CYRANO (_turning around_). Who is this? RAGUENEAU. A friend of my wife's. A terrible warrior,--at least so he says!.... CYRANO (_taking up the pen and motioning away Ragueneau_). Silence!.... write--fold,--(_to himself_) hand it to her,--and run away.... (_throwing away the pen_). Coward!....But may I die if I dare speak to her, even a single word.... (_to Ragueneau_). What time is it? RAGUENEAU. A quarter past six!.... CYRANO (_striking his breast_). But I have plenty of words here, and by writing.... (_Takes up the pen._) So be it then! I'll write.--This letter fraught With love, I've thought it out a hundred times; It's ready, and, to close it, I have but To read my soul, and copy what I read. (_He writes. Behind the glazed door, a movement of lean and hesitating forms._) [13] Note.--The spelling _rime_ seems preferable to _rhyme_, since rime and rhythm are two very distinct things. _SCENE IV._ RAGUENEAU, LISE, THE MUSKETEER, CYRANO, _by the table, writing_, THE POETS, _clad in black, bedraggled_. LISE (_entering, to Ragueneau_). Here are your bedraggled friends! FIRST POET (_entering, to Ragueneau_). Brother-poet!.... SECOND POET (_shaking Ragueneau by the hand_). Dear brother-poet! THIRD POET. Eagle of pastry-cooks! (_sniffing_) It smells good in your nest. FOURTH POET. O Phoebus-Caterer! Apollo master-cook!.... RAGUENEAU (_somewhat bewildered_). How soon one feels at ease with them! FIRST POET. We were delayed a bit by something of a crowd, Close by the Porte de Nesle!.... SECOND POET. By sword both slashed and pierced, Eight cut-throats bleeding fast illustrated the street. CYRANO (_looking up_). Eight?.... I thought seven. (_continues writing._) RAGUENEAU (_to Cyrano_). Who fought so bravely? Do you know? CYRANO (_treating the matter lightly_). I?.... No! LISE (_to the Musketeer_). Do you? MUSKETEER (_curling his mustache_). Perhaps. CYRANO (_writing--mutters a word now and then, aside_). I love you.... FIRST POET. A single man, they say, put all the band to flight!.... CYRANO (_writing_). Your eyes!.... SECOND POET. Why! Spears and hats were found a hundred yards away! CYRANO (_writing_). Your lips!.... FIRST POET.