s is deafening. Here and there one or
two traders have advanced a little beyond the old-fashioned way of
barter, and offer, instead of goods, so many rings of copper, silver, or
gold wire. A peasant who has brought in a bullock to sell is offered 90
copper "uten" (as the rings are called) for it; but he loudly protests
that this is robbery, and after a long argument he screws the merchant
up to 111 "uten," with 8 more as a luck-penny, and the bargain is
clinched. Even then the rings have still to be weighed that he may be
sure he is not being cheated. So a big pair of balances is brought out;
the "uten" are heaped into one scale, and in the other are piled weights
in the shape of bulls' heads. Finally, he is satisfied, and picks up his
bag of rings; but the wily merchant is not done with him yet. He spreads
out various tempting bargains before the eyes of the countryman, and,
before the latter leaves the shop, most of the copper rings have found
their way back again to the merchant's sack.

A little farther on, the Tyrian traders, to whom the cargo of our galley
is consigned, have their shop. Screens, made of woven grass, shelter it
from the sun, and under their shade all sorts of gorgeous stuffs are
displayed, glowing with the deep rich colours, of which the Tyrians
alone have the secret since the sack of Knossos destroyed the trade of
Crete. Beyond the Tyrian booth, a goldsmith is busily employed in his
shop. Necklets and bracelets of gold and silver, beautifully inlaid with
all kinds of rich colours, hang round him; and he is hard at work, with
his little furnace and blowpipe, putting the last touches to the welding
of a bracelet, for which a lady is patiently waiting.

In one corner of the bazaar stands a house which makes no display of
wares, but, nevertheless, seems to secure a constant stream of
customers. Workmen slink in at the door, as though half ashamed of
themselves, and reappear, after a little, wiping their mouths, and not
quite steady in their gait. A young man, with pale and haggard face,
swaggers past and goes in, and, as he enters the door, one bystander
nudges another and remarks: "Pentuere is going to have a good day again;
he will come to a bad end, that young man."

By-and-by the door opens again, and Pentuere comes out staggering. He
looks vacantly round, and tries to walk away; but his legs refuse to
carry him, and, after a stumble or two, he falls in a heap and lies in
the road, a pitiful sig