_Enter Philolaches and Pamphilus disguised as Persians._
Now don’t you think we are unmistakable Persians, eh?
The essence of Central Asia: I shouldn’t fear to meet The shade of Themistocles.
_Ph._ Indeed, I’ll bet my life Your mother would never know you. Is it not a miracle What these wide snowy trousers & black beards will do?
_Pam._ It fits like fun. Have you your tale by heart?
_Ph._ I shan’t go wrong in that. You must speak mock high-Persian; as interpreter I will make sense of nonsense. Be grave too.
_Pam._ If I laugh, 808 I’ve got a pretty good sleeve to laugh in. Let us go. But stay—which gate sh^d good true Persians enter by? In at the garden gate, or round the house to the front?
_Ph._ Suppose we try the garden. Isn’t this the garden?
_Ph._ I’ll lead. You know the way too well.
[_They go to the garden gate and there meet Chremes re-entering._
_Chr._ (_aside_). Why, who in the name of wonder are these queer foreigners?
_Pam._ (_to Phil, aside_). Tell him we want Menedemus, and get him out of the way.
_Ph._ The prince salutes my lord, and asks if here in the earth Are the thresholds of lord Menedemus.
_Chr._ Ah, you speak our tongue. ’Tis well. This is his house. What would you with him?
_Pam._ (_to Phil._). Heavens! What will you say?
_Pam._ APROYSI THULNEAR. 821 KEKACHYLOS RATULIAN DRICHO BRESNION OIN.
_Ph._ My lord has bid me say we are Persians, sir, arrived With tidings to lord Menedemus.
_Chr._ (_aside_). Ah! I guessed as much. This should be news of Clinia: bad news too, I think. Their Asiatic gravity cannot quite conceal A strange anxiety. If he’s dead, my money is lost, My forty pounds all gone. I’ll learn the truth at once— The news, sir, that ye bring, concerns it the old man’s son?
_Pam._ (_aside_). Put him off. Say we bear secret tidings.— 830 NUSPIOL ONAYRMICO.
_Chr._ (_aside_). That’s unfortunate. How shall I find it out? Menedemus is gone from home: I’m sure he’d wish them to tell me; and ’twould be kindness’ self Gently to break the news to the poor old man. Suppose I say that I’m Menedemus. I’m sure that scowling fellow Would drive him out of his wits with fright. Ay, so I’ll do.— Sir, tell your master that I’m Menedemus.
_Pam._ (_to Phil._). Ho; the deuce! What’s to be done?