Hypatia. or New Foes with an Old Face

‘Let me not, O men of Macedonia, suppose that you can be disturbed from that equanimity which befits politicians, by so light an accident as the caprice of a dancer. The spectacle which I have had the honour and delight of exhibiting to you—(Roars and applause from the liberated prisoners and the young gentlemen)—and on which it seemed to me you have deigned to look with not altogether unkindly eyes—(Fresh applause, in which the Christian mob, relenting, began to join)—is but a pleasant prelude to that more serious business for which I have drawn you here together. Other testimonials of my good intentions have not been wanting in the release of suffering innocence, and in the largess of food, the growth and natural property of Egypt, destined by your late tyrants to pamper the luxury of a distant court.... Why should I boast?—yet even now this head is weary, these limbs fail me, worn out in ceaseless efforts for your welfare, and in the perpetual administration of the strictest justice. For a time has come in which the Macedonian race, whose boast is the gorgeous city of Alexander, must rise again to the political pre-eminence which they held of old, and becoming once more the masters of one-third of the universe, be treated by their rulers as freemen, citizens, heroes, who have a right to choose and to employ their rulers—Rulers, did I say? Let us forget the word, and substitute in its place the more philosophic term of ministers. To be your minister—the servant of you all—To sacrifice myself, my leisure, health, life, if need be, to the one great object of securing the independence of Alexandria—This is my work, my hope, my glory—longed for through weary years: now for the first time possible by the fall of the late puppet Emperor of Rome. Men of Macedonia, remember that Honorius reigns no more! An African sits on the throne of the Caesars! Heraclian, by one decisive victory, has gained, by the favour of—of Heaven, the imperial purple; and a new era opens for the world. Let the conqueror of Rome balance his account with that Byzantine court, so long the incubus of our Trans-Mediterranean wealth and civilisation; and let a free, independent, and united Africa rally round the palaces and docks of Alexandria, and find there its natural centre of polity and of prosperity.’

A roar of hired applause interrupted him and not a few, half for the sake of his compliments and fine words, half from a natural wish to be on the right side—namely, the one which happened to be in the ascendant for the time being—joined.... The city authorities were on the point of crying, ‘Imperator Orestes,’ but thought better of it; and waited for some one else to cry first—being respectable. Whereon the Prefect of the Guards, being a man of some presence of mind, and also not in anywise respectable, pricked up the Prefect of the docks with the point of his dagger, and bade him, with a fearful threat, take care how he played traitor. The worthy burgher roared incontinently—whether with pain or patriotism; and the whole array of respectabilities—having found a Curtius who would leap into the gulf, joined in unanimous chorus, and saluted Orestes as Emperor; while Hypatia, amid the shouts of her aristocratic scholars, rose and knelt before him, writhing inwardly with shame and despair, and entreated him to accept that tutelage of Greek commerce, supremacy, and philosophy which was forced on him by the unanimous voice of an adoring people....

‘It is false!’ shouted a voice from the highest tiers, appropriated to the women of the lower classes, which made all turn their heads in bewilderment.

‘False! false! you are tricked! He is tricked! Heraclian was utterly routed at Ostia, and is fled to Carthage, with the emperor’s fleet in chase.’

‘She lies! Drag the beast down!’ cried Orestes, utterly thrown off his balance by the sudden check.

‘She? He! I, a monk, brought the news! Cyril has known it—every Jew in the Delta has known it, for a week past! So perish all the enemies of the Lord, caught in their own snare!’

And bursting desperately through the women who surrounded him, the monk vanished.

An awful silence fell on all who heard. For a minute every man looked in his neighbour’s face as if he longed to cut his throat, and get rid of one witness, at least, of his treason. And then arose a tumult, which Orestes in vain attempted to subdue. Whether the populace believed the monk’s words or not, they were panic-stricken at the mere possibility of their truth. Hoarse with denying, protesting, appealing, the would-be emperor had at last to summon his guards around him and Hypatia, and make his way out of the theatre as best he could; while the multitude melted away like snow before the rain, and poured out into the streets in eddying and roaring streams, to find every church placarded by Cyril with the particulars of Heraclian’s ruin.

CHAPTER XXIII: NEMESIS

That evening was a hideous one in the palace of Orestes. His agonies of disappointment, rage, and terror were at once so shameful and so fearful, that none of his slaves dare approach him; and it was not till late that his confidential secretary, the Chaldean eunuch, driven by terror of the exasperated Catholics, ventured into the tiger’s den, and represented to him the immediate necessity for action.

