FIRST HERALD.
Perhaps, though a pot-bellied man, he is quite empty inside; an empty vessel sounds most, you know.
SECOND HERALD.
Who is he? Is he any kinsman of yours?
SECOND CITIZEN.
Not at all. He is just a cousin of our village chief’s father-in-law, and he does not even live in the same part of our village with us.
SECOND HERALD.
Just so: he quite looks the seventh cousin of somebody’s father-in-law, and his understanding appears also to bear the stamp of uncle-in-lawhood.
KUMBHA.
Alas, my friends, many a bitter sorrow has given my poor mind a twist before it has become like this. It is only the other day that a King came and paraded the streets, with as many titles in front of him as the drums that made the town hideous by their din, . . . What did I not do to serve and please him! I rained presents on him, I hung about him like a beggar—and in the end I found the strain on my resources too hard to bear. But what was the end of all that pomp and majesty? When people sought grants and presents from him, he could not somehow discover an auspicious day in the Calendar: though all days were red-letter days when we had to pay our taxes!
SECOND HERALD.
Do you mean to insinuate that our King is a bogus King like the one you have described?
FIRST HERALD.
Mr. Uncle-in-law, I believe the time has come for you to say good-bye to Aunty-in-law.
KUMBHA.
Please, sirs, do not take any offence. I am a poor creature—my sincerest apologies, sirs: I will do anything to be excused. I am quite willing to move away as far as you like.
SECOND HERALD.
All right, come here and form a line. The King will come just now—we shall go and prepare the way for him. [They go out.]
SECOND CITIZEN.
My dear Kumbha, your tongue will be your death one day.