“Take this to the Roman architect, and then fetch two litters; make haste, and while we are out take good care of the children.  To-morrow or next day you will be sold.  To whom?  That must depend on how you behave during the last hours that you belong to us.”  The negro gave a loud cry of grief that came from the depth of his heart, and flung himself on the ground at the steward’s feet.  His cry did indeed pierce his master’s soul—­but Keraunus had made up his mind not to let himself be moved nor to yield.  But the negro clung more closely to his knees, and when the children, attracted to the spot by their poor old friend’s lamentation, cried loudly in unison, and little Helios began to pat and stroke the little remains of the negro’s woolly hair, the vain man felt uneasy about the heart, and to protect himself against his own weakness he cried out loudly and violently: 

“Now, away with you, and do as you are ordered or I will find the whip.”

With these words he tore himself loose from the miserable—­old man who left the room with his head hanging down, and who soon was standing at the door of the Emperor’s rooms with the letter in his hand.  Hadrian’s appearance and manner had filled him with terror and respect, and he dared not knock at the door.  After he had waited for some time, still with tears in his eyes, Mastor came into the passage with the remains of his master’s breakfast.  The negro called to him and held out the steward’s letter, stammering out lamentably: 

“From Keraunus, for you master.”

“Lay it here on the tray,” said the Sarmatian.  “But what has happened to you, my old friend? you are wailing most pitifully and look miserable.  Have you been beaten?”

The negro shook his head and answered, whimpering:  “Keraunus is going to sell me.”

“There are better masters than he.”

“But Sebek is old, Sebek is weak—­he can no longer lift and pull, and with hard work he will certainly die.”

“Has life been so easy and comfortable then at the steward’s?”

“Very little wine, very little meat, very much hunger,” said the old man.

“Then you must be glad to leave him.”

“No, no,” groaned Sebek.

“You foolish old owl,” said Mastor.  “Why do you care then for that grumpy niggard?”

The negro did not answer for some time, then his lean breast heaved and fell, and, as if the dam were broken through that had choked his utterance, he burst out with a mixture of loud sobs: 

“The children, the little ones, our little ones.  They are so sweet; and our little blind Helios stroked my hair because I was to go away, here—­just here he stroked it”—­and he put his hand on a perfectly bald place—­“and now Sebek must go and never see them all again, just as if they were all dead.”

And the words rolled out and with difficulty, as if carried on in the flood of his tears.  They went to Mastor’s heart, rousing the memory of his own lost children and a strong desire to comfort his unhappy comrade.