“Clotilde, you are betraying yourself,” Malchus said smiling, “for you have evidently thought the matter over in every light. No,” he said, detaining her, as, with an exclamation of shame, she would have fled away, “you must not go. You knew that I loved you, and for every time you have thought of me, be it ever so often, I have thought of you a score. You knew that I loved you and intended to ask your hand from your father. As for the dames of Carthage, I think not of carrying you there; but if you will wed me I will settle down for life among your people.”
A footstep was heard approaching. Malchus pressed Clotilde for a moment against his breast, and then he was alone. The newcomer was Sempronius. He was still a frequent visitor, but he was conscious that he had lately lost rather than gained ground in the good graces of Julia. Averse as he had been from the first to the introduction of Malchus into the household, he was not long in discovering the reason for the change in Julia, and the dislike he had from the first felt of Malchus had deepened to a feeling of bitter hatred.
“Slave,” he said haughtily, “tell your mistress that l am here.”
“I am not your slave,” Malchus said calmly, “and shall not obey your orders when addressed in such a tone.”
“Insolent hound,” the young Roman exclaimed, “I will chastise you,” and he struck Malchus with his stick. In an instant the latter sprang upon him, struck him to the ground, and wrenching the staff from his hand laid it heavily across him. At that moment Flavia, followed by her daughter, hurried in at the sound of the struggle. “Malchus,” she exclaimed, “what means this?”
“It means,” Sempronius said rising livid with passion, “that your slave has struck me—me, a Roman patrician. I will lodge a complaint against him, and the penalty, you know, is death.”
“He struck me first, Lady Flavia,” Malchus said quietly, “because I would not do his behests when he spoke to me as a dog.”
“If you struck my slave, Sempronius,” Flavia said coldly, “I blame him not that he returned the blow. Although a prisoner of war, he is, as you well know, of a rank in Carthage superior to your own, and I wonder not that, if you struck him, he struck you in return. You know that you had no right to touch my slave, and if you now take any steps against him I warn you that you will never enter this house again.”
“Nor will I ever speak a word to you,” Julia added.
“But he has struck me,” Sempronius said furiously; “he has knocked me down and beaten me.”