Eunapius.
Right, right; now we dye only the backs of the Christians. But what is that you are toiling with?
Phocion.
A bundle of willow bark. I am to dye fools' cloaks for the philosophers.
[A detachment of soldiers enters from the right; they range themselves beside the statue of Cybele.
Phocion.
[To one of the men beside the stone basin.] What does this mean?
The Man.
The statue is to be fed once more.
Phocion.
Will the Emperor sacrifice here this evening?
Another Man.
Does he not sacrifice both morning and evening—sometimes here, sometimes there?
A Woman.
Tis hard on us poor folk that the new Emperor is so much in love with the gods.
Another Woman.
Nay, Dione, say not so. Ought we not all to love the gods?
The First Woman.
Maybe, maybe; but 'tis hard on us none the less
