But at last the deadlock was suddenly ended--the fish parted in the middle; and the typical Hypatia and Cyril, losing hold of their respective seaweeds by the jerk, tumbled down, each with its half-fish, and vanished head over heels into the blue depths in so undignified a manner, that Philammon burst into a shout of laughter.
'What's the joke ?' asked a well-known voice behind him; and a hand patted him familiarly on the back.

He looked round, and saw the little porter, his head crowned with a full basket of figs, grapes, and water-melons, on which the poor youth cast a longing eye.

'Well, my young friend, and why are you not at church?
Look at all the saints pouring into the Caesareum there, behind you.' Philammon answered sulkily enough something inarticulate.
'Ho, ho! Quarrelled with the successor of the Apostles already?
Has my prophecy come true, and the strong meat of pious riot and plunder proved too highly spiced for your young palate?
Eh ?' Poor Philammon! Angry with himself for feeling that the porter was right; shrinking from the notion of exposing the failings of his fellow-Christians; shrinking still more from making such a jackanapes his confidant: and yet yearning in his loneliness to open his heart to some one, he dropped out, hint by hint, word by word, the events of the past evening, and finished by a request to be put in the way of earning his breakfast.
'Earning your breakfast! Shall the favourite of the gods--shall the guest of Hypatia--earn his breakfast, while I have an obol to share with him?
Base thought! Youth! I have wronged you.

Unphilosophically I allowed, yesterday morning, envy to ruffle the ocean of my intellect.

We are now friends and brothers, in hatred to the monastic tribe.' 'I do not hate them, I tell you,' said Philammon.