A child rent his ear; a young girl, hiding the point of a spindle in her
sleeve, split his cheek; they tore handfuls of hair from him and strips
of flesh; others smeared his face with sponges steeped in filth and
fastened upon sticks. A stream of blood started from the right side of
his neck, frenzy immediately set in. This last Barbarian was to them a
representative of all the Barbarians, and all the army; they were taking
vengeance on him for their disasters, their terrors, and their shame.
The rage of the mob developed with its gratification; the curving chains
were over-strained, and were on the point of breaking; the people did
not feel the blows of the slaves who struck at them to drive them back;
some clung to the projections of the houses; all the openings in the
walls were stopped up with heads; and they howled at him the mischief
that they could not inflict upon him.
It was atrocious, filthy abuse mingled with ironical encouragements and
imprecations; and, his present tortures not being enough for them, they
foretold to him others that should be still more terrible in eternity.
This vast baying filled Carthage with stupid continuity. Frequently
a single syllable--a hoarse, deep, and frantic intonation--would be
repeated for several minutes by the entire people.
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