Mouene. The priests will stop the boat, and eight days hence, perhaps, Yaouma will still be awaiting her betrothed.
Yaouma. I shall wait.
The Steward enters and whispers to Delethi.
Delethi. The mistress sends word the hour is come to go indoors.
They go out L, Sitsinit picking up the writing box, Nahasi juggling with oranges, Mouene carrying her cage and dancing about, Delethi plays her harp singing with Hanou and Nagaou.
Black is the hair of my love,
More black than the brows of the night,
Than the fruit of the plum tree.
The Steward, who had gone out, returns at once, whip in hand, followed by a poor old man, half naked, and covered with mud, who carries a hod.
Steward [stopping before the statue of Thoueris] There. Draw near, potter, and look. By some mischance, the horn and the plume of Goddess Thoueris have been broken. The master must not see them when he comes back for the feast of the Nomination. There is the horn—there is the plume. Replace them.
Pakh [with terror] I—must I ... to-day when my son is coming home?
Steward. Are you not our servant?