_Dion._ Into yon castle.... Come. [_Exeunt. Curtain_] ACT V SCENE: _A room in the castle. Brentio alone._ _Bren._ By Hector, we've had a night of it. I must stop now and count my fingers and toes, for I'm sure there's some of me missing. First, my gold! [_Counts gold_] All here. But poor mistress Theano that I promised to carry through fire and flood for this same sweet gold was burnt up last night. Well, my lord Ocrastes is dead too, so I'll not be called to account. Had it been flood now I might have kept my promise, but fire--I never could abide a singed beard. [_Enter Tichus_] Ho, Tichus! These are wars, sir! These are wars! Have you killed your man this night? _Tich._ A score, I hope. _Bren._ Well, I've naught to say. Let deeds talk. A bragging tongue is Fame's best grave-digger, though it wag i' the mouth of Hercules. But I spared some, I'll say that. They cried so for mercy, poor fellows! Not a man of 'em was ready to die, by his own count. _Tich._ If you wait for that you'll die swearing blood is green for all you'll even draw of it. When the gods promised that no man should die till he was ready old Charon sold his boat. _Bren._ There's a stick-penny for you. What was his bargain? _Tich._ A feather bed, that he might sleep off idleness. _Bren._ Ah, but you should have seen me when a villain pitted at me with three pikes. A murderous three-handed deformity, by the truth o' my eyes he was! _Tich._ Then you shook your sword, I warrant! _Bren._ No, bless me, I shook my feet. _Tich._ Man, you didn't run? _Bren._ No, I flew. I wore Mercury's feathers, I tell you. _Tich._ Shame, Brentio! A coward's leg will never overtake Fame. _Bren._ Ay, but when a man must leap the grave to catch her, let take her who will! I'm done. Have you been through the castle? _Tich._ No. _Bren._ Come then. There are sights to be seen. Mostly in the cellars, where every soldier gets a bottle for his song. [_Sings_] Who will not be merry then let him go drown, Let him go drown, In as rosy a bumper as ever went down, As ever went down, And he'll bob up, he'll bob up, by Bacchus, he will, As hail a good fellow as ever wet gill! Here are our masters! I'm gone. A hero may drink, but work--never! [_Exit_] _Tich._ There's more trouble ahead than the claw o' my wit can scratch. Ocrastes' death makes one less in the pother, but I've eyes in my head, and there's no doubt my master is in love with the lady Aratea, and one lover can make more trouble than a score of extra husbands. Well, well, when thy cares bewilder thee take time and wine for thy counsellors. So let it work out. [_Exit. Aristocles and Dion appear in hall partly visible through wide open doors, rear. Aristocles enters and comes front. Dion remains without, gazing down, moody and meditative_]