Potamon the Goldsmith.
[Carrying a paper lantern, enters from the left, taps one of the soldiers on the shoulder, and asks:] Hist, good friend—when comes the Emperor?
The Soldier.
I cannot tell.
Phocion the Dyer.
[In the crowd, turning his head.] The Emperor? Did not some one ask about the Emperor? The Emperor will come a little before midnight—just before. I had it from Memnon himself
Eunapius the Barber.
[Rushes in hastily and pushes a Fruit-seller aside.] Out of the way, heathen!
The Fruit-seller.
Softly, sir!
Potamon.
The swine grumbles!
Eunapius.
Dog, dog!
Phocion.
Grumbling at a well-dressed Christian—at a man of the Emperor's own faith!
Eunapius.
[Knocks the Fruit-seller down.] Into the gutter with you!
Potamon.
That's right. Wallow there, along with your gods!
