"Then you must be glad to leave him."
"No, no," groaned Sebek.
"You foolish old owl," said Mastor. "Why do you care then for that grumpy niggard?"
The negro did not answer for some time, then his lean breast heaved and fell, and, as if the dam were broken through that had choked his utterance, he burst out with a mixture of loud sobs:
"The children, the little ones, our little ones. They are so sweet; and our little blind Helios stroked my hair because I was to go away, here— just here he stroked it"—and he put his hand on a perfectly bald place —"and now Sebek must go and never see them all again, just as if they were all dead."
And the words rolled out and with difficulty, as if carried on in the flood of his tears. They went to Mastor's heart, rousing the memory of his own lost children and a strong desire to comfort his unhappy comrade.
"Poor fellow!" he said, compassionately. "Aye, the children! they are so small, and the door into one's heart is so narrow—and they dance in at it a thousand times better and more easily than grown-up folks. I, too, have lost dear children, and they were my own, too. I can teach any one what is meant by sorrow—but I know too now where comfort is to be found." With these words Mastor held the tray he was carrying on his hip with his right hand, while he put the left on the negro's shoulder and whispered to him:
"Have you ever heard of the Christians?"
Sebek nodded eagerly as if Mastor were speaking of a matter of which he had heard great things and expected much, and Mastor went on in a low voice "Come early to-morrow before sunrise to the pavement-workers in the 'court, and there you will hear of One who comforts the weary and heavy- laden."
The Emperor's servant once more took his tray in both hands and hurried away, but a faint gleam of hope had lighted up in the old slave's eyes. He expected no happiness, but perhaps there might be some way of bearing the sorrows of life more easily.