‘And what if Pelagia herself were your sister?’
Philammon was bursting forth in some passionate answer, when the old man stopped him and went on slowly, looking him through and through—
‘Because, when a penniless young monk claims kin with a woman who is drinking out of the wine-cups of the Caesars, and filling a place for a share of which kings’ daughters have been thankful—and will be again before long—why then, though an old man may be too good-natured to call it all a lie at first sight, he can’t help supposing that the young monk has an eye to his own personal profit, eh?’
‘My profit?’ cried poor Philammon, starting up. ‘Good God! what object on earth can I have, but to rescue her from this infamy to purity and holiness?’
He had touched the wrong chord.
‘Infamy? you accursed Egyptian slave!’ cried the prince, starting up in his turn, red with passion, and clutching at the whip which hung over his head. ‘Infamy? As if she, and you too, ought not to consider yourselves blest in her being allowed to wash the feet of an Amal!’
‘Oh’ forgive me!’ said Philammon, terrified at the fruits of his own clumsiness. ‘But you forget—you forget, she is not married to him!’
‘Married to him? A freedwoman? No; thank Freya! he has not fallen as low as that, at least: and never shall, if I kill the witch with my own hands. A freedwoman!’
Poor Philammon! And he had been told but that morning that he was a slave. He hid his face in his hands, and burst into an agony of tears.
‘Come, come,’ said the testy warrior, softened at once. ‘Woman’s tears don’t matter, but somehow I never could bear to make a man cry. When you are cool, and have learnt common courtesy, we’ll talk more about this. So! Hush; enough is enough. Here comes the supper, and I am as hungry as Loke.’