ghty voice of their brothers and sisters had reached the wounded men
shut up in the slave-shed, and all, myself included, answered the
refrain:

"Strike the Roman! Strike! Strike at the head! Strike the Roman hard!"

Thus ended the war in Brittany. Thus ended the call to arms made by the
druids from the heights of the sacred rocks of the forest of Karnak,
after the sacrifice of Hena--the call to arms that led to the battle of
Vannes. But in my lonely cell I did not yet lose hope. Our native Gaul,
although invaded on all sides, would still resist. The Chief of the
Hundred Valleys, forced to leave Brittany, had gone to arouse the
regions still unvanquished.

CHAPTER XI.

THE SLAVES' TOILET.

Night fell, and with it my spirits, in my lonely prison.

Hesus! Hesus! I was left to the torture, not alone of my thoughts about
my sacred and beloved country, but also of my reflections concerning the
misfortunes of my family. Alas, at every wound inflicted upon our
country our families bleed.

Forcibly resigned to my lot, I little by little regained my natural
strength, encouraged each day by the hope of obtaining from the
"horse-dealer" some intelligence of my children. I described them to him
as accurately as possible. Every day his report was that among the
captives seen there were none answering to my description, but that
several merchants made a practice of hiding their choice slaves from all
eyes until the day of the public sale. The dealer also informed me that
the patrician Trymalcion, whose very name now made me shudder with
horror, had arrived at Vannes in his galley.

The evening before the sale, the dealer entered my room. It was, almost
dark. He brought in the meal himself, and waited on me. He brought as an
extra a flagon of old Gallic wine.

"Friend Bull," said he, with his habitual joviality, "I am satisfied
with you. Your skin is almost filled up. You have no more crazy spells
of anger, and if you don't appear exceedingly joyous, at least I no
longer find you sad and tearful. We will drink this flagon together, to
your happy placing with a good master, and to the gain which I shall get
by you."

"No," I answered, "I shall not drink."

"And why not?"

"Servitude sours wine, especially the wine of the country where one was
born."

"You respond ill to my kindness. You do not wish to drink? Suit
yourself. I would have liked to empty one cup to your happy placing, and
a second to your reunion