And thou, O Theban Bacchus, lead our mirth!
Lead thou, and shake the earth!
Suddenly Julian heard a burst of laughter, the shrill scream of a woman, and the quavering voice of an old man—
"Ah, my pretty chicken!"
It was the Bacchic priest, a good-humoured septuagenarian, who had pinched the bare elbow of a comely Bacchante. Julian's face darkened, and he summoned the old dotard, who ran up, still dancing—
"My friend," whispered Julian in his ear, "observe the dignity which befits your age and rank!"
"I am a simple and unlearned man. And I may venture to tell your Majesty that while philosophy is beyond me, I venerate the gods. Ask anyone you please on that head—I have always been faithful to them. Only ... when I see a pretty girl ... my blood gets up! I am an old satyr...." Seeing the displeased face of the Emperor he stopped, assumed a more solemn air, and relapsed into still denser stupidity.
"Who is that young girl?" asked Julian.
"She who is carrying the sacred vessels on her head?"