One batlike black wing hung broken. He scowled after the hero
and the woman. In the sky above him stood Apollo, the lord of life,
looking down. But the picture of the god was only half finished. The
figure was sketched in outline. Ariston was rapidly laying on paint with
his little brushes. His eyes glowed with Apollo's own fire. His lips
were open, and his breath came through them pantingly.
"O god of beauty, god of Hellas, god of freedom, help me!" he half
whispered while his brush worked.
For he had a great plan in his mind. Here he was, a slave in this rich
Roman's house. Yet he was a free-born son of Athens, from a family of
painters. Pirates had brought him here to Pompeii, and had sold him as a
slave. His artist's skill had helped him, even in this cruel land. For
his master, Tetreius, loved beauty. The Roman had soon found that his
young Greek slave was a painter. He had said to his steward:
"Let this boy work at the mill no longer. He shall paint the walls of my
private room."
So he had talked to Ariston about what the pictures should be. The Greek
had found that this solemn, frowning Roman was really a kind man.
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