“He has a beard like Caesar, and so he behaves as if he wore the purple!  You did well to let him escape, his wife and children are waiting for him over their porridge.”

Verus had often been implicated in wild adventure among the populace and knew how to deal with them; if he now could only detain them till the advent of the soldiers he might consider the game as won.  Hadrian could be a hero when it suited him; but here where no laurels were to be won, he left to Verus the task of quieting the crowd.

As soon as he was fairly gone Verus desired his slaves to lift him on their shoulders; his handsome good-natured face looked down upon the crowd from high above them.  He was immediately recognized, and many voices called out: 

“The crazy Roman! the praetor! the sham Eros!”

“I am he, Macedonian citizens, yes, I am he,” answered Verus in a clear voice.  “And I will tell you a story.”

“Listen, Listen.”

“No let us get into the Jew’s house.”

“Presently—­listen a minute to what the sham Eros says.”

“I will knock your teeth down your throat boy, if you don’t hold your tongue.”

All the crowd were shouting in wild confusion.

Curiosity, on the one hand, to hear the noble gentleman’s speech, and the somewhat superficial fury of the mob contended together for a few minutes; at last curiosity seemed to be gaining the day, the tumult subsided, and the praetor began: 

“Once upon a time there was a child who had given to him ten little sheep made of cotton, little foolish toys such as the old women sell in the market place.”

“Get into the Jew’s house, we don’t want to hear children’s stories—­”

“Be quiet there!”

“Hush now listen; from the sheep he will go on to the wolves.”

“Not wolves—­it will be a she-wolf!” some one shouted in the throng.

“Do not mention the horrid things!” laughed Verus but listen to me.—­ Well, the child set his little sheep up in a row each one close to the next.  He was a weaver’s son.  Are there any weavers here?  You? and you—­ah, and you out there.  If I were not my father’s son I should like to be the son of an Alexandrian weaver.  You need not laugh!—­Well, about the sheep.  All the little things were beautifully white but one which had nasty black spots, and the little boy could not bear that one.  He went to the hearth, pulled out a burning stick and wanted to burn the little ugly sheep so as only to have pretty white ones.  The lambkin caught fire and just as the flame had begun to burn the wooden skeleton of the toy a draught from the window blew the flame towards the other little sheep and in a minute they were all burned to ashes.  Then thought the little boy, ’If only I had let the ugly sheep alone!  What can I play with now?’ and he began to cry.  But this was not all, for while the little rascal was drying his eyes, the flame spread and burnt up the loom, the wool, the flax, the woven pieces, the whole house—­the town in which he was born, and even, I believe, the boy himself!—­Now worthy friends and Macedonian citizens, reflect a moment.  Any man among you who is possessed of any property may read the moral of my fable.”