“Very well; I’ll take them, but mind, you have sworn.”
So the exchange is made again.
Then Æacus with his infernal policemen appears on the scene.
“That’s the fellow who stole the dog,” he cries to his men, “seize him,” while the false slave murmurs aside, “Some one is getting into trouble.”
“I steal your dog!” says the false Hercules. “I have never been here, much less stolen the worth of a cent. But come. I’ll make you a fair offer. Here’s my slave. Take him, and put him to the torture, and if you get anything out of him against me, then cut my head off.”
“Very fair,” says Æacus; “and of course, if I do him any damage, I shall pay for it.”
“Never mind about the damage; torture away.”
“Hold,” shouts Bacchus, as the policemen lay hold of him, “I warn you not to torture me, I’m a god.”
Æacus. “What do you say?”
Bacchus. “I am Bacchus, son of Zeus, and that fellow there is my slave.”