound to believe that all she required to make her perfect wasconversion to the true faith?.... And that first dream of converting herarose almost as bright as ever.... Then he was checked by the thoughtof his first utter failure.... At least, if he could not convert her, hecould love her, pray for her.... No, he could not even do that; for towhom could he pray? He had to repent, to be forgiven, to humble himselfby penitence, perhaps for years, ere he could hope to be heard even forhimself, much less for another.... And so backwards and forwards swayedhis hope and purpose, till he was roused from his meditation by thevoice of the little porter summoning him to his evening meal; andrecollecting, for the first time, that he had tasted no food that day,he went down, half-unwillingly, and ate.
But as he, the porter, and his negro wife were sitting silently andsadly enough together, Miriam came in, apparently in high good humour,and lingered a moment on her way to her own apartments upstairs.
'Eh? At supper? And nothing but lentils and water-melons, when theflesh-pots of Egypt have been famous any time these two thousand years.Ah! but times are changed since then!.... You have worn out the oldHebrew hints, you miserable Gentiles, you, and got a Caesar instead ofa Joseph! Hist, you hussies!' cried she to the girls upstairs, clappingher hands loudly. 'Here! bring us down one of those roast chickens,and a bottle of the wine of wines--the wine with the green seal, youcareless daughters of Midian, you, with your wits running on the men,I'll warrant, every minute I've been out of the house! Ah, you'll smartfor it some day--you'll smart for it some day, you daughters of Adam'sfirst wife!'
Down came, by the hands of one of the Syrian slave-girls, the fowl andthe wine.
'There, now; we'll all sup together. Wine, that maketh glad the heart ofman!--Youth, you were a monk once, so you have read all about that, eh?and about the best wine which goes down sweetly, causing the lips ofthem that are asleep to speak. And rare wine it was, I warrant, whichthe blessed Solomon had in his little country cellar up there inLebanon. We'll try if this is not a very fair substitute for it, though.Come, my little man-monkey, drink, and forget your sorrow! You shallbe temple-sweeper to Beelzebub yet, I promise you. Look at it there,creaming and curdling, the darling! purring like a cat at the verythought of touching human lips! As sweet as honey, as strong as fire, asclear as amber! Drink, ye children of Gehenna; and make good use of thelittle time that is left you between this and the unquenchable fire!'
And tossing a cup of it down her own throat, as if it had been water,she watched her companions with a meaning look, as they drank.
The little porter followed her example gallantly. Philammon looked, andlonged, and sipped blushingly and bashfully, and tried to fancy that hedid not care for it; and sipped again, being willing enough to forgethis sorrow also for a moment; the negress refused with fear andtrembling--'She had a vow on her.'
'Satan possess you and your vow! Drink, you coal out of Tophet! Do youthink it is poisoned? You, the only creature in the world that I shouldnot enjoy ill-using, because every one else ill-uses you already withoutmy help! Drink, I say, or I'll turn you pea-green from head to foot!'
The negress put the cup to her lips, and contrived, for her own reasons,to spill the contents unobserved.
'A very fine lecture that of the Lady Hypatia's the other morning, onHelen's nepenthe,' quoth the little porter, growing philosophic asthe wine-fumes rose. 'Such a power of extracting the cold water ofphilosophy out of the bottomless pit of Mythus, I never did hear. Didyou ever, my Philammonidion?'
'Aha! she and I were talking about that half an hour ago,' said Miriam.
'What! have you seen her?' asked Philammon, with a flutter of the heart.
'If you mean, did she mention you,--why, then, yes!'
'How?--how?'
'Talked of a young Phoebus Apollo--without mentioning names, certainly,but in the most sensible, and practical, and hopeful way--the wisestspeech that I have heard from her this twelvemonth.'
Philammon blushed scarlet.
'And that,' thought he, in spite of what passed this morning!--Why' whatis the matter with our host?'
'He has taken Solomon's advice, and forgotten his sorrow.'
