"'Grey hairs were never formed to give me delight;
Sooner would I twist my fingers amidst the dead leaves
That are about to fall from the tree, when the wind of winter is blowing?'"
"You are right," said the auctioneer, laughing (and the master of the slave re-echoed his laugh and his answer); "let us see whether we cannot light upon a younger bidder."
With that there drew near a man whose years were not few, but he had dyed his beard and moved trippingly. He also offered a thousand ducats; but at that moment Smaragdine began to recite as from the book of some poet, but the verses were in truth her own:
"'Say to him that dyes his beard, that I love not the false.
Deception is in him that conceals the works of God and Time.
He that disguises his countenance, how shall one put faith in his words?'"
A third now came forward, but unfortunately he was one-eyed. The slave regarded him, and quoted, or seemed to quote, without hesitation,
"'Avoid the one-eyed lover, maiden;
How shall he be thy safe guardian, fair woman?
Will he love thee better than the apple of his eye?'"
"Look round you," said the crier; "is there none here that pleases you better?" And with this he pointed to a short stout man whose beard was of unusual dimensions.
"Fie!" said the slave, "this is he whom the poet had in his eye when he sang,
"'Providence has given my adorer too great an allowance of beard.
This bush resembles the night of winter—long, black, and cold.'"
"Choose for yourself, girl," said the auctioneer, laughing more heartily than before; "I pray you look round upon all the circle of the bystanders."