make merry and be glad with the choir of angels who rejoice over one
sinner that repenteth. Arise, my son, whoso-ever thou art; and go in
peace for this night, remembering that he who said, "My belly cleaveth
unto the pavement," hath also said, "Rejoice not against me, Satan, mine
enemy, for when I fall I shall arise!"'

A thunder-clap of applause, surely as pardonable as any an Alexandrian
church ever heard, followed this dexterous, and yet most righteous,
turn of the patriarch's oratory: but Philammon raised himself slowly
and fearfully to his knees, and blushing scarlet endured the gaze of ten
thousand eyes.

Suddenly, from beside the pulpit, an old man sprang forward, and clasped
him round the neck. It was Arsenius.

'My son! my son!' sobbed he, almost aloud.

'Slave, as well as son, if you will!' whispered Philammon. 'One boon
from the patriarch; and then home to the Laura for ever!'

'Oh, twice-blest night,' rolled on above the deep rich voice of Cyril,
'which beholds at once the coronation of a martyr and the conversion
of a sinner; which increases at the same time the ranks of the church
triumphant, and of the church militant; and pierces celestial essences
with a twofold rapture of thanksgiving, as they welcome on high a
victorious, and on earth a repentant, brother!'

And at a sign from Cyril, Peter the Reader stepped forward, and led
away, gently enough, the two weepers, who were welcomed as they passed
by the blessings, and prayers, and tears even of those fierce fanatics
of Nitria. Nay, Peter himself, as he turned to leave them together in
the sacristy, held out his hand to Philammon.

'I ask your forgiveness,' said the poor boy, who plunged eagerly and
with a sort of delight into any and every self-abasement.

'And I accord it,' quoth Peter; and returned to the church, looking, and
probably feeling, in a far more pleasant mood than usual.

CHAPTER XXVII: THE PRODIGAL'S RETURN

About ten o'clock the next morning, as Hypatia, worn out with sleepless
sorrow, was trying to arrange her thoughts for the farewell lecture, her
favourite maid announced that a messenger from Synesius waited below. A
letter from Synesius? A gleam of hope flashed across her mind. From him,
surely, might come something of comfort, of advice. Ah! if he only knew
how sorely she was bested!

'Let him send up his letter.'

'He refuses to deliver it to any one but yourself. And I think,'--added
the damsel, who had, to t