O Bul-bul-bul—

Oskarashi (who has no intention of allowing this kind of thing to go on): Enough! Well sung, Minstrel. (Darkly) Thy reward?

Aswarak (throwing off his disguise): Thy head, Father of Abomination. (Tumult. He draws a sword and rushes at the divan. The wives scuttle wailing, pursued by the guards, who pour into the chamber. Everyone runs shouting after someone else. Oskarashi strikes his assailants into a heap, and hurls himself roaring into the Tigris. The curtain falls upon a writhing mass of humanity.)

Third Scene.

—The action has for some reason shifted to China—probably in order that Mr. Gloomy Bishop, the celebrated producer, may be enabled to show the London public what he is really capable of, when he cares to extend himself. The stage, therefore, is a blaze of red lacquer and Chinese Lanterns, supplemented by pagodas, palanquins and pigtails. A forbidding archway of crumbling masonry—flanked on either side by a barbaric figure armed with crossbow, javelin, long horsehair moustache and a hideous expression of brutality, indicates that the action is about to continue at the Gateway of the Lotus—a bypath in Old Pekin. Oskarashi, the Venerable Hajji, has lain here in honourable concealment ever since his escape in the Tigris. But ah! his hiding place has been discovered. This is made apparent by the highly suspicious conduct of two strolling passers-by, whose physical characteristics appear to correspond more or less accurately with those of Aswarak and the odious Boo Boo.

First Stroller (accosting the other with all the honeyed courtesy of the Celestial Empire): Honourable Dweller in a foreign land, deign to accept of my accursed superfluity. (Gives money and continues in an undertone) The detested of Islam has been discovered.

Second Stroller (performing the ceremonies, observances and obeisances prescribed in the canons of Celestial etiquette): May the shadow of this undeserving one diminish and disappear, if he should unworthily be found wanting in gratitude to your honourable and beatific and excellent self. (Pouches the coins and continues also in an undertone) Where, O Father of Procrastination?

First Stroller: As Confucius justly remarks, charity—(dropping his voice). In a certain hovel in the back street beyond the wall, he conceals himself, plying the disreputable calling—may his porkers perish—of a seller of swine’s flesh—the curse of the prophet’s beard be upon him. Everything is arranged. To-night we surround the house: rush in at the appointed hour: and nail him to the counter in the midst of his abominable merchandise. Bismillah.

Second Stroller (fiercely): Inshallah! (Louder) The honourable greeting of your illustrious Excellency has brought sunshine and hope into the miserable existence of this one.

First Stroller: Your honourable praise is sweeter in the ears of this obsequious rubbish-heap, than the music of the Celestial stars. Peace be with you.