It murmured: "Master! oh! master!" Hamilcar turned and beside him perceived a man of abject appearance, one of the wretches who led a haphazard existence in the household.
"What do you want ?" said the Suffet.
The slave, who trembled horribly, stammered: "I am his father!" Hamilcar walked on; the other followed him with stooping loins, bent hams, and head thrust forward.

His face was convulsed with unspeakable anguish, and he was choking with suppressed sobs, so eager was he at once to question him, and to cry: "Mercy!" At last he ventured to touch him lightly with one finger on the elbow.
"Are you going to-- ?" He had not the strength to finish, and Hamilcar stopped quite amazed at such grief.
He had never thought--so immense was the abyss separating them from each other--that there could be anything in common between them.

It even appeared to him a sort of outrage, an encroachment upon his own privileges.

He replied with a look colder and heavier than an executioner's axe; the slave swooned and fell in the dust at his feet.
Hamilcar strode across him.
The three black-robed men were waiting in the great hall, and standing against the stone disc.

Immediately he tore his garments, and rolled upon the pavement uttering piercing cries.
"Ah! poor little Hannibal! Oh! my son! my consolation! my hope! my life! Kill me also! take me away! Woe! Woe!" He ploughed his face with his nails, tore out his hair, and shrieked like the women who lament at funerals.