Some of the men laughed; but most were already too angry to allow themselves to be softened by a jest.
“A branded slave!” cried some.
“And we have been permitted to do him honor!”
“Why did no one tell us?”
“Let us drive this Zenon out of the city!”
“We’ll stone him!”
“Truly a fine benefactor to add to the rest of the city’s benefactors!” shouted Philopator. But those who sat nearest seized his robe and forced him back into his seat. As he made wild gestures with his arms and assumed the air of a deeply injured man, the smith turned towards him.
“Philopator!”
He merely uttered the man’s name, but in precisely the same tone as if he had been a dog. Philopator made no reply, but shrunk into as small a space in his corner as possible.
At the sight of this submission, which could only be explained by a thorough respect for the smith’s brawny fists, a noisy expression of mirth ran through the assembly.