“Man,” said he, waving away the swarm of gnats with his hand, “are you a disciple of the Stoa,[81] or yourself a demi-god? Who in the world has taught you thus to contemn pain?”
“My lord,” replied the slave, “many better than I have endured greater suffering.” “Greater suffering—yes, but to greater ends. A Regulus, a Scaevola have suffered for their country; but you—a wretched slave, a grain of sand among millions—you, whose sufferings are of no more account than the death of a trapped jackal—where do you find this indomitable courage? What god has endowed you with such superhuman strength?”
A beatific smile stole over the man’s drawn features.
“The one true God,” he replied with fervent emphasis, “who has pity on the feeble; the all-merciful God, who loves the poor and abject.”
A step was heard approaching.
“Leave me here alone!” the slave implored them. “It is the overseer.”
Quintus and Aurelius withdrew silently, but from the top of the copse they could see a hump-backed figure that came muttering and grumbling up to where the slave was bound, released him presently from the stake and led him away into the gardens. For a minute or two longer the young men lingered under the pavilion and then, lost in thought, returned to the house. Their conversation could not be revived.
CHAPTER III.
The second serious meal of the day, the coena[82] or supper had begun; the party had betaken themselves to the cavaedium,[83] where it was now beginning to grow dusk. This airy colonnade—the handsomest portion perhaps, of an old Roman house—was here very pleasingly decorated with flowers and plants of ornamental foliage. The arcades, which surrounded the open space in the middle, were green with ivy, while an emerald grass-plot, with cypresses and laurels, magnolias in full bloom, pomegranates and roses, filled up half the quadrangle. Twelve statues of bronze gilt served to hold lamps, and a fountain tossed its sparkling jet as high as the tallest trees.