What could he do? He was committed—Cyril only knew how deeply. What might not the wily archbishop have discovered? What might not he pretend to have discovered? What accusations might he not send off on the spot to the Byzantine Court?

‘Let the gates be guarded, and no one allowed to leave the city,’ suggested the Chaldee.

‘Keep in monks? as well keep in rats! No; we must send off a counter-report, instantly.’

‘What shall I say, your Excellency?’ quoth the ready scribe, pulling out pen and inkhorn from his sash.

‘What do I care? Any lie which comes to hand. What in the devil’s name are you here for at all, but to invent a lie when I want one?’

‘True, most noble,’ and the worthy sat meekly down to his paper.... but did not proceed rapidly.

‘I don’t see anything that would suit the emergency, unless I stated, with your august leave, that Cyril, and not you, celebrated the gladiatorial exhibition; which might hardly appear credible?’

Orestes burst out laughing, in spite of himself. The sleek Chaldee smiled and purred in return. The victory was won; and Orestes, somewhat more master of himself, began to turn his vulpine cunning to the one absorbing question of the saving of his worthless neck.

‘No, that would be too good. Write, that we had discovered a plot on Cyril’s part to incorporate the whole of the African churches (mind and specify Carthage and Hippo) under his own jurisdiction, and to throw off allegiance to the Patriarch of Constantinople, in case of Heraclian’s success.’

The secretary purred delighted approval, and scribbled away now with right good heart.

‘Heraclian’s success, your Excellency.’

‘We of course desired, by every means in our power, to gratify the people of Alexandria, and, as was our duty, to excite by every lawful method their loyalty toward the throne of the Caesars (never mind who sat on it) at so critical a moment.’

‘So critical a moment....’

‘But as faithful Catholics, and abhorring even in the extremest need, the sin of Uzzah, we dreaded to touch with the unsanctified hands of laymen the consecrated ark of the Church, even though for its preservation....’

‘Its preservation, your Excellency....’

‘We, therefore, as civil magistrates, felt bound to confine ourselves to those means which were already allowed by law and custom to our jurisdiction; and accordingly made use of those largesses, spectacles, and public execution of rebels, which have unhappily appeared to his holiness the patriarch (too ready, perhaps, to find a cause of complaint against faithful adherents of the Byzantine See) to partake of the nature of those gladiatorial exhibitions, which are equally abhorrent to the spirit of the Catholic Church, and to the charity of the sainted emperors by whose pious edicts they have been long since abolished.’

‘Your Excellency is indeed great.... but—pardon your slave’s remark—my simplicity is of opinion that it may be asked why you did not inform the Augusta Pulcheria of Cyril’s conspiracy?’

‘Say that we sent a messenger off three months ago, but that.... Make something happen to him, stupid, and save me the trouble.’

‘Shall I kill him by Arabs in the neighbourhood of Palmyra, your Excellency?’

‘Let me see.... No. They may make inquiries there. Drown him at sea. Nobody can ask questions of the sharks.’

‘Foundered between Tyre and Crete, from which sad calamity only one man escaped on a raft, and being picked tip, after three weeks’ exposure to the fury of the elements, by a returning wheat-ship—By the bye, most noble, what am I to say about those wheat-ships not having even sailed?’

‘Head of Augustus! I forgot them utterly. Say that—say that the plague was making such ravages in the harbour quarter that we feared carrying the infection to the seat of the empire; and let them sail to-morrow.’

The secretary’s face lengthened.

‘My fidelity is compelled to remark, even at the risk of your just indignation, that half of them have been unloaded again for your munificent largesses of the last two days.’

Orestes swore a great oath.

‘Oh, that the mob had but one throat, that I might give them an emetic! Well, we must buy more corn, that’s all.’

The secretary’s face grew longer still.

‘The Jews, most August—’

‘What of them?’ yelled the hapless Prefect. ‘Have they been forestalling?’

‘My assiduity has discovered this afternoon that they have been buying up and exporting all the provisions which they could obtain.’

‘Scoundrels! Then they must have known of Heraclian’s failure!’

‘Your sagacity has, I fear, divined the truth. They have been betting largely against his success for the last week, both in Canopus and Pelusium.’

‘For the last week! Then Miriam betrayed me knowingly!’ And Orestes broke forth again into a paroxysm of fury.

‘Here—call the tribune of the guard! A hundred gold pieces to the man who brings me the witch alive!’

