r 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 noble 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 n