As he rose from the couch his glance fell upon his foot-gear, which, contrary to habit and custom, he had kept on after having come in from the garden. At the sight of the thin soles, the token of his trade of sycophant, he shuddered.
“How cold the wind blows!” he muttered as though to deceive himself.
Then he called again, thrust out his foot, and said:
“Manes, take off my soles, and”—he spoke hurriedly—“burn them and all the others of the same kind I possess.”
The old man stood as if he were petrified. If his master had been a soldier and had ordered him to break his sword, he could not have been more dumb with amazement.
“Don’t you hear?” said Callippides sternly.
Manes knelt before him, but his hands trembled so that he was unable to open the buckles.
“You are growing old, Manes,” said Callippides more gently as though he regretted his harshness.
Then he put his foot on the edge of the couch to unfasten the straps himself; but, ere he had touched them with his hands, started up and, with two vigorous kicks, hurled them into the farthest corner of the chamber, where they fell on the ground with a clapping noise.
“Did you hear?” he said to Manes, “the dumb soles spoke. It was their farewell.”