g is true: since
I have known that she is--that she will be mine--the frantic longing
for her--yet no--that is not true either, I love her fondly. I suppose
it is the wine! The heat! And so much wine!"

"Nothing but wine can help wine," laughed Modigisel. "Here, slaves,
bring Bacchus a second Oceanus."

Thrasaric instantly took a deep draught from the goblet.

"Well?" whispered Modigisel. "I will give you for make-weight to
Astarte my whole fishpond full of muraense, besides the royal villa at
Grasse, for--"

"I am no glutton," replied Thrasaric, indignantly.

"I will add my villa in Decimum; true, I bequeathed it to Astarte; but
she will consent. Won't you?"

Astarte nodded silently. Her nostrils were quivering.

Thrasaric shook his shaggy head.

"I have more villas than I can occupy. Hark, the blast of a tuba. The
races ought to begin. Here, little brother! He has gone. Horses, wine,
and dice are the three greatest pleasures. I would give the salvation
of my soul for the best horse in the world. But--" he took another
draught, of wine--"the best horse! It has escaped me. Through my own
folly! I would give ten Eugenias in exchange."

Astarte laid an ice-cold finger on Modigisel's bare arm; he looked up;
she whispered something, and he nodded in pleased astonishment.

"The best horse? What is its name? And how did it escape you?"

"It is called--the Moorish name cannot be pronounced; it is all _ch_!
We called it Styx. It is a three-year-old black stallion of Spanish
breed, with a Moorish strain, reared in Cyrene. A short time ago, when
the valiant king so eagerly began his preparations for war, the Moors
were informed that we nobles needed fine horses. Among many others,
Sersaon, the grandson of the old chief Cabaon, came to Carthage; he
brought of all the good horses the very best."

"Yes! we know them!" the Vandals assented.

"But among the very best the pearl was Styx, the black stallion! I
cannot describe him, or I should weep for rage that he escaped me. The
Moor who rode him, scarcely more than a boy, said that he was not for
sale. As I eagerly urged him, he asked, grinning in mockery, an
impossible price, which no one in his sober senses would pay,--an
unreasonable number of pounds of gold; I have forgotten how many. I
laughed in his face. Then I looked again at the magnificent animal, and
ordered the slave to bring the money. I placed the leather bag at once
in the Moor's hand; it was in the open