For two days the young monk held on, paddling and floating rapidly down the Nile-stream, leaving city after city to right and left with longing eyes, and looking back to one villa after another, till the reaches of the banks hid them from his sight, with many a yearning to know what sort of places those gay buildings and gardens would look like on a nearer view, and what sort of life the thousands led who crowded the busy quays, and walked and drove, in an endless stream, along the great high roads which ran along either bank. He carefully avoided every boat that passed him, from the gilded barge of the wealthy landlord or merchant, to the tiny raft buoyed up with some empty jars, which was floating down to be sold at some market in the Delta. Here and there he met and hailed a crew of monks, drawing their nets in a quiet bay, or passing along the great watery highway from monastery to monastery: but all the news he received from them was, that the canal of Alexandria was still several days' journey below him. It seemed endless, that monotonous vista of the two high clay banks, with their sluices and water-wheels, their knots of palms and date-trees; endless seemed that wearisome succession of of bars of sand and banks of mud, every one like the one before it, every one dotted with the same line of logs and stones strewn along the water's edge, which turned out, as he approached them, to be basking crocodiles and sleeping pelicans. His eye, wearied with the continual confinement and want of distance longed for the boundless expanse of the desert, for the jagged outlines of those far-off hills, which he had watched from boyhood rising mysteriously at morn out of the eastern sky, and melting mysteriously into it again at even, beyond which dwelt a whole world of wonders, elephants and dragons, satyrs and anthropophagi, - ay, and the phoenix itself. Tired and melancholy, his mind returned inward to prey on itself, and the last words of Arsenius rose again and again to his thoughts. "Was his the call of the spirit or of the flesh?" How should he test that problem? He wished to see the world .... that might be carnal. True; but, he wished to convert the world .... was not that spiritual? Was he not going on a noble errand? .... thirsting for toil, for saintship, for martyrdom itself, if it would but come and cut the Gordian knot of all temptations, and save him - for he dimly felt that it would save him - a whole sea of trouble in getting safe and triumphant out of tat world into which he had not yet entered .... and his heart shrank back from the untried homeless wilderness before him. But no! the die was cast, and he must down and onward, whether in obedience to the spirit or the flesh. Oh, for one hour of the quiet of that dear Laura and the old familiar faces!
At last, a sudden turn of the bank brought him in sight of a gaudily-painted barge, on board of which armed men, in uncouth and foreign dresses, were chasing with barbaric shouts some large object in the water. In the bows stood a man of gigantic stature, brandishing a harpoon in his right hand, and in his left holding the line of a second, the head of which was fixed in the huge purple sides of a hippopotamus, who foamed and wallowed a few yards down the stream. An old grizzled warrior at the stern, with a rudder in either hand, kept the boat's head continually towards the monster, in spite of its sudden and frantic wheelings; and when it dashed madly across the stream, some twenty oars flashed through the water in pursuit. All was activity and excitement; and it was no wonder if Philammon's curiosity had tempted him to drift down almost abreast of the barge, ere he descried, peeping from under a decorated awning in the after-part, some dozen pairs of languishing black eyes, turned alternately to the game and to himself. The serpents! - chattering and smiling, with pretty little shrieks and shaking of glossy curls and gold necklaces, and fluttering of muslin dresses, within a dozen yards of him! Blushing scarlet, he knew not why, he seized his paddle, and tried to back out of the snare .... but somehow, his very efforts to escape those sparkling eyes diverted his attention from everything else: the hippopotamus had caught sight of him, and furious with pain, rushed straight at the unoffending canoe; the harpoon line became entangled round his body, and in a moment he and his frail bark were overturned, and the monster, with his huge white tusks gaping wide, close on him as he struggled in the stream.
