"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 instrument. "Reassure yourself. I shall not cut a single one of your hairs--but all." I could retain my standing position no longer. Swaying on my legs like a drunken man, I fell back on the straw, and heard the "horse-dealer" burst out laughing, and, while still pointing at his steel instrument, say: "Thanks to this, your forehead will soon be as bald as that of the great Caesar, whom, you say, you carried on your horse in full armor. And the magic philter which you drank in that Gallic wine will put you at my mercy, quiet as a corpse." The "horse-dealer" spoke true. These words were the last I remember. A leaden torpor fell upon me, and I lost all knowledge of what was done with me. CHAPTER XII. SOLD INTO BONDAGE. The experience of that evening was only the prelude for a horrid day, a day doubly horrid due to the mystery that surrounded it.