Phæd. Do you know Phanocrates?
Phor. As well as I do yourself.
Phæd. The rich man?
Phor. I understand.
Phæd. He is the father of Pamphila. Not to detain you, these were the circumstances: Calchas was his servant, a worthless, wicked fellow. Intending to run away from the house, he carried off this girl, whom her father was bringing up in the country, then five years old, and, secretly taking her with him to Eubæa, sold her to Lycus, a merchant. This person, a long time after, sold her, when now grown up, to Dorio. She, however, knew that she was the daughter of parents of rank, inasmuch as she recollected herself being attended and trained up by female servants: the name of her parents she didn’t recollect.
Phor. How, then, were they discovered?
Phæd. Stay; I was coming to that. This runaway was caught yesterday, and sent back to Phanocrates: he related the wonderful circumstances I have mentioned about the girl, and how she was sold to Lycus, and afterward to Dorio. Phanocrates sent immediately, and claimed his daughter; but when he learned that she had been sold, he came running to me.
Phor. O, how extremely fortunate!
Phæd. Phanocrates has no objection to my marrying her; nor has my father, I imagine.
Phor. Trust me for that; I’ll have all this matter managed for you; Phormio has so arranged it, that you shall not be a suppliant to your father, but his judge.