Luckily Philammon, contrary to the wont of monks, was a bather, and swam like a water-fowl: fear he had never known: death from childhood had been to him, as to the other inmates of the Laura, a contemplation too perpetual to have any paralysing terror in it, even then, when life seemed just about to open on him anew. But the monk was a man, and a young one, and had no intention of dying tamely or unavenged. In an instant he had freed himself from the line; drawn the short knife which was his only weapon; and diving suddenly, avoided the monster's rush, and attacked him from behind with stabs, which, though not deep, still dyed the waters with gore at every stroke. The barbarians shouted with delight. The hippopotamus turned furiously against his new assailant, crushing, alas! the empty canoe to fragments with a single snap of his enormous jaws; but the turn was fatal to him; the barge was close upon him, and as he presented his broad side to the blow, the sinewy arm of the giant drove a harpoon through his heart, and with one convulsive shudder the huge blue mass turned over on its side and floated dead.
Poor Philammon! He alone was silent, amid the yells of triumph; sorrowfully he swam round and round his little paper wreck .... it would not have floated a mouse. Wistfully he eyed the distant banks, half-minded to strike out for them, and escape, .... and thought of the crocodiles, .... and paddled round again, .... and thought of the basilisk eyes; .... he might escape the crocodiles, but who could escape women? .... and he struck out valiantly for shore .... when he was brought to a sudden stop by finding the stern of the barge close on him, a noose thrown over him by some friendly barbarian, and himself hauled on board, amid the laughter, praise, astonishment, and grumbling of the good-natured crew, who had expected him, as a matter of course, to avail himself at once of their help, and could not conceive the cause of his reluctance.
Philammon gazed with wonder on his strange hosts, their pale complexions, globular heads and faces, high cheek-bones, and yellow hair knotted fantastically above the head; their awkward dresses, half Roman or Egyptian, and half of foreign fur, soiled and stained in many a storm and fight, but tastelessly bedizened with classic jewels,brooches and Roman coins, strung like necklaces. Only the steersman, who had come forward to wonder at the hippopotamus, and to help in dragging the unwieldy brute on board, seemed to keep genuine and unornamented the costume of his race, the white linen leggings, strapped with thongs of deerskin, the quilted leather cuirass, the bear's-fur cloak, the only ornaments of which were the fangs and claws of the beast itself, and a fringe of grizzled tufts, which looked but too like human hair. The language they spoke was unintelligible to Philammon, though it need not be so to us.
"A well-grown lad and a brave one, Wulf the son of Ovida," said the giant to the old hero of the bearskin cloak; "and understands wearing skins, in this furnace-mouth of a climate, rather better than you do."
"I keep to the dress of my forefathers, Amalric the Amal. What did to sack Rome in, may do to find Asgard in."
The giant, whao was decked out with helmet, cuirass, and senatorial boots, in a sort of mongrel mixture of the Roman military and civil dress, his neck wreathed with a dozen gold chains, and every finger sparkling with jewels, turned away with an impatient sneer.
"Asgard - Asgard? If you are in such a hurry to to get to Asgard up this ditch in the sand, you had better ask this fellow how far it is thither."
Wulf took him quietly at his word, and addressed a question to the young monk, which he could only answer by a shake of the head.
"Ask him in Greek, man."
"Greek is a slave's tongue. Make a slave talk to him in it, not me."
"Here - some of you girls! Pelagia! you understand this fellow's talk. Ask him how far it is to Asgard."
"You must ask me more civilly, my rough hero," replied a soft voice from underneath the awning. "Beauty must be sued, and not commanded."
The awning was raised, and lying luxuriously on a soft mattress, fanned with peacock's feathers, and glittering with rubies and topazes, appeared such a vision as Philammon had never seen before.
A woman of some two-and-twenty summers, formed in the most voluptuous mould of Grecian beauty, whose complexion showed every violet vein through its veil of luscious brown. Her little bare feet, as they dimpled the cushions, were more perfect than Aphrodite's, softer than a swan's bosom. Every swell of her bust and arms showed through the thin gauze robe, while her lower limbs were wrapped in a shawl of orange silk, embroidered with wreaths of shells and roses. Her dark hair lay carefully spread out upon the pillow, in a thousand ringlets entwined with gold and jewels; her languishing eyes blazed like diamonds from a cavern, under eyelids darkened and deepened with black antimony; her lips pouted of themselves, by habit or by nature, into a perpetual kiss; slowly she raised one little lazy hand; slowly the ripe lips opened; and in most pure and melodious Attic, she lisped her huge lover's question to the monk, and repeated it before the boy could shake off the spell, and answer . . . .
