As he uttered the words, Annaeus 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, Annaeus. It is not a philosopher; nay, not even a man."
"But I am one," replied Mela, "if I give him money, and he is a man if he takes this coin. For, alone among all animals, man does both these things. And can you not see that for the sake of a small coin I satisfy myself that I am a better man than he? Your master teaches that he who gives is better than he who receives."
Posocharis took the coin. Then he hurled coarse invectives at Annaeus Mela and his companions,
