"From the north, you say?"
"Ay, lord, born of a Roman soldier and a British wench. A good investment, noble sir, and the price but small,—only five-and-fifty sestertii,—and that because I give thanks to be rid of her."
"Hath she spirit, fire? I want not a puny, slinking chit."
"Spirit—fire!" the man repeated with a curse. "If that be what you wish, lord, it is here in very flesh. This young she-devil hath given me as much trouble as three men."
The soldier fumbled for his pouch and counted money into the dealer's hand. The latter counted it again, spat upon it for luck, made his mark in the Roman's book, and unchained the girl's wrists.
The Roman laid a hand on the shoulder of his bargain.
"Come, pretty one!" said he, and turned, so that for the first time his face was to be seen. "Thou'lt get no more blows nor curses, if so be thou'lt do thy duty well."
Leering, he drew her forward. Nicanor cast a glance upon him, and started, and hailed him. For the Roman was Valerius, the errant one; and what he wanted with a slave girl who had no beauty, and where he got her price, was more than Nicanor could tell.
Valerius, still with a hand on the girl's shoulder, grinned at him, and said:
"Why, now, friend, 'tis a very good day that brings thee to my sight. Not since I was repairer of sandals to the good fathers—thanks to thee—have I seen thee, though I hunted the place over for thee, and mourned right tenderly when I found thee not. And that was near a year ago."