Your tour circles back towards the vicinity of Hondelet a few days before the close of King Saul's celebratory fortnight. At liberty for a time in the township of Melinchome, the company en masse descends on a large public-house for refreshment and diversion. The local customers are delighted to have an infusion of jovial, winsome performers descend into their midst, and the place quickly adopts a bacchanalian atmosphere.
The throng of peasants and tradesmen partake freely of a watery drink the proprietor distilled from tubers. You take a sniff from a snifter when a friendly merchant offers it to you.
"This drink is my opposite, friend," you quip to the man and anyone else who's listening. "It has a fiery taste and no odor. I, in counterpoint, am known to be tasteless and smell like a rubbish fire."
The inebriated gaggle loves this and eggs you on to continue providing entertainment. It scarcely matters what you say—the mood is so riotous that you could simply blow raspberries at them and they'd howl with laughter. You continue nursing the same snifter whilst your onlookers lap up their liquor.
You extricate yourself when you can and, spying a vacant stool at the end of the bar, sit for a moment's rest.
"Weary?" says a voice behind you.
Onward