"In the place where we make all our purchases, my fine Bull. On the field of battle, after the combat."

"So it was on the battlefield of Vannes you bought me?"

"The same."

"You doubtlessly picked me up at the place where I fell?"

"Yes, there was a great pile of you Gauls there, in which there were only you and three others worth taking, among them that great b.o.o.by, your neighbor--you know, Pierce-Skin. The Cretan archers gave him to me for good measure[17] after the sale. That is the way with you Gauls. You fight so desperately that after a battle live captives are exceedingly rare, and consequently priceless. I simply can't put out much money, so I must come down to the wounded ones. My partner, the son of Aesculapius, goes with me to the battlefield to examine the wounded men and guard the ones I choose. Thus, in spite of your two wounds and your unconsciousness, the young doctor said to me, after examining you and sounding your hurts, 'Buy, my pal, buy. Nothing but the flesh is cut, and that is in good condition; that will lower the value of your merchandise but little, and will prevent any breach of contract.'[18]

Then you see, I, a real 'horse-dealer' who knows the trade, I said to the archers, poking you with my foot, 'As to that great corpse there, who has no more than his breath, I don't want him in my lot at all.'"

"When I used to buy cattle in the market," I said to the "horse-dealer,"

mockingly, "when I used to buy cattle in the market, I was less skilful than you."

"Oh, that is because I am an old hand, and know my trade. So the Cretans answered me, seeing that I didn't think much of you, 'But this thrust of the lance and this saber-cut are mere scratches.' 'Scratches, my masters!' said I in my turn, 'but it's no use poking or turning him,'

and I kicked you and turned you over, 'See, he gives no sign of life. He is dying, my n.o.ble sons of Mars. He is already cold.' In short, my fine Bull, I had you for two sous of gold."

"I see I cost but little; but to whom will you sell me?"

"To the traffickers from Italy and the southern part of Gaul. They buy their slaves second-hand. Several of them have already arrived here, and have commenced making their purchases."

"And they will take me far away?"

"Yes, unless you are bought by one of those old Roman officers, who, too much disabled to follow a life of war, wish to found military colonies here, in accordance with the orders of Caesar."

"And thus rob us of our lands!"

"Of course. I hope to get out of you twenty-five or thirty gold sous, at least, and more if you are of an occupation easy to dispose of, such as a blacksmith, carpenter, mason, goldsmith, or some other good trade.

It is in order to find that out that I am questioning you, so as to write it in my bill of sale. So, let us see:" (and the "horse-dealer"

took up his tablet and began writing with his stylus) "Your name? Bull.

Race, Breton Gaul. I can see that at a glance. I am a connoisseur. I would not take a Breton for a Bourgignon, nor a Poitevin for an Auvergnat. I sold lots of Auvergnats last year, after the battle of Puy.

Your age?"

"Twenty-nine."

"Age, twenty-nine," he wrote on his tablet. "Your occupation?"

"Laborer."

"Laborer," repeated the "horse-dealer" in a surprised and injured tone, scratching his ear with his stylus. "You are nothing but a laborer? You have no other profession?"

"I am a soldier also."

"Oh, a soldier. He who wears the iron collar has no more to do with lance or sword. So then," added the "horse-dealer," reading from his tablet with a sigh:

"No. 7. Bull; race, Breton Gaul; of great strength and very great height; aged twenty-nine years; excellent laborer." Then he said:

"Your character?"

"My character?"

"Yes, what is it? rebellious or docile? open or sly? violent or peaceable? gay or moody? The buyers always inquire as to the character of the slave they are buying, and although one may not be compelled to answer them, it is a bad business to deceive them. Let us see, friend Bull, what is your character? In your own interest, be truthful. The master who buys you will sooner or later know the truth, and will make you pay more dearly for your lie than I would."

"Then write upon your tablet: 'The draft-bull loves servitude, cherishes slavery, and licks the hand that strikes him.'"

"You are joking. The Gallic race love service? As well say that the eagle or the falcon loves his cage."

"Then write that when his strength has come back, the Bull at the first chance will break his yoke, gore his master, and fly to the woods to live in freedom."

"There is more truth in that. Those brutes of keepers who beat you told me that at the first touch of the lash you gave a terrible jump the length of your chain. But, you see, friend Bull, if I offer you to the purchasers with the dangerous account which you give, I shall find few customers. An honest merchant should not boast his merchandise too much, no more should he underestimate it. So I shall announce your character as follows." And he wrote:

"Of a violent character, sulky, because of his not being accustomed to slavery, for he is still green; but he can be broken in by using at different times gentleness, severity and chastis.e.m.e.nt."

"Go over it again."

"Over what?"

"The description I am to be sold under."

"You are right, my son. We must make sure that the description sounds well to the ear. Imagine that I am the auctioneer, thus:

"No. 7. Bull; race, Breton Gaul; of great strength and very great height; aged twenty-nine years; excellent laborer; of a violent character, sulky, because of his not being accustomed to slavery, for he is still green; but he can be broken in by application of gentleness, severity, and chastis.e.m.e.nt."

"That is what is left of a free and proud man whose only crime is having defended his country against Caesar!" I cried bitterly. "And yet I did not kill that same Caesar, who has reduced our people to slavery and is now about to divide among his soldiers the lands of our fathers, I did not kill him when I was making off with him on my horse!"

"You, my fine Bull, you took great Caesar prisoner?" asked the "horse-dealer" mockingly. "It's too bad I can't proclaim that at the auction. It would make a rare slave of you."

I reproached myself for having uttered before that trafficker in human flesh words which resembled a regret or a complaint. Coming back to my first thought, which made me endure patiently the loquacity of the man, I said to him:

"When you picked me up where I fell on the battlefield, did you see hard by a war chariot harnessed to four black bulls, with a woman and two children hanging from the pole?"

"Did I see them? Did I see them!" exclaimed the "horse-dealer" with a mournful sigh. "Ah, what excellent goods lost! We counted in that chariot eleven young women and girls, all beautiful--oh, beautiful!--worth at least forty or fifty gold sous apiece--but dead.

They had all killed themselves. They were no good to anyone."

"And in the chariot were there no women nor children still alive?"

"Women? No,--alas, no. Not one, to the great loss of the Roman soldiers and myself. But of children, there were, I believe, two or three who had survived the death which those fierce Gallic women, furious as lionesses, wished to inflict upon them."

"And where are they?" I exclaimed, thinking of my son and daughter, who were, perhaps, among them, "where are those children? Answer! Answer!"

"I told you, my Bull, that I buy only wounded persons; one of my fellows bought the lot of children, and also some other little ones, for they picked up some alive from the other chariots. But what does it matter to you whether or not there are children to sell?"

"Because I had a son and a daughter in that chariot," I answered, my heart bursting.

"And how old were they?"

"The girl was eight, the boy nine."

"And your wife?"