And so, indeed, he had; for he was sleeping sweetly, with openlack-lustre eyes, and a maudlin smile at the ceiling; while the negress,with her head fallen on her chest, seemed equally unconscious of theirpresence.
'We'll see,' quoth Miriam; and taking up the lamp, she held the flameunceremoniously to the arm of each of them; but neither winced norstirred.
'Surely your wine is not drugged?' said Philammon, in trepidation.
'Why not? What has made them beasts, may make us angels. You seem nonethe less lively for it! Do I?'
'But drugged wine?'
'Why not? The same who made wine made poppy-juice. Both will make manhappy. Why not use both?'
'It is poison!'
'It is the nepenthe, as I told Hypatia, whereof she was twaddlingmysticism this morning. Drink, child, drink! I have no mind to putyou to sleep to-night! I want to make a man of you, or rather, to seewhether you are one!'
And she drained another cup, and then went on, half talking to herself--
'Ay, it is poison; and music is poison; and woman is poison, accordingto the new creed, Pagan and Christian; and wine will be poison, andmeat will be poison, some day; and we shall have a world full of madNebuchadnezzars, eating grass like oxen. It is poisonous, and brutal,and devilish, to be a man, and not a monk, and an eunuch, and a drybranch. You are all in the same lie, Christians and philosophers, Cyriland Hypatia! Don't interrupt me, but drink, young fool!--Ay, and theonly man who keeps his manhood, the only man who is not ashamed to bewhat God has made him, is your Jew. You will find yourselves in wantof him after all, some day, you besotted Gentiles, to bring you backto common sense and common manhood.--In want of him and his grand oldbooks, which you despise while you make idols of them, about Abraham,and Jacob, and Moses, and David, and Solomon, whom you call saints, youmiserable hypocrites, though they
did what you are too dainty to do,and had their wives and their children, and thanked God for a beautifulwoman, as Adam did before them, and their sons do after them--Drink, Isay--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 yourcost 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 hadgiven them the cunning to make them. Our prophets were not afraid ofcalling for music, when they wished to prophesy, and letting it softenand raise their souls, and open and quicken them till they saw into theinner harmony of things, and beheld the future in the present; for theyknew who made the melody and harmony, and made them the outward symbolsof the inward song which runs through sun and stars, storm and tempest,fulfilling his word--in that these sham philosophers the heathen arewiser than those Christian monks. Try it!--try it! Come with me! Leavethese sleepers here, and come to my rooms. You long to be as wise asSolomon. Then get at wisdom as Solomon did, and give your heart first toknow folly and madness.... You have read the Book of the Preacher?'
Poor Philammon! He was no longer master of himself. The arguments--thewine--the terrible spell of the old woman's voice and eye, and thestrong overpowering will which showed out through them, dragged himalong in spite of himself. As if in a dream, he followed her up thestairs.
'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 humanbeing should. And you have been to the baths to-day? Well--you have thecomfort of feeling now like other people, and having that alabaster skinas 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 amirror here, hussy! There, look in that and judge for yourself? Werethose lips rounded for nothing? Why were those eyes set in your head,and made to sparkle bright as jewels, sweet as mountain honey? Why werethose curls laid ready for soft fingers to twine themselves amongthem, and look all the whiter among the glossy black knots? Judge foryourself!'
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 firsttime in his little ignorant life, the old road to inspiration!'
One of the slave-girls sat down on the divan, and took up a doubleflute; while the other rose, and accompanying the plaintive dreamy airwith a slow dance, and delicate twinklings of her silver armlets andanklets, and the sistrum which she held aloft, she floated gracefullyround and round the floor and sang--
Why were we born but for bliss? Why are we ripe, but to fall? Dreamnot that duty can bar thee from beauty, Like water and sunshine, theheirloom of all.
Lips were made only to kiss; Hands were made only to toy; Eyes were madeonly to lure on the lonely, The longing, the loving, and drown them injoy!
Alas, for poor Philammon! And yet no! The very poison brought with itits own anti-dote; and, shaking off by one strong effort of will thespell of the music and the wine, he sprang to his feet....
