“Father, see, there he is!” cried Dada, as the door was opened, speaking louder than was at all necessary to enable her companion to hear her; the musician at once recognized Marcus, and turning to his son he said:
“Now we may be quite sure! Porphyrius and this young Christian’s father were brothers. Philippus must have left his house to his eldest son who is the one that is dead, and it now belongs no doubt to Mary, his widow. I must admit, child, that you choose your adorers from respectable families!”
“I should think so,” said the girl laughing. “And that is why he is so proud. My fine gentleman has not even a glance to cast at us. Bang! the door is shut. Come along, uncle!”
The young man in question entered the hall of his father’s house with his companion and paused there to say in a tone of pressing entreaty: “Only come and speak with my mother; you really must not leave like this.”
“How else?” said the other roughly. “You stick to your way, I will go mine. You can find a better steward for the estate—I go to-morrow. May the earth open and swallow me up if I stay one hour longer than is absolutely necessary in this demented place. And after all Mary is your mother and not mine.”
“But she was your father’s wife,” retorted Marcus.
“Certainly, or you would not be my brother. But she—I have amply repaid any kindness she ever did me by ten years of service. We do not understand each other and we never shall.”
“Yes, yes, you will indeed. I have been in church and prayed—nay, do not laugh—I prayed to the Lord that he would make it all work right and He—well, you have been baptized and made one of His flock.”
“To my misfortune! You drive me frantic with your meek and mild ways,” cried the other passionately. “My own feet are strong enough for me to stand on and my hand, though it is horny, can carry out what my brain thinks right.”
“No, no, Demetrius, no. You see, you believe in the old gods...”