‘Just come inside, and see whether the mice will not singe your whiskers for you....’
‘Here is my mouse, gentlemen,’ answered the old monk, with a bow and a smile, as he laid his hand on Philammon’s arm, and presented to his astonished eyes the delicate features and high retreating forehead of Arsenius.
‘My father,’ cried the boy, in the first impulse of affectionate recognition; and then—he had expected some such meeting all along, but now that it was come at last, he turned pale as death. The students saw his emotion.
‘Hands off, old Heautontimoroumenos! He belongs to our guild now! Monks have no more business with sons than with wives. Shall we hustle him for you, Philammon?’
‘Take care how you show off, gentlemen: the Goths are not yet out of hearing!’ answered Philammon, who was learning fast how to give a smart answer; and then, fearing the temper of the young dandies, and shrinking from the notion of any insult to one so reverend and so beloved as Arsenius, he drew the old man gently away, and walked up the street with him in silence, dreading what was coming.
‘And are these your friends?’
‘Heaven forbid! I have nothing in common with such animals but flesh and blood, and a seat in the lecture-room!’
‘Of the heathen woman?’
Philammon, after the fashion of young men in fear, rushed desperately into the subject himself, just because he dreaded Arsenius’s entering on it quietly.
‘Yes, of the heathen woman. Of course you have seen Cyril before you came hither?’