The scene is changed to the temple of Ceres, where the women hold solemn debate upon the crimes of the poet. He has vilely slandered the sex, and made them objects of ridicule and suspicion. One of their number puts in a claim of special damages against him; she had maintained herself and “five small children” by making wreaths for the temples, until this Euripides began to teach people that “there were no gods,” and so ruined her trade. The disguised Mnesilochus rises to defend his relative. But the apology which the author puts into his mouth is conceived in the bitterest spirit of satire. He shows that the tragedian, far from having slandered the ladies, has really dealt with them most leniently. True, he has said some severe things of them, but nothing to what he _might_ have said. And he proceeds to relate some very scurrilous anecdotes, to show that the sex is really much worse than the poet has represented it. He is repeatedly interrupted, in spite of his protests in behalf of that freedom of speech which is the admitted right of every Athenian woman. How was it, asks one of the audience, that Euripides never once took the good Penelope as the subject of a tragedy, when he was always so ready to paint characters like Helen and Phædra? Mnesilochus answers that it was because there are no wives like Penelope nowadays, but plenty of wives like Phædra. His audience are naturally astonished and indignant at this unexpected attack from one of their own number. Who is this audacious woman, this traitress to her sex? No one knows her, of course: and it is whispered that there is a man among them in disguise. There is a terrible uproar in the meeting, and the intruder, after a sharp cross-examination by a shrewish dame, is soon detected. To save himself from the vengeance of the exasperated women, he flies for refuge to the altar, snatching a baby from one of their number, and (like Dicæopolis in ‘The Acharnians’)[52] threatens to kill it at once unless they let him go. But the women who have no babies display a good deal of indifference to his threats, and vow they will burn him, then and there, whatever happens to the unfortunate hostage. Mnesilochus proceeds to strip it, when, lo! it turns out to be nothing more or less than a wine-skin in baby’s clothes. He will cut its throat, nevertheless. The foster-mother is almost as much distressed as if it were a real child. _Woman._ Hold, I beseech you! Never be so cruel! Do what you will with me, but spare my darling. _Mnes._ I know you love it--it’s a woman’s weakness-- But, none the less, its blood must flow to-day. _Wom._ O my poor child!--Bring us a bowl, dear Mania! If it must die, do let us catch its blood. _Mnes._ Well--hold it under. I’ll oblige you. (_Slits the wine-skin, and drinks off the contents._) There! And here’s the skin of the victim--for the priestess.