ed of Christian
prowess. There were no idols now to break but there was philosophy--'Why
not carry war into the heart of the enemy's camp, and beard Satan in his
very den? Why does not some man of God go boldly into the lecture-room
of the sorceress, and testify against her to her face?'

'Do it yourself, if you dare,' said Peter. 'We have no wish to get our
brains knocked out by all the profligate young gentlemen in the city.'

'I will do it,' said Philammon.

'That is, if his holiness allows you to make such a fool of yourself.'

'Take care, sir, of your words. You revile the blessed martyrs, from St.
Stephen to St. Telemachus, when you call such a deed foolishness.'

'I shall most certainly inform his holiness of your insolence.'

'Do so,' said Philammon, who, possessed with a new idea, wished for
nothing more. And there the matter dropped for the time. ...............

'The presumption of the young in this generation is growing
insufferable,' said Peter to his master that evening.

'So much the better. They put their elders on their mettle in the race
of good works. But who has been presuming to-day?'

'That mad boy whom Pambo sent up from the deserts dared to offer himself
as champion of the faith against Hypatia. He actually proposed to go
into her lecture-room and argue with her to her face. What think you of
that for a specimen of youthful modesty and self-distrust?'

Cyril was silent a while.

'What answer am I to have the honour of taking back? A month's
relegation to Nitria on bread and water? You, I am sure, will not allow
such things to go unpunished; indeed, if they do, there is an end to all
authority and discipline.'

Cyril was still silent; whilst Peter's brow clouded fast. At last he
answered--

'The cause wants martyrs. Send the boy to me.'

Peter went down with a shrug, and an expression of face which looked but
too like envy, and ushered up the trembling youth, who dropped on his
knees as soon as he entered.

'So you wish to go into the heathen woman's lecture-room, and defy her?
Have you courage for it?'

'God will give it me.'

'You will be murdered by her pupils.'

'I can defend myself,' said Philammon, with a pardonable glance
downward at his sinewy limbs. 'And if not: what death more glorious than
martyrdom?'

Cyril smiled genially enough. 'Promise me two things.'

'Two thousand, if you will.'

'Two are quite difficult enough to keep. Youth is rash in promises, and
ra