“You, that once looked down on the soulless toil for bread, you have sunk now to something far more miserable. You are dragging at a load of sheer stupidity. You are a galley-slave, with calamity for your task-master. As you move the chains rattle. And that is your day.”
He straightens himself up, wipes the sweat from his forehead, and begins heaving up stones into his barrow again.
How long must it last, this life in manacles? Do you remember Job? Job? Aye, doubtless Jehovah was sitting at some jovial feast when he conceived that fantasy of a drunken brain, to let Satan loose upon a happy man. Job? His seven sons and daughters, and his cattle, and his calves were restored unto him, but we read nothing of any compensation made him for the jest itself. He was made to play court fool, with his boils and his tortures and his misery, and the gods had their bit of sport gratis. Job had his actual outlay in cattle and offspring refunded, and that was all. Ha-ha!
Prometheus! Is it you after all that are the friend of man among the gods? Have you indeed the power to free us all some day? When will you come, then, to raise the great revolt?
Come, come—up with the barrow again—you see it is full.
“Father, it’s dinner-time. Come along home,” cries little Louise, racing down the hill with her yellow plaits flying about her ears. But she stops cautiously a little distance off—there is no knowing what sort of temper father may be in.
“Thanks, little monkey. Got anything good for dinner to-day?”
“Aha! that’s a secret,” said the girl in a teasing voice; she was beaming now, with delight at finding him approachable. “Catch me, father! I can run quicker than you can!”
“I’m afraid I’m too tired just now, my little girl.”
“Oh, poor papa! are you tired?” And she came up and took him by the hand. Then she slipped her arm into his—it was just as good fun to walk up the hill on her father’s arm like a grown-up young lady.