Mareotis, and found themselves, when the next morning dawned, among
the countless masts and noisy quays of the greatest seaport in the
world. The motley crowd of foreigners, the hubbub of all dialects
from the Crimea to Cadiz, the vast piles of merchandise, and heaps
of wheat, lying unsheltered in that rainless air, the huge bulk of
the corn-ships lading for Rome, whose tall sides rose story over
story, like floating palaces, above the buildings of some inner dock
--these sights, and a hundred more, made the young monk think that
the world did not look at first sight a thing to be despised. In
front of heaps of fruit, fresh from the market-boats, black groups
of glossy negro slaves were basking and laughing on the quay,
looking anxiously and coquettishly round in hopes of a purchaser;
they evidently did not think the change from desert toil to city
luxuries a change for the worse. Philammon turned away his eyes
from beholding vanity; but only to meet fresh vanity wheresoever
they fell. He felt crushed by the multitude of new objects, stunned
by the din around; and scarcely recollected himself enough to seize
the first opportunity of escaping from his dangerous companions.

'Holloa!' roared Smid the armourer, as he scrambled on to the steps
of the slip; 'you are not going to run away without bidding us good-
bye?'

'Stop with me, boy!' said old Wulf. 'I saved you; and you are my
man.'

Philammon turned and hesitated.

'I am a monk, and God's man.'