LAVINIA. Don’t be foolish. (_To Metellus, who has remained on her right, so that she is between them_) Please don’t let your friend behave like a cad before the soldiers. How are they to respect and obey patricians if they see them behaving like street boys? (_Sharply to Lentulus_) Pull yourself together, man. Hold your head up. Keep the corners of your mouth firm; and treat me respectfully. What do you take me for? LENTULUS. (_irresolutely_) Look here, you know: I—you—I— LAVINIA. Stuff! Go about your business. (_She turns decisively away and sits down with her comrades, leaving him disconcerted_). METELLUS. You didn’t get much out of that. I told you they were brutes. LENTULUS. Plucky little filly! I suppose she thinks I care. (_With an air of indifference he strolls with Metellus to the east side of the square, where they stand watching the return of the Centurion through the western arch with his men, escorting three prisoners: Ferrovius, Androcles, and Spintho. Ferrovius is a powerful, choleric man in the prime of life, with large nostrils, staring eyes, and a thick neck: a man whose sensibilities are keen and violent to the verge of madness. Spintho is a debauchee, the wreck of a good-looking man gone hopelessly to the bad. Androcles is overwhelmed with grief, and is restraining his tears with great difficulty_). THE CENTURION. (_to Lavinia_) Here are some pals for you. This little bit is Ferrovius that you talk so much about. (_Ferrovius turns on him threateningly. The Centurion holds up his left forefinger in admonition_). Now remember that you’re a Christian, and that you’ve got to return good for evil. (_Ferrovius controls himself convulsively; moves away from temptation to the east side near Lentulus; clasps his hands in silent prayer; and throws himself on his knees_). That’s the way to manage them, eh! This fine fellow (_indicating Androcles, who comes to his left, and makes Lavinia a heartbroken salutation_) is a sorcerer. A Greek tailor, he is. A real sorcerer, too: no mistake about it. The tenth marches with a leopard at the head of the column. He made a pet of the leopard; and now he’s crying at being parted from it. (_Androcles sniffs lamentably_). Ain’t you, old chap? Well, cheer up, we march with a Billy goat (_Androcles brightens up_) that’s killed two leopards and ate a turkey-cock. You can have him for a pet if you like. (_Androcles, quite consoled, goes past the Centurion to Lavinia, and sits down contentedly on the ground on her left_). This dirty dog (_collaring Spintho_) is a real Christian. He mobs the temples, he does (_at each accusation he gives the neck of Spintho’s tunic a twist_); he goes smashing things mad drunk, he does; he steals the gold vessels, he does; he assaults the priestesses, he does pah! (_He flings Spintho into the middle of the group of prisoners_). You’re the sort that makes duty a pleasure, you are.