Hark to the voice of the herald! Everything is ended. All effort has come to its vain conclusion. --And I, Cassius, having proclaimed these tidings, I disappear. _(He throws himself over the precipice._ _(Pause._ _(Someone approaches and bends over the body of TÊTE-D'OR._ THE CENTURION: What is he doing? A CAPTAIN: It is the surgeon. THE CENTURION: At what is he looking? The King is dead. ANOTHER: No, for the body is not yet rigid. ANOTHER: What did you say? Have we brought him back with us alive? _(The SURGEON signs to them to stop talking._ _(Silence._ ONE OF THE BYSTANDERS: Well? THE SURGEON: Give me the sponge. Help me. Remove his cuirass. Gently! Loosen his clothes at the throat. _(They do as he says._ A CAPTAIN: O reddened body! O mutilated body! ANOTHER: The bleeding has stopped. _(The SURGEON puts his ear to the chest of TÊTE-D'OR.--Silence._ THE CENTURION (_aside_): For what does he still search? FIRST CAPTAIN: He is clever. He has the ear of a maker of clocks. He listens like a mole. THE SURGEON (_rising_): He lives. THE CENTURION: He lives? Will he recover? THE SURGEON: No. (_He buries a finger in one of the wounds._) The King (_uttering a cry_): Ah! THE CENTURION: He is coming to himself. _(Pause. The KING regains consciousness and looks about him._ THE KING: Is there a surgeon here? THE SURGEON: I am a surgeon, Sire. THE KING: Shall I die? _(The surgeon, who is washing his hands, nods his head._ THE KING: Who will stand before me and gnash his teeth in my face, and swear That I am only a sabre of wood and that, like some ridiculous baby, I have brought my host to this desert, confounding marches and battles with things in story books. Cowards! Cowards, Cowards! A plague upon me for having trusted you, cowards! I have been thrown to the ground and the mob has stamped on my body, And here I lie struck down and brought to nought! Come, do not be afraid! See, I am weak and defenceless! Throw yourselves upon me like animals! Beat out my brains with your clubs! Strike! Kick me to death with your boots! THE SURGEON: Take care. You have started the bleeding again. THE KING: Let each of these new eyes Pour forth its sap like tears! And let me become as red as Mars, and let me be resplendent with your shame Like a mirror! --But were you conquerors? THE CENTURION: We were, Sire. THE KING: I have no strength. I can do nothing more. O stout limbs now broken, I, I, I lie here at your mercy, more feeble than a debauched old man, Than some vile candle-end whose liquorous eye pours forth its flame! This wretched body, this ignoble thing, Refuses to my soul its proper speech! What force is failing me? You abandon me, Royal Power! You are a doctor? THE SURGEON: Yes. THE KING: Bring me health to drink in a cup and hold it to my lips! Restore my strength again! I have no more power! I myself cannot be born again! There, there,-- THE SURGEON: What is it that you want?