Amid a decently pious hush a sheep is led to the side of the water tank (_impluvium_) in the atrium; the shrewd-eyed old haruspex, trailing his long robe and muttering jargon that passes for Etruscan, is aided by two skillful assistants in killing the creature promptly and avoiding disgusting gore; then in ripping open its belly and examining with expert eye the still quivering entrails. (See p. 429.) It is proper now for Statilia to turn pale and clutch the arm of her mother. What if the signs were unfavorable? “Whoever heard of bad omens being discovered at a great wedding?” cynically whispers a senator. “_Bene_--good!” announces the haruspex with a leer. “_Bene! Bene!_” echo all the guests. The soothsayer retires. The wedding can proceed. The final ceremony is very simple. First the tablets of the marriage contract and the transfer of the dowry are produced, read, and, if not already witnessed, are signed by the proper attestors. Then a young matron-of-honor, Statilia’s _pronuba_, leads the bride up to Pollio. She thrusts out her hand from under her great veil and takes the hand of her husband-elect. Everybody listens while he, and not any priest or official for him, puts the direct question: “Will you be my _mater familias_?” “Yes,” answers Statilia, perhaps a little too readily; and then she asks him openly: “And will you be my _pater familias_?” “Yes,” and immediately there is a general shout of congratulation. These decisive words once spoken, Pollio, his bride, and her parents unite in placing a cake of coarse bread upon the altar, uttering brief dedications of the food to Jupiter and Juno, and also to the quaint rural gods Tellus, Picumnus, and Pilumnus who will bless the estates of the new couple. The cakes are presented in a basket held by a young boy, Statilia’s cousin, her _camillus_, both of whose parents are required to be living. The company now redoubles its cry of “Good luck! Good luck! _felicitas!_”--and everybody is assuredly in excellent appetite for the ensuing wedding feast. =56. The Wedding Procession.=--This is not the place for describing a great banquet (see p. 113); it is enough here to state that Pomponius is obliged to justify his wealth by a prodigal hospitality. Vain has proved Augustus’s law limiting the cost of wedding feasts to one thousand sesterces ($40). Such regulations win only laughter! As the climax after the dainties comes the distribution of pieces of the huge wedding-cake (_mustaceum_), made of fine meal steeped in new wine and served upon bay leaves. By this time everybody has drunk enough good Massic and Falernian to be excited and talkative, it has become twilight in the street, and Pomponius’s chief freedman (the master of ceremonies) gives the signal: “The procession!”