“And why are you unhappy? Because I struck you? Because you are in pain? Because you fell and made a hole in your head?”
“No, my lord,” said Tarrar, trying to control himself, “not because you struck me. I am your little slave, my lord, and you have the right to strike me. And also not because I am in pain: there is only a little burning pain now, for Caleb bandaged my head this morning with cool ointment. The hole is not so very deep either; and, when it is healed, the scar will remind me that I belong to you, my lord, and that I am your little slave.”
“But then why are you weeping, Tarrar, and why are you unhappy?”
“I am weeping, my lord,” Tarrar began, “because....”
And then he could restrain himself no longer, comical, respectful little monkey that he was, and sobbed aloud.
Lucius laid his hand on the boy’s curly head:
“Why are you weeping, child?”
“Because the snakes wouldn’t dance any more!” sobbed Tarrar, in despair. “Because one of them is dead and the other gone, for it crept out of its skin and left its skin behind! Because, whatever pains I took to pipe the magic tune on the flute—in the garden behind the house, so as not to make a noise or disturb you—the snakes would not dance any more ... as they did when the merchant piped to them! And because now ... one of the snakes is dead, my lord, and the other crept away out of its skin!”
And Tarrar, overcome with misery, sobbed aloud and showed his master the snake and the ebony casket, from which a skin hung, with a square piece of glass gummed to the head.
Lucius gave a melancholy smile. Was he not himself miserable, like Tarrar, because he too had been robbed of his plaything? And he said: