For some time the amused master of the house could not succeed in shaking his head disapprovingly; but when the old housekeeper, who had never ceased scolding and shaking her myrtle-staff, began to totter from anger and excitement, Lysander thought the jest was being carried too far, and, turning to his daughter, exclaimed: 

“Go, rescue Semestre and drive those crazy people away.  Fun must not go beyond proper bounds.”

Xanthe instantly obeyed the command the chain parted, the youths hurrying one way, the maidens another; the lads escaped, and so did all the girls except dark-haired Dorippe, who was caught by Semestre and driven into the house with angry words and blows.

“There will be tears after the morning dance,” said Lysander, “and I advise you, friend, if you want to avoid a scolding yourself, to leave the place at once with your feathered artists.  Give the man the cloth, Xanthe.”

Xanthe handed the brown woolen stuff to the conjurer.

She blushed faintly as she did so, for, while attempting to cut from the piece a sufficient quantity, Semestre had snatched the knife from her hand, exclaiming rudely: 

“Half that is twice too much for the insolent rascal.”

The little man took the scanty gift, spread it out to its full extent, and, turning to Lysander, said: 

“At our age people rarely experience new emotions, but to-day, for the first time since I stopped growing, I wish I was still smaller than I am now.”

The invalid had shaken his head discontentedly at sight of the tiny piece, and, as the conjurer was refolding it over his knee, loosed from his shoulders the chlamys he himself wore, saying gravely: 

“Take this cloak, for what Lysander promises he does not perform by halves.”

The last words were addressed to Semestre as well as the dwarf, for the old house-keeper, with panting breath and trembling hands, now approached her master.

Kind words were not to be expected from her mouth now, but even more bitter and vehement reproaches sprang to her lips as she saw her master give his scarcely-worn chlamys to a strolling vagrant, and also presume to reward her economy with taunts.

She had carefully woven the cloak with her own hands, and that, she cried, was the way her labor was valued!  There was plenty of cloth in the chests, which Lysander could divide among the buffoons at the next fair in Syracuse.  In other countries, even among wild barbarians, white hairs were honored, but here the elders taught the young people to insult them with jeers and mockery.

At these words the invalid’s face turned pale, a dark shadow appeared under his eyes, and an expression of pain hovered around his mouth.  He looked utterly exhausted.

Every feature betrayed how the old woman’s shrill voice and passionate words disturbed him, but he could not silence her by loud rebukes, for his voice failed, and he therefore sought to make peace by the soothing gestures of his thin hands and his beseeching eyes.