This is lofty; this woman has a proud heart, and also a wife's heart: she knows how to give and how to bear; and better, she knows how to sacrifice herself without self-assertion, and calmly; no vulgar mind conceived such a soul as this. And Ventidius, the old general, who with her and previous to her, comes to rescue Antony from his illusion and servitude, is worthy to speak in behalf of honor, as she had spoken for duty. Doubtless he was a plebeian, a rude and plain-speaking soldier, with the frankness and jests of his profession, sometimes clumsy, such as a clever eunuch can dupe, "a thick-skulled hero," who, out of simplicity of soul, from the coarseness of his training, unsuspectingly brings Antony back to the meshes, which he seemed to be breaking through. Falling into a trap, he tells Antony that he has seen Cleopatra unfaithful with Dolabella: "_Antony._ My Cleopatra? _Ventidius._ Your Cleopatra. Dolabella's Cleopatra. Every man's Cleopatra. _Antony._ Thou best. _Ventidius._ I do not lie, my lord. Is this so strange? Should mistresses be left, And not provide against a time of change? You know she's not much used to lonely nights."[417] It was just the way to make Antony jealous and bring him back furious to Cleopatra. But what a noble heart has this Ventidius, and how we catch, when he is alone with Antony, the manly voice, the deep tones which had been heard on the battlefield! He loves his general like a good and honest dog, and asks no better than to die, so it be at his master's feet. He growls stealthily on seeing him cast down, crouches round him, and suddenly weeps: "_Ventidius._ Look, emperor, this is no common dew. [_Weeping._] I have not wept this forty years; but now My mother comes afresh into my eyes, I cannot help her softness. _Antony._ By Heaven, he weeps! poor, good old man, he weeps! The big round drops course one another down The furrows of his cheeks.--Stop them, Ventidius, Or I shall blush to death: they set my shame, That caused them full before me. _Ventidius._ I'll do my best. _Antony._ Sure there's contagion in the tears of friends: See, I have caught it too. Believe me, 'tis not For my own grief, but thine. Nay, Father!"[418] As we hear these terrible sobs, we think of Tacitus's veterans, who escaping from the marshes of Germany, with scarred breasts, white heads, limbs stiff with service, kissed the hands of Drusus, carried his fingers to their gums, that he might feel their worn and loosened teeth, incapable to bite the wretched bread which was given to them: