“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.”

“Put out the torches!” cried the wife of a charcoal dealer.

“He is right; for by reason of the Jew, we are putting the whole town in danger!” cried the cobbler.

“The mad fools have already thrown in some brands!”

“If you fellows up there fling any more I will break your ankles for you,” shouted a flax-dealer.

“Don’t try any burning,” the tailor commanded, “force open the door and have out the Jew.”  These words raised a storm of applause and the mob pressed forward to the Jew’s abode.  No one listened to Verus any more, and he slipped down from his slave’s shoulders, placed himself in front of the door and called out: 

“In the name of Caesar and the law I command you to leave this house unharmed.”

The Roman’s warning was evidently quite in earnest, and the false Eros looked as if at this moment it would be ill-advised to try jesting with him.  But in the universal uproar only a few had heard his words, and the hot-blooded tailor was so rash as to lay his hand on the praetor’s girdle in order to drag him away from the door with the help of his comrades.  But he paid dearly for his temerity for the praetor’s fist fell so heavily on his