'Never! If love means no more than that--if it is to be a mere delicateself-indulgence, worse than the brute's, because it requires theprostration of nobler faculties, and a selfishness the more huge inproportion to the greatness of the soul which is crushed inward byit--then I will have none of it! I have had my dream--yes! but it wasof one who should be at once my teacher and my pupil, my debtor and myqueen--who should lean on me, and yet support me--supply my defects,although with lesser light, as the old moon fills up the circle of thenew--labour with me side by side in some great work--rising with me forever as I rose: and this is the base substitute! Never!'
Whether or not this was unconsciously forced into words by the vehemenceof his passion, or whether the old Jewess heard, or pretended to hear, afootstep coming up the stair, she at all events sprang instantly to herfeet.
'Hist! Silence, girls! I hear a visitor. What mad maiden has come to bega love-charm of the poor old witch at this time of night? Or have theChristian bloodhounds tracked the old lioness of Judah to her den atlast? We'll see!'
And she drew a dagger from her girdle, and stepped boldly to the door.As she went out she turned--
'So! my brave young Apollo! You do not admire simple woman? You musthave something more learned and intellectual and spiritual, and soforth. I wonder whether Eve, when she came to Adam in the garden,brought with her a certificate of proficiency in the seven sciences?Well, well--like must after like. Perhaps we shall be able to suit youafter all. Vanish, daughters of Midian!'
The girls vanished accordingly, whispering and laughing; and Philammonfound himself alone. Although he was somewhat soothed by the old woman'slast speech, yet a sense of terror, of danger, of coming temptation,kept him standing sternly on his feet, looking warily round the chamber,lest a fresh siren should emerge from behind some curtain or heap ofpillows.
On one side of the room he perceived a doorway, filled by a curtain ofgauze, from behind which came the sound of whispering voices. His fear,growing with the general excitement of his mind, rose into anger as hebegan to suspect some snare; and he faced round towards the curtain, andstood like a wild beast at bay, ready, with uplifted arm, for all evilspirits, male or female.
'And he will show himself? How shall I accost him?' whispered awell-known voice--could it be Hypatia's? And then the guttural Hebrewaccent of the old woman answered-- 'As you spoke of him this morning--'
'Oh! I will tell him all, and he must--he must have mercy! But he?--soawful, so glorious!--'
What the answer was, he could not hear but the next moment a sweetheavy scent, as of narcotic gums, filled the room--mutterings ofincantations--and then a blaze of light, in which the curtain vanished,and disclosed to his astonished eyes, enveloped in a glory of luminoussmoke, the hag standing by a tripod, and, kneeling by her, Hypatiaherself, robed in pure white, glittering with diamonds and gold, herlips parted, her head thrown back, her arms stretched out in an agony ofexpectation.
In an instant, before he had time to stir, she had sprung through theblaze, and was kneeling at his feet.
'Phoebus! beautiful, glorious, ever young! Hear me! only a moment! onlythis once!'
Her drapery had caught fire from the tripod, but she did not heed it.Philammon instinctively clasped her in his arms, and crushed it out, asshe cried--
'Have mercy on me! Tell me the secret! I will obey thee! I have noself--I am thy slave! Kill me, if thou wilt: but speak!'
The blaze sank into a soft, warm, mellow gleam, and beyond it whatappeared?
The negro-woman, with one finger upon her lips, as with an imploring,all but despairing look, she held up to him her little crucifix.
He saw it. What thoughts flashed through him, like the lightning bolt,at that blessed sign of infinite self-sacrifice, I say not; let thosewho know it judge for themselves. But in another instant he had spurnedfrom him the poor deluded maiden, whose idolatrous ecstasies he sawinstantly were not meant for himself, and rushed desperately across theroom, looking for an outlet.
He found a door in the darkness--a room-a window--and in another momenthe had leapt twenty feet into the street, rolled over, bruised andbleeding, rose again like an Antaeus, with new strength, and darted offtowards the archbishop's house.