‘She will never be taken alive.’

‘Dead, then—in any way! Go, you Chaldee hound! what are you hesitating about?’

‘Most noble lord,’ said the secretary, prostrating himself upon the floor, and kissing his master’s feet in an agony of fear....

‘Remember, that if you touch one Jew you touch all! Remember the bonds! remember the—the—your own most august reputation, in short.’

‘Get up, brute, and don’t grovel there, but tell me what you mean, like a human being. If old Miriam is once dead, her bonds die with her, don’t they?’

‘Alas, my lord, you do not know the customs of that accursed folk. They have a damnable practice of treating every member of their nation as a brother, and helping each freely and faithfully without reward; whereby they are enabled to plunder all the rest of the world, and thrive themselves, from the least to the greatest. Don’t fancy that your bonds are in Miriam’s hands. They have been transferred months ago. Your real creditors may be in Carthage, or Rome, or Byzantium, and they will attack you from thence; while all that you would find if you seized the old witch’s property, would be papers, useless to you, belonging to Jews all over the empire, who would rise as one man in defence of their money. I assure you, it is a net without a bound. If you touch one you touch all.... And besides, my diligence, expecting some such command, has already taken the liberty of making inquiries as to Miriam’s place of abode; but it appears, I am sorry to say, utterly unknown to any of your Excellency’s servants.’

‘You lie!’ said Orestes.... ‘I would much sooner believe that you have been warning the hag to keep out of the way.’

Orestes had spoken, for that once in his life, the exact truth.

The secretary, who had his own private dealings with Miriam, felt every particular atom of his skin shudder at those words; and had he had hair on his head, it would certainly have betrayed him by standing visibly on end. But as he was, luckily for him, close shaven, his turban remained in its proper place, as he meekly replied— ‘Alas! a faithful servant can feel no keener woe than the causeless suspicion of that sun before whose rays he daily prostrates his—’

‘Confound your periphrases! Do you know where she is?’

‘No!’ cried the wretched secretary, driven to the lie direct at last; and confirmed the negation with such a string of oaths, that Orestes stopped his volubility with a kick, borrowed of him, under threat of torture, a thousand gold pieces as largess to the soldiery, and ended by concentrating the stationaries round his own palace, for the double purpose of protecting himself in case of a riot, and of increasing the chances of the said riot, by leaving the distant quarters of the city without police.

‘If Cyril would but make a fool of himself, now that he is in the full-blown pride of victory—the rascal!—about that Ammonius, or about Hypatia, or anything else, and give me a real handle against him! After all, truth works better than lying now and then. Oh, that I could poison him! But one can’t bribe those ecclesiastics; and as for the dagger, one could not hire a man to be torn in pieces by monks. No; I must just sit still, and see what Fortune’s dice may turn up. Well, your pedants like Aristides or Epaminondas—thank Heaven, the race of them has died out long ago!—might call this no very creditable piece of provincial legislation; but after all, it is about as good as any now going, or likely to be going till the world’s end; and one can’t be expected to strike out a new path. I shall stick to the wisdom of my predecessors, and—oh, that Cyril may make a fool of himself to-night!’

And Cyril did make a fool of himself that night, for the first and last time in his life; and suffers for it, as wise men are wont to do when they err, to this very day and hour: but how much Orestes gained by his foe’s false move cannot be decided till the end of this story; perhaps not even then.

CHAPTER XXIV: LOST LAMBS

And Philammon?

For a long while he stood in the street outside the theatre, too much maddened to determine on any course of action; and, ere he had recovered his self-possession, the crowd began to pour from every outlet, and filling the street, swept him away in its stream.

Then, as he heard his sister’s name, in every tone of pity, contempt, and horror, mingle with their angry exclamations, he awoke from his dream, and, bursting through the mob, made straight for Pelagia’s house.

It was fast closed; and his repeated knocks at the gate brought only, after long waiting, a surly negro face to a little wicket.

He asked eagerly and instinctively for Pelagia; of course she had not yet returned. For Wulf he was not within. And then he took his station close to the gateway, while his heart beat loud with hope and dread.

At last the Goths appeared, forcing their way through the mob in a close column. There were no litters with them. Where, then, were Pelagia and her girls? Where, too, was the hated figure of the Amal? and Wulf, and Smid? The men came on, led by Goderic and Agilmund, with folded arms, knitted brows, downcast eyes: a stern disgust, not unmingled with shame, on every countenance, told Philammon afresh of his sister’s infamy.

