‘True. I forgot that, and will save you the said glory, if I can help it, for a year or two. Who was it struck me with the stone?’
No answer.
‘Tell me, and the moment he is in my lictors’ hands I pardon you freely.’
The monk laughed. ‘Pardon? Pardon me eternal bliss, and the things unspeakable, which God has prepared for those who love Him? Tyrant and butcher! I struck thee, thou second Dioclesian—I hurled the stone—I, Ammonius. Would to heaven that it had smitten thee through, thou Sisera, like the nail of Jael the Kenite!’
‘Thanks, my friend. Heroes, you have a cellar for monks as well as for wine? I will trouble you with this hero’s psalm-singing tonight, and send my apparitors for him in the morning.’
‘If he begins howling when we are in bed, your men won’t find much of him left in the morning,’ said the Amal. ‘But here come the slaves, announcing dinner.’
‘Stay,’ said Orestes; ‘there is one more with whom I have an account to settle—that young philosopher there.’
‘Oh, he is coming in, too. He never was drunk in his life, I’ll warrant, poor fellow, and it’s high time for him to begin.’ And the Amal laid a good-natured bear’s paw on Philammon’s shoulder, who hung back in perplexity, and cast a piteous look towards Wulf.
Wulf answered it by a shake of the head which gave Philammon courage to stammer out a courteous refusal. The Amal swore an oath at him which made the cloister ring again, and with a quiet shove of his heavy hand, sent him staggering half across the court: but Wulf interposed.
‘The boy is mine, prince. He is no drunkard, and I will not let him become one. Would to heaven,’ added he, under his breath, ‘that I could say the same to some others. Send us out our supper here, when you are done. Half a sheep or so will do between us, and enough of the strongest to wash it down with. Smid knows my quantity.’