And poor Hypatia lay half senseless on the floor, with the Jewesswatching her bitter tears--not merely of disappointment, but of uttershame. For as Philammon fled she had recognised those well-knownfeatures; and the veil was lifted from her eyes, and the hope and theself-respect of Theon's daughter were gone for ever.
Her righteous wrath was too deep for upbraidings. Slowly she rose;returned into the inner room; wrapped her cloak deliberately around her;and went silently away, with one look at the Jewess of solemn scorn anddefiance.
'Ah! I can afford a few sulky looks to-night!' said the old
woman toherself, with a smile, as she picked up from the floor the prize forwhich she had been plotting so long--Raphael's half of the black agate.
'I wonder whether she will miss it! Perhaps she will have no fancy forits company any longer, now that she has discovered what over-palpablearchangels appear when she rubs it. But if she does try to recoverit.... why--let her try her strength with mine--or, rather, with aChristian mob.'
And then, drawing from her bosom the other half of the talisman, shefitted the two pieces together again and again, fingering them over, andporing upon them with tear-brimming eyes, till she had satisfied herselfthat the fracture still fitted exactly; while she murmured to herselffrom time to time--'Oh, that he were here! Oh, that he would returnnow--now! It may be too late to-morrow! Stay--I will go and consult theteraph; it may know where he is....'
And she departed to her incantations; while Hypatia threw herself uponher bed at home, and filled the chamber with a long, low wailing, asof a child in pain, until the dreary dawn broke on her shame and herdespair. And then she rose, and rousing herself for one great effort,calmly prepared a last oration, in which she intended to bid farewellfor ever to Alexandria and to the schools.
Philammon meanwhile was striding desperately up the main street whichled towards the Serapeium. But he was not destined to arrive there assoon as he had hoped to do. For ere he had gone half a mile, behold acrowd advancing towards him blocking up the whole street.
The mass seemed endless. Thousands of torches flared above their heads,and from the heart of the procession rose a solemn chant, in whichPhilammon soon recognised a well-known Catholic hymn. He was half mindedto turn up some by-street, and escape meeting them. But on attemptingto do so, he found every avenue which he tried similarly blocked up by atributary stream of people; and, almost ere he was aware, was entangledin the vanguard of the great column.
'Let me pass!'cried he in a voice of entreaty.
'Pass, thou heathen?'
In vain he protested his Christianity.
'Origenist, Donatist, heretic! Whither should a good Catholic be goingto-night, save to the Caesareum?'
'My friends, my friends, I have no business at the Caesareum!' cried he,in utter despair. 'I am on my way to seek a private interview with thepatriarch, on matters of importance.'
'Oh, liar! who pretends to be known to the patriarch, and yet isignorant that this night he visits at the Caesareum the most sacredcorpse of the martyr Ammonius!'
'What! Is Cyril with you?'
'He and all his clergy.'
'Better so; better in public,' said Philammon to himself; and, turning,he joined the crowd.
Onward, with chant and dirge, they swept out through the Sun-gate, uponthe harbour esplanade, and wheeled to the right along the quay, whilethe torchlight bathed in a red glare the great front of the Caesareum,and the tall obelisks before it, and the masts of the thousand shipswhich lay in the harbour on their left; and last, but not least, beforethe huge dim mass of the palace which bounded the esplanade in front,a long line of glittering helmets and cuirasses, behind a barrier ofcables which stretched from the shore to the corner of the museum.
There was a sudden halt; a low ominous growl; and then the mob pressedonward from behind, surged up almost to the barrier. The soldiersdropped the points of their lances, and stood firm. Again the mobrecoiled; again surged forward. Fierce cries arose; some of the boldeststooped to pick up stones: but, luckily, the pavement was too firm forthem....Another moment, and the whole soldiery of Alexandria would havebeen fighting for life and death against fifty thousand Christians....
