Those were sad days. Lucius would lie on his bed, sobbing like a child, then rise suddenly, in transports of rage, tear his clothes or take up a stool and hurl it at a marble statue, which fell down in dust and fragments. He showed Thrasyllus the door; and Uncle Catullus kept out of the way. Lucius had ended by banging Tarrar against a table; and the little slave had a deep wound in his forehead. Caleb, who was a good hand at doctoring, had himself bandaged Tarrar’s head.

Anxiously, in the palm-garden, the travelling merchants whispered about the wealthy Roman, who was sick with sorrow, and Uncle Catullus whispered in their company. Thrasyllus consoled himself by visiting the libraries of the Museum and the Serapeum. Lucius refused to hear any music. He did not leave his bed. He did not eat. He did not sleep. He looked unshaven, lean-cheeked and hollow-eyed, as one who was desperately sick.

They were sad days. The first charm of Alexandria was past; and Lucius cursed his journey, his whole life and everybody. In his impotent pain he groaned, sobbed and raved. Master Ghizla ordained silence and quiet around his rooms. Not a sandal creaked, not a voice sounded.

Lucius listened to this stillness. It was after luncheon, which Uncle Catullus had taken alone with Thrasyllus. And in the burning sunny stillness of that glowing June Lucius suddenly heard a child sobbing.

He rose from his couch. The sobs came from the back-garden; and Lucius raised the curtain and looked out. There, listening for his master’s gong, sat Tarrar, huddled, like a little monkey, in a gaudy coat. He wore a napkin round his head as a bandage. And he was weeping, with little sobs, as if he were in great sorrow.

“Tarrar!” cried Lucius.

The little slave started up:

“My lord!” he answered.

And he rose and approached with comical reverence and sobbed.

“Tarrar,” said Lucius, “why are you weeping? Are you in pain?”

“No, my lord,” said Tarrar. “I beg pardon, my lord, for weeping. I must not weep in your august presence. I humbly beg your pardon, my lord. But I am weeping because ... because ... because I am so unhappy.”

“And why are you unhappy? Because I struck you? Because you are in pain? Because you fell and made a hole in your head?”

“No, my lord,” said Tarrar, trying to control himself, “not because you struck me. I am your little slave, my lord, and you have the right to strike me. And also not because I am in pain: there is only a little burning pain now, for Caleb bandaged my head this morning with cool ointment. The hole is not so very deep either; and, when it is healed, the scar will remind me that I belong to you, my lord, and that I am your little slave.”

“But then why are you weeping, Tarrar, and why are you unhappy?”

“I am weeping, my lord,” Tarrar began, “because....”

And then he could restrain himself no longer, comical, respectful little monkey that he was, and sobbed aloud.

Lucius laid his hand on the boy’s curly head:

“Why are you weeping, child?”

“Because the snakes wouldn’t dance any more!” sobbed Tarrar, in despair. “Because one of them is dead and the other gone, for it crept out of its skin and left its skin behind! Because, whatever pains I took to pipe the magic tune on the flute—in the garden behind the house, so as not to make a noise or disturb you—the snakes would not dance any more ... as they did when the merchant piped to them! And because now ... one of the snakes is dead, my lord, and the other crept away out of its skin!”

And Tarrar, overcome with misery, sobbed aloud and showed his master the snake and the ebony casket, from which a skin hung, with a square piece of glass gummed to the head.

Lucius gave a melancholy smile. Was he not himself miserable, like Tarrar, because he too had been robbed of his plaything? And he said:

“Come with me, Tarrar.”

And he took the little slave by the hand and led him to his room.

He sat down, with Tarrar standing in front of him. Then he said:

“Tarrar, I am sorry for hurting you so badly. Forgive me, Tarrar.”

But Tarrar shook his head:

“It is not for me to forgive you, my lord,” he said, earnestly, with great, dim eyes. “You are the master.”

“Tarrar,” Lucius continued, “when we are back in Rome, you shall be free. I will set you free. And you shall no longer be a little slave. But you shall go to school, to the freedmen’s college. And learn all sorts of things. And become very clever, like Thrasyllus. And I will give you money. And you will be able to do whatever you please.”

Tarrar was a little taken aback:

“You are very kind, my lord,” he said. “But, if I go to school, who will fold your clothes? And listen for your gong? You are not driving me away, my lord, because I was so unhappy? I would rather stay with you, my lord, I would rather remain your little slave ... and I will never again be so disrespectful as to weep.... I would rather remain your stupid little slave.”

“You shall be free, Tarrar. But you will be allowed to serve me all the same.”

“I don’t want to be free, my lord. What use is freedom to me? I am your little slave. I should always be your little slave just as before.”

“Then ask me something else, Tarrar, something that you would like very much.”

Tarrar grinned with his white teeth through his tears:

“May I tell you, my lord?”

“Yes.”

Tarrar hesitated. Then he said, shyly:

“Two other little dancing snakes, my lord.”

Lucius laughed softly:

“Child!” he said. “I will give you two other little snakes! But I fear that those also will refuse to dance as only the Indian merchant can make them dance.”

“I fear so too,” said Tarrar, reflecting. “The snake that is still alive has crept back to the merchant, I expect, out of the skin which it left behind it. I also fear that the new snakes would refuse to dance.... Then I would rather have nothing, my lord. I don’t want anything. If only I may serve you.”

“Then get everything ready to shave me ... and tell the slaves to prepare the bath.”

“Yes, my lord,” said Tarrar, with alacrity.