CYRANO: Ay, pointed words! I would fain die thus, some soft summer eve, Making a pointed word for a good cause. --To make a soldier's end by soldier's sword, Wielded by some brave adversary--die On blood-stained turf, not on a fever-bed, A point upon my lips, a point within my heart. CRIES FROM ALL: I'm hungry! CYRANO (crossing his arms): All your thoughts of meat and drink! Bertrand the fifer!--you were shepherd once,-- Draw from its double leathern case your fife, Play to these greedy, guzzling soldiers. Play Old country airs with plaintive rhythm recurring, Where lurk sweet echoes of the dear home-voices, Each note of which calls like a little sister, Those airs slow, slow ascending, as the smoke-wreaths Rise from the hearthstones of our native hamlets, Their music strikes the ear like Gascon patois!. . . (The old man seats himself, and gets his flute ready): Your flute was now a warrior in durance; But on its stem your fingers are a-dancing A bird-like minuet! O flute! Remember That flutes were made of reeds first, not laburnum; Make us a music pastoral days recalling-- The soul-time of your youth, in country pastures!. . . (The old man begins to play the airs of Languedoc): Hark to the music, Gascons!. . .'Tis no longer The piercing fife of camp--but 'neath his fingers The flute of the woods! No more the call to combat, 'Tis now the love-song of the wandering goat-herds!. . . Hark!. . .'tis the valley, the wet landes, the forest, The sunburnt shepherd-boy with scarlet beret, The dusk of evening on the Dordogne river,-- 'Tis Gascony! Hark, Gascons, to the music! (The cadets sit with bowed heads; their eyes have a far-off look as if dreaming, and they surreptitiously wipe away their tears with their cuffs and the corner of their cloaks.) CARBON (to Cyrano in a whisper): But you make them weep! CYRANO: Ay, for homesickness. A nobler pain than hunger,--'tis of the soul, not of the body! I am well pleased to see their pain change its viscera. Heart-ache is better than stomach-ache. CARBON: But you weaken their courage by playing thus on their heart-strings! CYRANO (making a sign to a drummer to approach): Not I. The hero that sleeps in Gascon blood is ever ready to awake in them. 'Twould suffice. . . (He makes a signal; the drum beats.) ALL THE CADETS (stand up and rush to take arms): What? What is it? CYRANO (smiling): You see! One roll of the drum is enough! Good-by dreams, regrets, native land, love. . .All that the pipe called forth the drum has chased away! A CADET (looking toward the back of the stage): Ho! here comes Monsieur de Guiche. ALL THE CADETS (muttering): Ugh!. . .Ugh!. . . CYRANO (smiling): A flattering welcome! A CADET: We are sick to death of him! ANOTHER CADET: --With his lace collar over his armor, playing the fine gentleman! ANOTHER: As if one wore linen over steel!