‘Why in heaven’s name are you not coming in?’
‘That mob will be trying to burst the gates again before two hours are out; and as some one must stand sentry, it may as well be a man who will not have his ears stopped up by wine and women’s kisses. The boy will stay with me.’
So the party went in, leaving Wulf and Philammon alone in the outer hall.
There the two sat for some half hour, casting stealthy glances at each other, and wondering perhaps, each of them vainly enough, what was going on in the opposite brain. Philammon, though his heart was full of his sister, could not help noticing the air of deep sadness which hung about the scarred and weather-beaten features of the old warrior. The grimness which he had remarked on their first meeting seemed to be now changed into a settled melancholy. The furrows round his mouth and eyes had become deeper and sharper. Some perpetual indignation seemed smouldering in the knitted brow and protruding upper lip. He sat there silent and motionless for some half hour, his chin resting on his hands, and they again upon the butt of his axe, apparently in deep thought, and listening with a silent sneer to the clinking of glasses and dishes within.
Philammon felt too much respect, both for his age and his stately sadness, to break the silence. At last some louder burst of merriment than usual aroused him.
‘What do you call that?’ said he, speaking in Greek.
‘Folly and vanity.’
‘And what does she there—the Alruna—the prophet-woman, call it?’
‘Whom do you mean?’
‘Why, the Greek woman whom we went to hear talk this morning.’