“I despise them,” said Euphorbus, gruffly.
“In Gaul you could be happy. You could return to your old home perhaps.”
“The Romans have burnt it.”
“You could rebuild it. You could take care of your mother in her old age. You could have a wife at your side and children about your knees.”
“Do not talk about these things!” said the Gaul. “They sadden me.”
“Talk about them? You shall have them; they are yours. This vessel is yours; one-half of that immense treasure is yours.”
“Mine? mine?”
“Yes, yours, on one condition.”
“What condition?”
“That you bring my little Mary out of the amphitheatre to-morrow—” and the old man, overpowered by the strain upon his feelings, burst into tears.