Goderic passed him close, and Philammon summoned up courage to ask for Wulf.... Pelagia he had not courage to name.

‘Out, Greek hound! we have seen enough of your accursed race to-day! What? are you trying to follow us in?’ And the young man’s sword flashed from its sheath so swiftly, that Philammon had but just time enough to spring back into the street, and wait there, in an agony of disappointment and anxiety, as the gates slid together again, and the house was as silent as before.

For a miserable hour he waited, while the mob thickened instead of flowing away, and the scattered groups of chatterers began to form themselves into masses, and parade the streets with shouts of ‘Down with the heathen!’ ‘Down with the idolaters!’ ‘Vengeance on all blaspheming harlots!’

At last the steady tramp of legionaries, and in the midst of the glittering lines of armed men—oh, joy!—a string of litters!

He sprang forward, and called Pelagia’s name again and again. Once he fancied he heard an answer: but the soldiers thrust him back.

‘She is safe here, young fool, and has seen and been seen quite enough to-day already. Back!’

‘Let me speak to her!’

‘That is her business. Ours is now to see her home safe.’

‘Let me go in with you, I beseech!’

‘If you want to go in, knock for yourself when we are gone. If you have any business in the house, they will open to you, I suppose. Out, you interfering puppy!’

And a blow of the spear-butt in his chest sent him rolling back into the middle of the street, while the soldiers, having delivered up their charge, returned with the same stolid indifference. In vain Philammon, returning, knocked at the gate. Curses and threats from the negro were all the answer which he received; and at last, wearied into desperation, he wandered away, up one street and down another, struggling in vain to form some plan of action for himself, until the sun was set.

Wearily he went homewards at last. Once the thought of Miriam crossed his mind. It was a disgusting alternative to ask help of her, the very author of his sister’s shame: but yet she at least could obtain for him a sight of Pelagia; she had promised as much. But then—the condition which she had appended to her help! To see his sister, and yet to leave her as she was!—Horrible contradiction! But could he not employ Miriam for his own ends?—outwit her?—deceive her?—for it came to that. The temptation was intense: but it lasted only a moment. Could he defile so pure a cause by falsehood? And hurrying past the Jewess’s door, hardly daring to look at it, lest the temptation should return, he darted upstairs to his own little chamber, hastily flung open the door, and stopped short in astonishment.

A woman, covered from head to foot in a large dark veil, stood in the centre of the chamber.

‘Who are you? This is no place for you!’ cried he, after a minute’s pause. She replied only by a shudder and a sob.... He caught sight, beneath the folds of the veil, of a too well-known saffron shawl, and springing upon her like the lion on the lamb, clasped to his bosom his sister.

The veil fell from her beautiful forehead. She gazed into his eyes one moment with a look of terrified inquiry, and saw nothing there but love.... And clinging heart to heart, brother and sister mingled holy kisses, and strained nearer and nearer still, as if to satisfy their last lingering doubts of each other’s kin.

Many a minute passed in silent joy.... Philammon dare not speak; he dare not ask her what brought her thither—dare not wake her to recollect the frightful present by questions of the past, of his long forgotten parents, their home, her history.... And, after all, was it not enough for him that he held her at last?—her, there by her own will—the lost lamb returned to him?—and their tears mingled as their cheeks were pressed together.

At last she spoke.

‘I ought to have known you,—I believe I did know you from the first day! When they mentioned your likeness to me, my heart leapt up within me; and a voice whispered.... but I would not hear it! I was ashamed—ashamed to acknowledge my brother, for whom I had sought and longed for years.... ashamed to think that I had a brother.... Ah, God! and ought I not to be ashamed?’

And she broke from him again, and threw herself on the floor.

‘Trample upon me; curse me!—anything but part me from him!’

Philammon had not the heart to answer her; but he made an involuntary gesture of sorrowful dissent.

‘No! Call me what I am!—what he called me just now!—but do not take me away! Strike me, as he struck me!—anything but parting!’

‘Struck you? The curse of God be on him!’

‘Ah, do not curse him!—not him! It was not a blow, indeed!—only a push—a touch—and it was my fault—all mine. I angered him—I upbraided him;—I was mad.... Oh, why did he deceive me? Why did he let me dance?—command me to dance?’

‘Command you?’

