One of the women was old, and bore on her face all the marks which a life of hard manual toil usually leaves behind it; the other young, with a clear, smooth complexion and a rather delicate Greek profile.

The Libyans stopped their monotonous trudge, evidently glad to have some excuse for a respite from their exertions.
[1] Water columbarium.
"Ah, ha! Chloe," cried one of them, "how would you like it, with your pretty little feet, to be plodding at this mill all the day?
Thank the Gods, the sun will set before a great while.

The day has been hot as the lap of an image of Moloch!"[2] [2] The Phoenician god, also worshipped in North Africa, in whose idol was built a fire to consume human sacrifices.
"Well, Hasdrubal," said Chloe, the younger woman, with a pert toss of her head, "if my feet were as large as yours, and my skin as black and thick, I should not care to complain if I had to work a little now and then." "Oh! of course," retorted Hasdrubal, a little nettled.

"Your ladyship is too refined, too handsome, to reflect that people with black skins as well as white may get heated and weary.

Wait five and twenty years, till your cheeks are a bit withered, and see if Master Drusus doesn't give you enough to make you tired from morning till night." "You rude fellow," cried Chloe, pouting with vexation, "I will not speak to you again.