In the meanwhile, Philammon, with his hosts, the Goths, had been slipping down the stream.

Passing, one after another, world-old cities now dwindled to decaying towns, and numberless canal-mouths, now fast falling into ruin with the fields to which they ensured fertility, under the pressure of Roman extortion and misrule, they had entered one evening the mouth of the great canal of Alexandria, slid easily all night across the star-bespangled shadows of Lake 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.