May the gods curse the day when first I saw it!' Philammon said nothing, but sat utterly aghast at an outbreak so unlike Wulf's usual caustic reserve and stately self-restraint, and shuddering at the thought that it might be an instance of that daemoniac possession to which these barbarians were supposed by Christians and by Neo-Platonists to be peculiarly subject.

But the horror was not yet at its height; for in another minute the doors of the women's court flew open, and, attracted by Wulf's shout, out poured the whole Bacchanalian crew, with Orestes, crowned with flowers, and led by the Amal and Pelagia, reeling in the midst, wine-cup in hand.
'There is my philosopher, my preserver, my patron saint!' hiccupped he.
'Bring him to my arms, that I may encircle his lovely neck with pearls of India, and barbaric gold!' 'For God's sake let me escape!' whispered he to Wulf, as the rout rushed upon him.

Wulf opened the door in an instant, and he dashed through it.
As he wen, the old man held out his hand-- 'Come and see me again, boy!--Me only.

The old warrior will not hurt you!' There was a kindly tone in the voice, a kindly light in the eye, which made Philammon promise to obey.

He glanced one look back through the gateway as he fled, and just saw a wild whirl of Goths and girls, spinning madly round the court in the world-old Teutonic waltz; while, high above their heads, in the uplifted arms of the mighty Amal, was tossing the beautiful figure of Pelagia, tearing the garland from her floating hair to pelt the dancers with its roses.