"It's Giton! It's Giton!" the maids all screamed in unison.

"Hold your hands, you brutes; help, Madame, it's Giton!" Tryphaena turned willing ears, she had recognized that voice herself, and flew to the boy.

Lycas, who knew me as well as if he had heard my voice, now ran up; he glanced at neither face nor hands, but directed his eyes towards parts lower down; courteously he shook hands with them, "How do you do, Encolpius," he said.

Let no one be surprised at Ulysses' nurse discovering, after twenty years, the scar that established his identity, since this man, so keenly observant, had, in spite of the most skillful disguise of every feature and the obliteration of every identifying mark upon my body, so surely hit upon the sole means of identifying his fugitive! Deceived by our appearance, Tryphaena wept bitterly, believing that the marks upon our foreheads were, in truth, the brands of prisoners: she asked us gently, into what slave's prison we had fallen in our wanderings, and whose cruel hands had inflicted this punishment.
Still, fugitives whose members had gotten them into trouble certainly deserved some punishment..