resistance."

"True."

"You hear me, you see me, but as if your ears and eyes were covered with
a veil."

"It is true," I murmured, for my voice also was growing weak, and
without experiencing any pain, my whole life seemed to be little by
little ebbing out. Nevertheless, I made an effort, and said to the man:

"Why am I in this condition!"

"Because I have prepared you for the slaves' toilet."

"A toilet?"

"I possess, friend Bull, certain magic philters to increase the
attractiveness of my merchandise. Although you are now quite well filled
out, the deprivation of exercise and the open air, the fever which your
wounds caused, the sadness which captivity always occasions, and many
other things, have dried and dulled your skin, and turned you yellow.
But thanks to my philters, to-morrow morning you will have a skin as
fresh and sleek, and a color as ruddy as if you were coming in from the
fields some lovely spring morning, my fine rustic. That appearance will
last barely a day or two, but I expect, by Jupiter, to have you sold by
to-morrow evening, free to turn yellow and waste away under your new
master. So I am going to commence by stripping you, and anointing you
with this preparation of oil." The "horse-dealer" unlocked one of his
flasks.[23]

The performance affected me as so deep a disgrace put upon my dignity,
that in spite of the numbness which was more and more depressing me, I
sprang to my feet, and shaking my hands and arms, then unshackled, cried
out:

"To-day I have no manacles on. If you come near I will strangle you!"

"I foresaw all that, friend Bull," chuckled the "horse-dealer," calmly
pouring the oil of his flask into a vase and soaking a sponge in it. "I
knew you would get hot and resist. I might have had you bound by the
keepers, but in your violence you would have bruised your limbs, a
detestable sign for the sale. These bruises always denote a stubborn
slave. And all the time, what cries you would have let out! What a
rebellion, when your head had to be shaved, in token of your slavery!"

At this last insulting threat, I called up all my remaining strength. I
arose, and threateningly cried out at the dealer:

"By Ritha-Gaur, the saint of the Gauls, who made himself a shirt of the
beards of the kings he had shaved, if you dare to touch a single hair of
my head, I'll kill you!"[24]

"Oh, oh! Reassure yourself, friend Bull," answered the "horse-dealer,"
pointing to his little sharp