“A thousand, by the Gods!”
Saturius looked at the man indignantly. Who was this that dared to bid against Domitian, the third dignitary in all the Roman empire, Cæsar’s son, Cæsar’s brother, who might himself be Cæsar? Still he answered with another bid of eleven hundred.
Once more the finger of Domitian went up.
“Twelve. Twelve hundred!” said the auctioneer, in a voice of suppressed excitement, while the audience gasped, for such prices had not been heard of.
“Thirteen,” said the Chamberlain.
Again the finger went up.
“Fourteen hundred. I have fourteen hundred. Against you, worthy Saturius. Come, come, I must knock the lot down, which perhaps would not please some whom I could mention. Don’t be stingy, friend, you have a large purse to draw on, and it is called the Roman Empire. Now. Thank you, I have fifteen hundred. Well, my friend yonder. What! Have you had enough?” and he pointed to the Alexandrian merchant, who, with a groan, had turned aside and hidden his face in his hands.
“Knocked out, knocked out, it seems,” said the auctioneer, “and though it is little enough under all the circumstances for this lot, who is as lovely as she is historical, I suppose that I can scarcely expect——” and he looked around despondently.
Suddenly the old woman with the basket glanced up and, speaking in a quiet matter-of-fact voice but with a foreign accent, said:
“Two thousand.”