This high and mighty captain at once led his company straight to the two boys, surrounded them, and fell to abusing them with his tongue as only a practiced street Arab could do. On this, the other boys behind the boxes hurried to the scene of action, and threw in a liberal accompaniment of voice and gesture to swell the interest of the occasion. Soon Captain Mars worked himself into a tempest, flew at one of the two boys, with his bloody weapon uplifted. The other boys so crowded about the encounter with outstretched and swaying arms as to confuse the view of the spectators; but in a few moments they saw the mimic sword flying high in air, and then its owner in close custody in process of being marched helplessly toward the door, followed by his tatterdemalions hanging their heads and staggering about as they were pushed and pulled and cuffed by the screaming and enthusiastic escort that hemmed them closely in. At the door the leader was dismissed with a rousing box on the ear which sent him off on a stagger, which finally ended in a runaway toward the Roman quarter. His followers each received a like compliment with a like result.
The spectators seemed to enjoy this conclusion hugely. They cheered and gesticulated with great enthusiasm; and when the hot chase took place they all hurried off to keep it in view. The last to follow was a man who had been standing just before Cimon. This man, glancing right and left as if to make sure that the ground was clear, directed his course across the square so as to take on his way the two boys who had personated Cimon and Aleph, and dealt each of them in passing a thwack on the head that was none of the mildest. At all events, it was not a mild wailing that the little fellows set up. Luckily, however, Cimon had noticed the movements of the man, and half divining his purpose, had followed him so closely that he was near enough when the blows were given to follow them with prompt punishment. The two hearty cuffs he gave the fellow were quite equal in value to those he had administered, and seemed very surprising. In the startled and inflamed face that was suddenly turned toward him, Cimon recognized, as he thought, Roman features, though considerably disguised. Could it be that he had again encountered the son of the Governor? But the man gave him no opportunity for a closer examination. He went rapidly off with a Latin oath and a fist-shaking that belonged to all languages.
Cimon consoled the children with a friendly pat on the head and a piece of money for each—such as he had never before possessed. But they hardly needed this consolation—they were so delighted with the summary judgment on their oppressor. Smiles were already rippling over their tearful faces like sunshine over a wet landscape. And when the friendly look and touch and money were added, their sorrows were all forgotten in a caper of delight. But Cimon was really sorry that the urchins had not chosen some other theme for their sport.
“Ten to one,” said he to himself, “this affair, with liberal embellishments, will be carried straight to Bruchium, and will still further stir up ill blood between the sections. There will be trouble here before long. These Jews are too reckless and provoking to be left alone. It may be that their expectation of a conquering Messiah at the door has something to do with their audacity.”
With such thoughts as these running through his mind, he made his way homeward through the Greek and Egyptian quarters. His thoughts ran, but his feet walked—walked very leisurely; for so at this hour of the day did most of the people; and he did not care to draw attention to himself by doing differently from others. Besides, he wished to study the people, as far as he could—without being observed. And it is wonderful how much some people can see without the appearance of seeing. They could hardly see more if their heads were set with a coronet of eyes. Do they divine the situation? Do they absorb the facts lying about them at every pore as they do heat and moisture? So it would seem. Cimon belonged to this class of men. He did not stare, he did not look this way and that, and sometimes turn about, with curiosity flooding every feature and saying, “I am a new-comer,” but he pursued his way with quiet and equal steps and with “eyes that looked right on, and eyelids that looked straight before him”—and yet nothing escaped him; not even that shadow of a portly man just disappearing within a shop on his left and that ragged little urchin that almost immediately darted out of the same and followed him at a little distance.
What should he do? A thought came to him as he came to a baker’s shop. He turned in and called for a loaf and some cakes—keeping an eye on the open door while his parcel was being made up. Presently the little ragamuffin appeared cautiously peeping within. Cimon held out toward him a large, tempting cake, and beckoned. The boy came in slowly, as if resisting an irresistible magnet.
“Hungry, my lad?”
The hungry eyes and pinched features of the little fellow answered the question before his bobbing head could say Yes, as it was not slow to do.
“Had anything to eat to-day, my poor boy? Really, I do not believe you have,” he added pityingly, as he looked more carefully into the thin, dirty face.
The face began to cry.