"Asgard? What is Asgard?"
The beauty looked at the giant for further instructions.
"The City of the immortal Gods," interposed the old warrior, hastily and sternly, to the lady.
"The city of God is in heaven," said Philammon to the interpreter, turning his head away from those gleaming, luscious searching glances.
His answer was received with a general laugh by all except the leader, who shrugged his shoulders.
"It may as well be up in the skies as up the Nile. We shall be just as likely, I believe, to reach it by flying, as by rowing up this big ditch. Ask him where the river comes from, Pelagia."
Pelagia obeyed . . . . and thereon followed a confusion worse confounded, composed of all the impossible wonders of that mythic fairy-land with which Philammon had gorged himself from boyhood in his walks with the old monks, and of the equally trustworthy traditions which the Goths had picked up at Alexandria. There was nothing which that river did not do. It rose in the Caucasus. Where was the Caucasus? He did not know. In Paradise - In Indian Æthiopia - in Æthiopian India. Where were they? He did not know. Nobody knew. It ran for a hundred and fifty days' journey through deserts where nothing but flying serpents and satyrs lived, and the very lions' manes were burnt off by the heat. . . . .
"Good sporting there, at all events, among these dragons," quoth Smid the son of Troll, armourer to the party.
"As good as Thor's when he caught Snake Midgard with the bullovk's head," said Wulf.
It turned to the east for a hundred days' journey more, all round Arabia and India, among forests full of elephants and dog-headed women.
"Better and better, Smid!" growled Wulf, approvingly.
"Fresh beef cheap there, Prince Wulf, eh?" quoth Smid; "I must look over the arrow-heads."
- To the mountains of the hyperboreans, where there was eternal night, and the air was full of feathers. . . . . That is, one third of it came from thence, and another third came from the southern ocean, over the Moon mountains, where no one had ever been, and the remaining third from the country where the phœnix lived, nobody knew where that was. And then there were the cataracts, and the inundations - and - and - and above the cataracts, nothing but sand-hills and ruins, as full of devils as they could hold . . . . and as for Asgard, no one had ever heard of it . . . . till every face grew longer and longer, as Pelagia went on interpreting and misinterpreting; and at last the giant smote his hand upon his knee, and swore a great oath that Asgard might rot till the twilight of the gods before he went a step farther up the Nile.
"Curse the monk!" growled Wulf. "How should such a poor beast know anything about the matter?"
"Why should he not know as well as that ape of a Roman governor?" asked Smid.
"Oh, the monks know everything," said Pelagia. "They go hundreds and thousands of miles up the river, and cross the deserts among fiends and monsters, where anyone else would be eaten up, or go mad at once."
"Ah, the dear holy men! It's all by the sign of the blessed cross!" exclaimed all the girls together, devoutly crossing themselves, while two or three of the most enthusiastic were half-minded to go forward and kneel to Philammon for his blessing; but hesitated, their Gothic lovers being heathenishly stupid and prudish on such points.
"Why should he not know as well as the prefect? Well said, Smid! I believe that prefect's quill-driver was humbugging us when he said Asgard was only ten days' sail up."
"Why?" asked Wulf.
"I never give any reasons. What's the use of being an Amal, and a son of Odin, if one always has to be giving reasons like a rascally Roman lawyer? I say the governor looked like a liar; and I say this monk looks like an honest fellow; and I choose to believe him, and there's an end of it."
"Don't look so cross at me, Prince Wulf; I'm sure it's not my fault; I could only say what the monk told me," whispered poor Pelagia.
more to come ...