"What do you want?" said the Suffet.
The slave, who trembled horribly, stammered:
"I am his father!"
Hamilcar walked on; the other followed him with stooping loins, bent
hams, and head thrust forward. His face was convulsed with unspeakable
anguish, and he was choking with suppressed sobs, so eager was he at
once to question him, and to cry: "Mercy!"
At last he ventured to touch him lightly with one finger on the elbow.
"Are you going to--?" He had not the strength to finish, and Hamilcar
stopped quite amazed at such grief.
He had never thought--so immense was the abyss separating them from
each other--that there could be anything in common between them. It
even appeared to him a sort of outrage, an encroachment upon his
own privileges. He replied with a look colder and heavier than an
executioner's axe; the slave swooned and fell in the dust at his feet.
Hamilcar strode across him.
The three black-robed men were waiting in the great hall, and standing
against the stone disc. Immediately he tore his garments, and rolled
upon the pavement uttering piercing cries.
"Ah! poor little Hannibal! Oh! my son! my consolation! my hope! my life!
Kill me also! take me away! Woe! Woe!" He ploughed his face with his
nails, tore out his hair, and shrieked like the women who lament at
funerals.
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