'But these Nitrian savages--' 'Are the perfect examples of monkery, and you hate them; and therefore, all greaters containing the less, you hate all less monastic monks--I have not heard logic lectures in vain.

Now, up! The sea woos our dusty limbs: Nereids and Tritons, charging no cruel coin, call us to Nature's baths.

At home a mighty sheat-fish smokes upon the festive board; beer crowns the horn, and onions deck the dish; come then, my guest and brother!' Philammon swallowed certain scruples about becoming the guest of a heathen, seeing that otherwise there seemed no chance of having anything else to swallow; and after a refreshing plunge in the sea, followed the hospitable little fellow to Hypatia's door, where he dropped his daily load of fruit, and then into a narrow by-street, to the ground-floor of a huge block of lodgings with a common staircase, swarming with children, cats, and chickens; and was ushered by his host into a little room, where the savoury smell of broiling fish revived Philammon's heart.
'Judith! Judith! where lingerest thou?
Marble of Pentelicus! foam-flake of the wine dark main! lily of the Mareotic lake! You accursed black Andromeda, if you don't bring the breakfast this moment, I'll cut you in two!' The inner door opened, and in bustled, trembling, her hands full of dishes, a tall lithe negress, dressed in true negro fashion, in a snow-white cotton shift, a scarlet cotton petticoat, and a bright yellow turban of the same, making a light in that dark place which would have served as a landmark a mile off.

She put the dishes down, and the porter majestically waved Philammon to a stool; while she retreated, and stood humbly waiting on her lord and master, who did not deign to introduce to his guest the black beauty which composed his whole seraglio....

But, indeed, such an act of courtesy would have been needless; for the first morsel of fish was hardly safe in poor Philammon's mouth, when the regress rushed upon him, caught him by the head, and covered him with rapturous kisses.
Up jumped the little man with a yell, brandishing a knife in one hand and a leek in the other; while Philammon, scarcely less scandalised, jumped up too, and shook himself free of the lady, who, finding it impossible to vent her feelings further on his head, instantly changed her tactics, and, wallowing on the floor, began frantically kissing his feet.
'What is this?
before my face! Up, shameless baggage, or thou diest the death!' and the porter pulled her up upon her knees.
'It is the monk! the young man I told you of, who saved me from the Jews the other night! What good angel sent him here that I might thank him ?' cried the poor creature, while the tears ran down her black shining face.
'I am that good angel,' said the porter, with a look of intense self-satisfaction.