door. It was fast. With a single blow he burst it
open, and demanded--

'What was that shriek? What is the meaning of this? Pelagia!'

Pelagia, like a child caught playing with a forbidden toy, hid her face
in her hands and cowered down.

'What is it?' cried he, lifting her.

But she burst from his arms.

'No, no!--never more! I am not worthy of you! Let me die, wretch that
I am! I can only drag you down. You must be a king. You must marry
her--the wise woman!'

'Hypatia! She is dead!'

'Dead?' shrieked Pelagia.

'Murdered, an hour ago, by those Christian devils.'

Pelagia put her hands over her eyes, and burst into tears. Were they of
pity or of joy?... She did not ask herself; and we will not ask her.

'Where is my sword? Soul of Odin! Why is it fastened here?'

'I was going to--Do not be angry!.... They told me that I had better
die, and--

The Amal stood thunderstruck for a moment.

'Oh, do not strike me again! Send me to the mill. Kill me now with your
own hand! Anything but another blow!'

'A blow?--Noble woman!'cried the Amal, clasping her in his arms.

The storm was past; and Pelagia had been nestling to that beloved heart,
cooing like a happy dove, for many a minute before the Amal aroused
himself and her....

'Now!--quick! We have not a moment to lose. Up to the tower, where you
will be safe; and then to show these curs what comes of snarling round
the wild wolves' den!'

CHAPTER XXIX: NEMESIS

And was the Amal's news true, then?

Philammon saw Raphael rush across the street into the Museum gardens.
His last words had been a command to stay where he was; and the boy
obeyed him. The black porter who let Raphael out told him somewhat
insolently, that his mistress would see no one, and receive no messages:
but he had made up his mind: complained of the sun, quietly ensconced
himself behind a buttress, and sat coiled up on the pavement, ready for
a desperate spring. The slave stared at him: but he was accustomed to
the vagaries of philosophers; and thanking the gods that he was not born
in that station of life, retired to his porter's cell, and forgot the
whole matter.

There Philammon awaited a full half-hour. It seemed to him hours, days,
years. And yet Raphael did not return: and yet no guards appeared. Was
the strange Jew a traitor? Impossible!--his face had shown a desperate
earnestness of terror as intense as Philammon's own.... Yet why did he
not return?

Perhaps he had f