‘What is the matter, my father?’ asked Philammon. ‘You seem deeply moved about this woman....’
‘And she is Miriam’s slave?’
‘Her freedwoman this four years past,’ said the porter. ‘The good lady—for reasons doubtless excellent in themselves, though not altogether patent to the philosophic mind—thought good to turn her loose on the Alexandrian republic, to seek what she might devour.’
‘God help her! And you are certain that Miriam is not in Alexandria?’
The little porter turned very red, and Philammon did so likewise; but he remembered his promise, and kept it.
‘You both know something of her, I can see. You cannot deceive an old statesman, sir!’—turning to the little porter with a look of authority—‘poor monk though he be now. If you think fitting to tell me what you know, I promise you that neither she nor you shall be losers by your confidence in me. If not, I shall find means to discover.’
Both stood silent.
‘Philammon, my son! and art thou too in league against—no, not against me; against thyself, poor misguided boy?’
‘Against myself?’
‘Yes—I have said it. But unless you will trust me, I cannot trust you.’