It might have been an automaton speaking. The soldier swore by all his gods.
“Eighty miles from Jerusalem—a land of rogues and fools! Now directed this way, now that, mountains where I was told valleys, and torrents for fords, and to find at last that I have taken the wrong bank! Harkee, thou wooden Satyrus: my horse fell foundered among the hills, and I saw thy fire and made for it on foot. Well, I carry dispatches for thy Tetrarch, and thou tellest me that is Tiberias yonder. Should I not do well to beat thee for it?”
The large eyes of the goatherd conned the speaker immovably.
“Tiberias,” he repeated. And then he added, “With dawn will come the fishermen.”
The soldier cursed: “What, calf!” and checked himself. “Thou meanest,” he said, “a boat to carry me across?” He heaved out a sigh. “Well, goatherd, so be it; and while I wait I starve. Dost thou not hunger too?”
“Aye,” said the goatherd, “always and for ever.”
The fish were spluttering on the embers. The soldier speared one with his javelin, and, blowing on it, began to eat unceremoniously.
“I would not concede so much to my Fates,” he said. “I would rob sooner. Besides, here is proof plenty that you lie, old goatherd.”
The goatherd bent forward, and prodded the speaker once with a finger like a crooked stick.
“How old wouldst call me?” he said.