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Rh (who has paid great attention to the wine-jar meanwhile) takes the scrolls from his hands and proceeds to unroll and read them, his comrade watching him with a face of superstitious eagerness. The oracles contain a prophetic history of Athens under its successive demagogues. First there should rise to power a hemp-seller, secondly a cattle-jobber, thirdly a dealer in hides—this Paphlagonian, who now holds rule in Demus's household. But he is to fall before a greater that is to come—one who plies a marvellous trade. Nicias is all impatience to know who and what this saviour of society is to be. Demosthenes, in a mysterious whisper, tells him the coming man is—a Black-pudding-seller!

Why, most opportunely, here he comes! He is seen mounting the steps which are supposed to lead from the city, with his tray of wares suspended from his neck. The two slaves make a rush for him, salute him with the profoundest reverence, take his tray off carefully, and bid him fall down and thank the gods for his good fortune.

"Black-P.-Seller. Hallo! what is it?

Demosth. O thrice blest of mortals!

Who art nought to-day, but shall be first to-morrow!

Hail, Chief that shall be of our glorious Athens!

B.-P.-S. Prithee, good friend, let me go wash my tripes,

And sell my sausages—you make a fool of me.

Dem. Tripes, quotha! tripes? Ha-ha!—Look yonder, man— (pointing to the audience.)

You see these close-packed ranks of heads?