‘You?’
‘I, my son: but when I brought thee to the Laura, it seemed right that thou, as the son of a noble gentleman, shouldest hear nothing of it. But tell me: dost thou recollect father or mother, brother or sister; or anything of thy home in Athens?’
‘No.’
‘Thanks be to God. But, Philammon, if thou hadst had a sister-hush! And if—I only say if—,
‘A sister!’ interrupted Philammon. ‘Pelagia?’
‘God forbid, my son! But a sister thou hadst once—some three years older than thee she seemed.’
‘What! did you know her?’
‘I saw her but once—on one sad day.—Poor children both! I will not sadden you by telling you where and how.’
‘And why did you not bring her hither with me? You surely had not the heart to part us?’
‘Ah, my son, what right had an old monk with a fair young girl? And, indeed, even had I had the courage, it would have been impossible. There were others, richer than I, to whose covetousness her youth and beauty seemed a precious prize. When I saw her last, she was in company with an ancient Jewess. Heaven grant that this Miriam may prove to be the one!’