Then, holding an obolus in her hand, she ran towards the fish-dealer, whose wrinkled face and naked breast, the colour of saffron, appeared amid baskets lined with seaweed. While she was thus engaged, a dove hovering about the little Comatas got its talons entangled in the child’s locks. The boy began to cry, and to call his sister to his help, screaming in a voice choked with sobs: “Joessa! Joessa!” But Joessa heard him not. She was rummaging in the old man’s baskets, amid the fish and the shell-fish, for something that would improve the taste of her stale bread. Naturally she did not pick out a peacock-fish or a smaris, whose flesh is most delicate, but which cost money. She brought away in the hollow of her gown, which she had tucked up, three handfuls of sea-urchins and sticklebacks. Meanwhile little Comatas, his mouth wide open, and drinking his own tears, was still bawling: “Joessa! Joessa!” Unlike Jove’s eagle, the bird of Venus did not carry off little Comatas into the glorious skies. It left him on the earth, taking with it in its flight, between its pink talons, three golden hairs from his matted locks. The child, with cheeks glistening with tears and begrimed with dust, clenching his wooden spoon in his tiny fists, was sobbing beside his overturned bowl. Annæus Mela, followed by his three friends, had reached the top of the basilica’s steps. Alike heedless of the noise and stir of the idle multitude, he was imparting information to Cassius in regard to the future renovation of the universe. “On a day determined by the gods,” he said, “the things existing to-day, whose order and disposition claim our attention, will be destroyed. Stars will clash with stars, all matters composing the earth, the air, and the waters will be consumed in one conflagration. Human souls, imperceptible _débris_ amid the universal destruction, will be resolved anew into their primitive elements. An entirely new world....” As he uttered the words, Annæus Mela stumbled against a sleeper stretched out in the shade. It was an old man who had artistically gathered about his dust-covered body the ragged remnants of his cloak. His wallet, his sandals, and his stick lay beside him. The proconsul’s brother, ever courteous and kindly, even to men of the lowliest class, was about to apologise, but the recumbent individual did not allow him time to do so. “Try and see where you put your feet, you brute,” he exclaimed, “and give alms to the philosopher Posocharis.” “I perceive a wallet and a stick,” smilingly replied the Roman, “but so far I do not see any philosopher.” Just as he was about to toss a piece of silver to Posocharis, Apollodorus stayed his hand, saying: “Do not give him anything, Annæus. It is not a philosopher; nay, not even a man.”