But Cyril had not forgotten his generalship. Reckless as that night'sevents proved him to be about arousing the passions of his subjects, hewas yet far too wary to risk the odium and the danger of a night attack,which, even if successful, would have cost the lives of hundreds. Heknew well enough the numbers and the courage of the enemy, and thecertainty that, in case of a collision, no quarter would be given oraccepted on either side.... Beside, if a battle must take place--andthat, of course, must happen sooner or later--it must not happen in hispresence and under his sanction. He was in the right now, and Orestes inthe wrong; and in the right he would keep--at least till his expressto Byzantium should have returned, and Orestes was either proscribedor superseded. So looking forward to some such chance as this, the waryprelate had schooled his aides-de-camp, the deacons of the city, andwent on his way up the steps of the Caesareum, knowing that they couldbe trusted to keep the peace outside.
And they did their work well. Before a blow had been struck, or even aninsult passed on either side, they had burst through the front rankof the mob, and by stout threats of excommunication, enjoined not onlypeace, but absolute silence until the sacred ceremony which was about totake place should be completed; and enforced their commands by marchingup and down like sentries between the hostile ranks for the nextweary two hours, till the very soldiers broke out into expressions ofadmiration, and the tribune of the cohort, who ad no great objection,but also no great wish, fight, paid them a high-flown compliment ontheir laudable endeavours to maintain public order, and received thesomewhat ambiguous reply, that the 'weapons of their warfare were notcarnal, that they wrestled not against flesh and blood, but againstprincipalities and powers,'.... an answer which the tribune, being nowsomewhat sleepy, thought it best to leave unexplained.
In the meanwhile, there had passed up the steps of the Temple a gorgeousline of priests, among whom glittered, more gorgeous than all, thestately figure of the pontiff. They were followed close by thousands ofmonks, not only from Alexandria and Nitria, but from all the adjoiningtowns and monasteries. And as Philammon, unable for some half hour moreto force his way into the church, watched their endless stream, he couldwell believe the boast which he had so often heard in Alexandria, thatone half of the population of Egypt was at that moment in 'religiousorders.'
After the monks, the laity began to enter but even then so vast was thecrowd, and so dense the crush upon the steps, that before he could forcehis way into the church, Cyril's sermon had begun. ...............
--'What went ye out for to see? A man clothed in soft raiment? Nay, suchare in kings' palaces, and in the palaces of prefects who would needsbe emperors, and cast away the Lord's bonds from them--of whom it iswritten, that He that sitteth in the heavens laugheth them to scorn, andtaketh the wicked in their own snare, and maketh the devices of princesof none effect. Ay, in king's palaces, and in theatres too, where therich of this world, poor in faith, deny their covenant, and defile theirbaptismal robes that they may do honour to the devourers of the earth.Woe to them who think that they may partake of the cup of the Lordand the cup of devils. Woe to them who will praise with the same mouthAphrodite the fiend, and her of whom it is written that He was born ofa pure Virgin. Let such be excommunicate from the cup of the Lord, andfrom the congregation of the Lord, till they have purged away their sinsby penance and by almsgiving. But for you, ye poor of this world, richin faith, you whom the rich despise, hale before the judgment seats, andblaspheme that holy name whereby ye are called--what went ye out intothe wilderness to see? A prophet?--Ay, and more than a prophet--amartyr! More than a prophet, more than a king, more than a prefect whosetheatre was the sands of the desert, whose throne was the cross, whosecrown was bestowed, not by heathen philosophers and daughters ofSatan, deceiving men with the works of their fathers, but by angels andarchangels; a crown of glory, the victor's laurel, which grows for everin the paradise of the highest heaven. Call him no more Ammonius, callhim Thaumasius, wonderful! Wonderful in his poverty, wonderful in hiszeal, wonderful in his faith, wonderful in his fortitude, wonderfulin his death, most wonderful in the manner of that death. Oh thriceblessed, who has merited the honour of the cross itself! What canfollow, but that one so honoured in the flesh should also be honouredin the life which he now lives, and that from the virtue of thesethrice-holy limbs the leper should be cleansed, the dumb should speak,the very dead be raised? Yes; it were impiety to do