‘He said that we must not break our words. He would not hear me, when I told him that we could deny having promised. I said that promises made over the wine need never be kept. Who ever heard of keeping them? And Orestes was drunk, too. But he said that I might teach a Goth to be what I liked, except a liar.... Was not that a strange speech?.... And Wulf bade him be strong, and blest him for it.’

‘He was right,’ sobbed Philammon.

‘Then I thought he would love me for obeying him, though I loathed it!—Oh, God, how I loathed it!.... But how could I fancy that he did not like my doing it? Who ever heard of any one doing of their own will what they did not like?’

Philammon sobbed again, as the poor civilised savage artlessly opened to him all her moral darkness. What could he say?.... he knew what to say. The disease was so utterly patent, that any of Cyril’s school-children could have supplied the remedy. But how to speak it?—how to tell her, before all things, as he longed to do, that there was no hope of her marrying the Amal, and, therefore, no peace for her till she left him.

‘Then you did hate the—the—’ said he, at last, catching at some gleam of light.

‘Hate it? Do I not belong, body and soul, to him?—him only?.... And yet.... Oh, I must tell you all! When I and the girls began to practise, all the old feelings came back—the love of being admired, and applauded, and cheered; and dancing is so delicious!—so delicious to feel that you are doing anything beautiful perfectly, and better than every one else!.... And he saw that I liked it, and despised me for it.... And, deceitful!—he little guessed how much of the pains which I took were taken to please him, to do my best before him, to win admiration, only that I might take it home and throw it all at his beloved feet, and make the world say once more, “She has all Alexandria to worship her, and yet she cares for that one Goth more than for—” But he deceived me, true man that he is! He wished to enjoy my smiles to the last moment, and then to cast me off, when I had once given him an excuse.... Too cowardly to upbraid me, he let me ruin myself, to save him the trouble of ruining me. Oh, men, men! all alike! They love us for their own sakes, and we love them for love’s sake. We live by love, we die for love, and yet we never find it, but only selfishness dressed up in love’s mask.... And then we take up with that, poor, fond, self-blinded creatures that we are!—and in spite of the poisoned hearts around us, persuade ourselves that our latest asp’s egg, at least, will hatch into a dove, and that though all men are faithless, our own tyrant can never change, for he is more than man!’

‘But he has deceived you! You have found out your mistake. Leave him, then, as he deserves!’

Pelagia looked up, with something of a tender smile. ‘Poor darling! Little do you know of love!’

Philammon, utterly bewildered by this newest and strangest phase of human passion, could only gasp out—

‘But do you not love me, too, my sister?’

‘Do I not love you? But not as I love him! Oh, hush, hush!—, you cannot understand yet!’ And Pelagia hid her face in her hands, while convulsive shudderings ran through every limb....

‘I must do it! I must! I will dare every thing, stoop to everything for love’s sake! Go to her!—to the wise woman!—to Hypatia! She loves you! I know that she loves you! She will hear you, though she will not me!’

‘Hypatia? Do you know that she was sitting there unmoved at—in the theatre?’

‘She was forced! Orestes compelled her! Miriam told me so. And I saw it in her face. As I passed beneath her, I looked up; and she was as pale as ivory, trembling in every limb. There was a dark hollow round her eyes—she had been weeping, I saw. And I sneered in my mad self-conceit, and said, “She looks as if she was going to be crucified, not married!”. But now, now!—Oh, go to her! Tell her that I will give her all I have—jewels, money, dresses, house! Tell her that I—I—entreat her pardon, that I will crawl to her feet myself and ask it, if she requires!—Only let her teach me—teach me to be wise and good, and honoured, and respected, as she is! Ask her to tell a poor broken-hearted woman her secret. She can make old Wulf, and him, and Orestes even, and the magistrates, respect her.... Ask her to teach me how to be like her, and to make him respect me again, and I will give her all—all!’

Philammon hesitated. Something within warned him, as the Daemon used to warn Socrates, that his errand would be bootless. He thought of the theatre, and of that firm, compressed lip; and forgot the hollow eye of misery which accompanied it, in his wrath against his lately-worshipped idol.

‘Oh, go! go! I tell you it was against her will. She felt for me—I saw it—Oh, God! when I did not feel for myself! And I hated her, because she seemed to despise me in my fool’s triumph! She cannot despise me now in my misery.... Go! Go! or you will drive me to the agony of going myself.’

There was but one thing to be done.

‘You will wait, then, here? You will not leave me again?’

