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.
"Poor fellow!" he said, compassionately.