‘There is my philosopher, my preserver, my patron saint!’ hiccupped he. ‘Bring him to my arms, that I may encircle his lovely neck with pearls of India, and barbaric gold!’
‘For God’s sake let me escape!’ whispered he to Wulf, as the rout rushed upon him. Wulf opened the door in an instant, and he dashed through it. As he wen, the old man held out his hand—
‘Come and see me again, boy!—Me only. The old warrior will not hurt you!’
There was a kindly tone in the voice, a kindly light in the eye, which made Philammon promise to obey. He glanced one look back through the gateway as he fled, and just saw a wild whirl of Goths and girls, spinning madly round the court in the world-old Teutonic waltz; while, high above their heads, in the uplifted arms of the mighty Amal, was tossing the beautiful figure of Pelagia, tearing the garland from her floating hair to pelt the dancers with its roses. And that might be his sister! He hid his face and fled, and the gate shut out the revellers from his eyes; and it is high time that it should shut them out from ours also.
Some four hours more had passed. The revellers were sleeping off their wine, and the moon shining bright and cold across the court, when Wulf came out, carrying a heavy jar of wine, followed by Smid, a goblet in each hand.
‘Here, comrade, out into the middle, to catch a breath of night-air. Are all the fools asleep?’
‘Every mother’s son of them. Ah! this is refreshing after that room. What a pity it is that all men are not born with heads like ours!’
‘Very sad indeed,’ said Wulf, filling his goblet.
‘What a quantity of pleasure they lose in this life! There they are, snoring like hogs. Now, you and I are good to finish this jar, at least.’
‘And another after it, if our talk is not over by that time.’