‘Yes. But you must be quick! If he finds out that I am away, he may fancy.... Ah, heaven! let him kill me, but never let him be jealous of me! Go now! this moment! Take this as an earnest—the cestus which I wore there. Horrid thing! I hate the sight of it! But I brought it with me on purpose, or I would have thrown it into the canal. There; say it is an earnest—only an earnest—of what I will give her!’

In ten minutes more Philammon was in Hypatia’s hall. The household seemed full of terror and disturbance; the hall was full of soldiers. At last Hypatia’s favourite maid passed, and knew him. Her mistress could not speak with any one. Where was Theon, then? He, too, had shut himself up. Never mind. Philammon must, would speak with him. And he pleaded so passionately and so sweetly, that the soft-hearted damsel, unable to resist so handsome a suppliant, undertook his errand, and led him up to the library, where Theon, pale as death, was pacing to and fro, apparently half beside himself with terror.

Philammon’s breathless message fell at first upon unheeding ears.

‘A new pupil, sir! Is this a time for pupils; when my house, my daughter’s life, is not safe? Wretch that I am! And have I led her into the snare? I, with my vain ambition and covetousness! Oh, my child! my child! my one treasure! Oh, the double curse which will light upon me, if—’

‘She asks for but one interview.’

‘With my daughter, sir? Pelagia! Will you insult me? Do you suppose, even if her own pity should so far tempt her to degrade herself, that I could allow her so to contaminate her purity?’

‘Your terror, sir, excuses your rudeness.’

‘Rudeness, sir? the rudeness lies in your intruding on us at such a moment!’

‘Then this, perhaps, may, in your eyes at least, excuse me in my turn.’ And Philammon held out the cestus. ‘You are a better judge of its value than I. But I am commissioned to say, that it is only an earnest of what she will give willingly and at once, even to the half of her wealth, for the honour of becoming your daughter’s pupil.’ And he laid the jewelled girdle on the table.

The old man halted in his walk. The emeralds and pearls shone like the galaxy. He looked at them; and walked on again more slowly.... What might be their value? What might it not be? At least, they would pay all his debts.... And after hovering to and fro for another minute before the bait, he turned to Philammon.

‘If you would promise to mention the thing to no one—’

‘I will promise.’

‘And in case my daughter, as I have a right to expect, shall refuse—’

‘Let her keep the jewels. Their owner has learnt, thank God, to despise and hate them! Let her keep the jewels—and my curse! For God do so to me, and more also, if I ever see her face again!’

The old man had not heard the latter part of Philammon’s speech. He had seized his bait as greedily as a crocodile, and hurried off with it into Hypatia’s chamber, while Philammon stood expectant; possessed with a new and fearful doubt. ‘Degrade herself!’ ‘Contaminate her purity!’ If that notion were to be the fruit of all her philosophy? If selfishness, pride, Pharisaism, were all its outcome? Why—had they not been its outcome already? When had he seen her helping, even pitying, the poor, the outcast? When had he heard from her one word of real sympathy for the sorrowing; for the sinful?.... He was still lost in thought when Theon re-entered, bringing a letter.

‘From Hypatia to her well-beloved pupil.

‘I pity you—how should I not? And more. I thank you for this your request, for it shows me that my unwilling presence at the hideous pageant of to-day has not alienated from me a soul of which I had cherished the noblest hopes, for which I had sketched out the loftiest destiny. But how shall I say it? Ask yourself whether a change—apparently impossible—must not take place in her for whom you plead, before she and I can meet. I am not so inhuman as to blame you for having asked me; I do not even blame her for being what she is. She does but follow her nature; who can be angry with her, if destiny have informed so fair an animal with a too gross and earthly spirit? Why weep over her? Dust she is, and unto dust she will return: while you, to whom a more divine spark was allotted at your birth, must rise, and unrepining, leave below you one only connected with you by the unreal and fleeting bonds of fleshly kin.’

Philammon crushed the letter together in his hand, and strode from the house without a word. The philosopher had no gospel, then, for the harlot! No word for the sinner, the degraded! Destiny forsooth! She was to follow her destiny, and be base, miserable, self-condemned. She was to crush the voice of conscience and reason, as often as it awoke within her, and compel herself to believe that she was bound to be that which she knew herself bound not to be. She was to shut her eyes to that present palpable misery which was preaching to her, with the voice of God Himself, that the wages of sin are death. Dust she was, and unto dust she will return! Oh, glorious hope for her, for him, who felt as if an eternity of bliss would be worthless, if it parted him from his new-found treasure! Dust she was, and unto dust she must return!