The old captain reined up beside me, and said in a whisper: “Friend, let him have the mare. He will pay you handsomely, and besides, he is the nephew of the procurator. It will not be wise in you to put him in a passion.”
“That fellow never shall have her, tho he were to coin these sands into gold,” replied I.
“Do you mean to call us robbers?” said the tribune, with a lowering eye.
“Do you mean to stop me on the high-road and take my property from me, yet expect that I shall call you anything else?” was the answer.
“Sententious rogues, those Arabs! Every soul of them has a point, or a proverb, on his tongue,” murmured the captain to the group of young men, who were evidently amused at seeing their unpopular companion entangled with me.
The Tribune’s Rage
“Slave!” said the tribune fiercely, “we must have no more of this. You have been found lurking about the camp. Will you be hanged for a spy?”
“A spy!” said I—and the insult probably colored my cheek; “a spy has no business among the Romans.”
“So,” observed the captain, “the Arab seems to think that our proceedings are in general pretty palpable: slay, strip, and burn.” He turned to the patrician tribune. “The fellow is not worth our trouble. Shall I let him go about his business?”
“Sir,” said the tribune angrily, “it is your business to command your troop and be silent.”