“Well, well,” said the lady impatiently, “we expect all that sort of thing of our slaves.”
“Madam, but do we always get it?”
“We! The Gods save me! How you talk. We! We, indeed. Pray what are you to expect anything?”
“The other day, lady,” hastily continued the steward eager to allay the ebullition he had provoked. “The other day, Eboracus nigh on killed a man who looked with an insolent leer at his young mistress. He is like a faithful Molossus.”
“I do not ask what he is like,” retorted the still ruffled lady, “I ask where she is.”
Then one of the porters of the palanquin came forward respectfully and said to the steward:—“If it may please you, sir, will you graciously report to my Lady that I observed the young mistress draw Eboracus aside, and whisper to him, as though urging somewhat, and he seemed to demur, but he finally appeared to yield to her persuasions, and they strolled together along the mole.”
Longa Duilia overheard this. It was not the etiquette for an underling to address his master or mistress directly unless spoken to.
She said sharply:—“Why did not the fellow mention this before? Give him thirty lashes. Where did they go, did he say?”
“Along the mole.”
“Which mole?”