“Well, my precious boy,” said the old woman, “the choicest gifts of great Cham be your portion! You had excellent sport yesterday, I’ll warrant. The rats squeaked, eh? and you beat the life out of them. That scoundrel sacristan, I suppose, has taken up his quarters below.”

“You may say it,” answered Juba. “The reptile! he turned right about, and would have made himself an honest fellow, when it couldn’t be helped.”

“Good, good!” returned Gurta, as if she had got something very pleasant in her mouth; “ah! that is good! but he did not escape on that score, I do trust.”

“They pulled him to pieces all the more cheerfully,” said Juba.

“Pulled him to pieces, limb by limb, joint by joint, eh?” answered Gurta. “Did they skin him?—did they do anything to his eyes, or his tongue? Anyhow, it was too quickly, Juba. Slowly, leisurely, gradually. Yes, it’s like a glutton to be quick about it. Taste him, handle him, play with him,—that’s luxury! but to bolt him,—faugh!”

“Cæso’s slave made a good end,” said Juba: “he stood up for his views, and died like a man.”

“The gods smite him! but he has gone up—up:” and she laughed. “Up to what they call bliss and glory;—such glory! but he’s out of our domain, you know. But he did not die easy?”

“The boys worried him a good deal,” answered Juba: “but it’s not quite in my line, mother, all this. I think you drink a pint of blood morning and evening, and thrive on it, old woman. It makes you merry; but it’s too much for my stomach.”

“Ha, ha, my boy!” cried Gurta; “you’ll improve in time, though you make wry faces, now that you’re young. Well, and have you brought me any news from the capitol? Is any one getting a rise in the world, or a downfall? How blows the wind? Are there changes in the camp? This Decius, I suspect, will not last long.”

“They all seem desperately frightened,” said Juba, “lest they should not smite your friends hard enough, Gurta. Root and branch is the word. They’ll have to make a few Christians for the occasion, in order to kill them: and I almost think they’re about it,” he added, thoughtfully. “They have to show that they are not surpassed by the rabble. ’Tis a pity Christians are so few, isn’t it, mother?”

“Yes, yes,” she said, “but we must crush them, grind them, many or few: and we shall, we shall! Callista’s to come.”

“I don’t see they are worse than other people,” said Juba; “not at all, except that they are commonly sneaks. If Callista turns, why should not I turn too, mother, to keep her company, and keep your hand in?”