once before as dead. Goodbye.

SKIR.

Why, what's the matter? You are melancholy.

BARAK.

Oh, help me, wife, restrain this youth's mad folly;
He's off to Peking--means to dare the Sphinx!

SKIR.

He's sure to die--my heart within me sinks!
What put such silly nonsense in your head?
You've got brain fever; bless you, go to bed.

KALAF.

Pray save your breath. My fever needs no nurse
But Turandot's fair hand. Here, take my purse,
I have no farther need of money; for
I either die, or shall become an Emperor.

(_Exit hastily into the city gate._)

BARAK (_following him_).

Dear master, hear me; stay; all, all in vain;
I ne'er shall see his blessed face again!

SKIR.

You know my stranger-guest? how very funny,
Let's try to catch him, and return his money.

BARAK.

Wife, be not curious; no questions ask,
He's gifted with such mental powers, the task
Of coping with the Sphinx he may achieve--
His doom unto the gods we now must leave.

SKIR.

We'll sacrifice a pig to great Fo-hi,
He'll perhaps contrive your handsome friend shan't die.

(_Exeunt into the cottage._)

END OF ACT I.

ACT II.

SCENE.--_Grand saloon of the Divan._ L. _Doors leading to the
Emperor's apartment._ R. _Doors leading to_ TURANDOT'S _Hareem_.
_Black slaves discovered, engaged in setting the saloon in order;_
TRUFFALDIN _majestically directing them_.

TRUF.

Come, look alive! His Majesty's Divan
Will soon assemble. Now, look sharp, my man!
A carpet for this throne; here sits her Highness;
Bring brooms, and sweep up all this horrid dry mess.

(_Enter_ BRIGHELLA, _looking around wonderingly_.)

BRIG.

I say, Truffaldin, what's this grand array?
The high Divan again--twice in one day?

TRUF. (_without minding him_).

Eight seats here for the doctors!
They're all muffs,
But look imposing in their brocade stuffs.

BRIG.

Truffaldin, do you hear? What is the matter?

TRUF.

How dare you make such a confounded clatter?
You stupid, don't you know the whole Divan
Are called to meet as quickly as they can?
Another suitor for my mistress' heart
Is anxious from his silly head to part.

BRIG.

For shame! Three hours ago one victim fell.

TRUF.

This new pretender seems a precious swell.
His curly poll will grace the hangman's pole,
A charming barber's block, upon my soul!
'Twill cut a figure in our "_Rotten Row_;"
I think that jest is witty--Ho, ho, ho!