XLIX
THE HIDDEN HAND
From the burial of Gideon ben Sirach, Dion and Agathocles walked leisurely back toward the city. They had much to talk about, both of the past and future, and took a path less frequented than the common road.
Not far from the city gate stood a beggar. His filthy hair matted itself about his head, and fell upon his bare and begrimed shoulders. His chief garment might have been the remnant of a wine-skin, which was tied with strings about the upper part of his body. His legs and feet were bare—an advantage to such creatures, for his lower limbs at least would get a bath of air and sunshine, and that of an occasional shower. About his neck hung a basket which made its mute solicitation for alms.
"These fellows are as proud as priests," said Dion. "They will ask nothing of us, and will thank us for nothing we give."
"He poses like the statue of a god I once saw in Cyprus," commented Agathocles. "They had just dug it up out of the mud, and hadn't scraped it."
"Don't go near him," replied Dion. "His filth doubtless has wings. Yet it is well to give him a stater. He is supposed to mumble a blessing, and I need one."
Dion advanced toward the man, and put his hand into his bosom to draw his purse. The beggar sprang upon him with a cry of fury.
"At last I have you, you damned whelp of Shattuck!"
He drew a knife from beneath his dirty sheep-skin, and aimed a blow at the breast of Dion. The thrust had surely done its intended work, but for the quick evasion of the practised soldier. Before the wretch could repeat the blow Dion had closed with him, grasped the uplifted arm with his left hand, and with a dexterous wrench bent his assailant until his head and heels nearly touched; then laid him on the ground.