HAGGITH. My mistress is attiring.
FIRST SOLDIER. Thou dost not attire her?
HAGGITH. I! I, who have charge over all that is hers! Wilt thou tell me, then, what is the task of her tiring-women? Idle sluts!
FIRST SOLDIER. And this is thy baggage?
HAGGITH (matter-of-fact). A cruse of oil, a bag of parched corn, fine bread, three lumps of figs—and a bottle of wine—yea, the last!
FIRST SOLDIER (drawing in his lips). Ah! But thou wilt need an ass for this cargo.
HAGGITH (drily). I am the ass.
Enter Judith, magnificently dressed.
(The soldier retires, back.)
JUDITH. Is all prepared?