'You can be that anywhere. I will make you a warrior.'

'The weapons of my warfare are not of flesh and blood, but prayer
and fasting,' answered poor Philammon, who felt already that he
should have ten times more need of the said weapons in Alexandria
than ever he had had in the desert .... 'Let me go! I am not made
for your life! I thank you, bless you! I will pray for you, sir!
but let me go!'

'Curse the craven hound!' roared half a dozen voices. 'Why did you
not let us have our will with him, Prince Wulf? You might have
expected such gratitude from a monk.'

'He owes me my share of the sport,' quoth Smid. 'And here it is!'
And a hatchet, thrown with practised aim, whistled right for
Philammon's head--he had just time to swerve, and the weapon struck
and snapped against the granite wall behind.

'Well saved!' said Wulf coolly, while the sailors and market-women
above yelled murder, and the custom-house officers, and other
constables and catchpolls of the harbour, rushed to the place--and
retired again quietly at the thunder of the Amal from the boat's
stern--

'Never mind, my good follows! we're only Goths; and on a visit to
the prefect, too.'

'Only Goths, my donkey-riding friends!' echoed Smid, and at that
ominous name the whole posse comitatus tried to look unconcerned,
and found suddenly that their presence was absolutely required in an