“You never carried her in your arms,” whimpered the woman.

“But often enough on my shoulder,” retorted the Gaul, for Argutis was a native of Augusta Trevirorum, on the Moselle.  “Assoon as the porridge is ready you must take it in and prepare the master.”

“That his first fury may fall on me!” said the old woman, peevishly.  “I little thought when I was young!”

“That is a very old story,” said Argutis, “and we both know what the master’s temper is.  I should have been off long ago if only you could make his porridge to his mind.  As soon as I have dished it I will go to seek Alexander—­there is nothing to prevent me—­for it was with him that she left the house.”

At this the old woman dried her tears, and cried “Yes, only go, and make haste.  I will do everything else.  Great gods, if she should be brought home dead!  I know how it is; she could bear the old man’s temper and this moping life no longer, and has thrown herself into the water.

“My dream, my dream!  Here—­here is the dish, and now go and find the boy.  Still, Philip is the elder.”

“He!” exclaimed the slave in a scornful tone.  “Yes, if you want to know what the flies are talking about!  Alexander for me.  He has his head screwed on the right way, and he will find her if any man in Egypt can, and bring her back, alive or dead.”

“Dead!” echoed Dido, with a fresh burst of sobs, and her tears fell in the porridge, which Argutis, indeed, in his distress of mind had forgotten to salt.

While this conversation was going on the gemcutter was feeding his birds.  Can this man, who stands there like any girl, tempting his favorites to feed, with fond words and whistling, and the offer of attractive dainties, be the stormy blusterer of last night?  There is not a coaxing name that he does not lavish on them, while he fills their cups with fresh seed and water; and how carefully he moves his big hand as he strews the little cages with clean sand!  He would not for worlds scare the poor little prisoners who cheer his lonely hours, and who have long since ceased to fear him.  A turtle-dove takes peas, and a hedge-sparrow picks ants’ eggs from his lips; a white-throat perches on his left hand to snatch a caterpillar from his right.  The huge man was in his garden soon after sunrise gathering the dewy leaves for his feathered pets.  But he talks and plays longest with the starling which his lost wife gave him.  She had bought it in secret from the Bedouin who for many years had brought shells for sale from the Red Sea, to surprise her husband with the gift.  The clever bird had first learned to call her name, Olympias; and then, without any teaching, had picked up his master’s favorite lament, “My strength, my strength!”