‘Holloa!’ roared Smid the armourer, as he scrambled on to the steps of the slip; ‘you are not going to run away without bidding us good-bye?’
‘Stop with me, boy!’ said old Wulf. ‘I saved you; and you are my man.’
Philammon turned and hesitated.
‘I am a monk, and God’s man.’
‘You can be that anywhere. I will make you a warrior.’
‘The weapons of my warfare are not of flesh and blood, but prayer and fasting,’ answered poor Philammon, who felt already that he should have ten times more need of the said weapons in Alexandria than ever he had had in the desert.... ‘Let me go! I am not made for your life! I thank you, bless you! I will pray for you, sir! but let me go!’
‘Curse the craven hound!’ roared half a dozen voices. ‘Why did you not let us have our will with him, Prince Wulf? You might have expected such gratitude from a monk.’
‘He owes me my share of the sport,’ quoth Smid. ‘And here it is!’ And a hatchet, thrown with practised aim, whistled right for Philammon’s head—he had just time to swerve, and the weapon struck and snapped against the granite wall behind.
‘Well saved!’ said Wulf coolly, while the sailors and market-women above yelled murder, and the custom-house officers, and other constables and catchpolls of the harbour, rushed to the place—and retired again quietly at the thunder of the Amal from the boat’s stern—
‘Never mind, my good follows! we’re only Goths; and on a visit to the prefect, too.’