ubt it. Consecratedby the cross, this flesh shall not only rest in hope but work in power.Approach, and be healed! Approach, and see the glory of the saints, theglory of the poor. Approach, and learn that that which man despises,God hath highly esteemed; that that which man rejects, God accepts; thatthat which man punishes, God rewards. Approach, and see how God hathchosen the foolish things of this world to confound the wise, and theweak things of this world to confound the strong. Man abhors the cross:The Son of God condescended to endure it! Man tramples on the poor: TheSon of God hath not where to lay His head. Man passes by the sick asuseless: The Son of God chooses them to be partakers of His sufferings,that the glory of God may be made manifest in them. Man curses thepublican, while he employs him to fill his coffers with the plunder ofthe poor: The Son of God calls him from the receipt of custom to be anapostle, higher than the kings of the earth. Man casts away the harlotlike a faded flower, when he has tempted her to become the slave of sinfor a season; and the Son of God calls her, the defiled, the despised,the forsaken, to Himself, accepts her tears, blesses her offering, anddeclares that her sins are forgiven, for she hath loved much; while towhom little is forgiven the same loveth little....'
Philammon heard no more. With the passionate and impulsive nature ofa Greek fanatic, he burst forward through the crowd, towards the stepswhich led to the choir, and above which, in front of the altar, stoodthe corpse of Ammonius, enclosed in a coffin of glass, beneath agorgeous canopy; and never stopping till he found himself in front ofCyril's pulpit, he threw himself upon his face upon the pavement, spreadout his arms in the form of a cross, and lay silent and motionlessbefore the feet of the multitude.
There was a sudden whisper and rustle in the congregation: but Cyril,after a moment's pause, went on--
'Man, in his pride and self-sufficiency, despises humiliation, andpenance, and the broken and the contrite heart; and tells thee that onlyas long as thou doest well unto thyself will he speak well of thee: theSon of God says that he that humbleth himself, even as this our penitentbrother, he it is who shall be exalted. He it is of whom it is writtenthat his father saw him afar off, and ran to meet him, and bade put thebest robe on him, and a ring on his hand, and shoes on his feet, andmake merry and be glad with the choir of angels who rejoice over onesinner that repenteth. Arise, my son, whoso-ever thou art; and go inpeace for this night, remembering that he who said, "My belly cleavethunto the pavement," hath also said, "Rejoice not against me, Satan, mineenemy, for when I fall I shall arise!"'
A thunder-clap of applause, surely as pardonable as any an Alexandrianchurch ever heard, followed this dexterous, and yet most righteous,turn of the patriarch's oratory: but Philammon raised himself slowlyand fearfully to his knees, and blushing scarlet endured the gaze of tenthousand eyes.
Suddenly, from beside the pulpit, an old man sprang forward, and claspedhim round the neck. It was Arsenius.
'My son! my son!' sobbed he, almost aloud.
'Slave, as well as son, if you will!' whispered Philammon. 'One boonfrom the patriarch; and then home to the Laura for ever!'
'Oh, twice-blest night,' rolled on above the deep rich voice of Cyril,'which beholds at once the coronation of a martyr and the conversionof a sinner; which increases at the same time the ranks of the churchtriumphant, and of the church militant; and pierces celestial essenceswith a twofold rapture of thanksgiving, as they welcome on high avictorious, and on earth a repentant, brother!'
And at a sign from Cyril, Peter the Reader stepped forward, and ledaway, gently enough, the two weepers, who were welcomed as they passedby the blessings, and prayers, and tears even of those fierce fanaticsof Nitria. Nay, Peter himself, as he turned to leave them together inthe sacristy, held out his hand to Philammon.
'I ask your forgiveness,' said the poor boy, who plunged eagerly andwith a sort of delight into any and every self-abasement.
'And I accord it,' quoth Peter; and returned to the church, looking, andprobably feeling, in a far more pleasant mood than usual.