PARMENIO. Good! Your imprisonment will then plead for mine. Without the good news which I shall bring him from you, and which is well worth a friendly look, I should have had to promise myself rather a frosty one from him. PHILOTAS. No, honest Parmenio; in earnest now! My father knows that the enemy carried you from the battle-field bleeding and half dead. Let him boast who will. He whom approaching death has already disarmed is easily taken captive. How many wounds have you now, old warrior? PARMENIO. O, I could cite a long list of them once. But now I have shortened it a good deal. PHILOTAS. How so? PARMENIO. Ha! I do not any more count the limbs on which I am wounded; to save time and breath I count those which still are whole. Trifles after all! For what else has one bones, but that the enemy's iron should notch itself upon them? PHILOTAS. That is bold! But now--what will you say to my father? PARMENIO. What I see: that you are well. For your wound, if I have heard the truth---- PHILOTAS. Is as good as none. PARMENIO. A sweet little keepsake. Such as an ardent maid nips in our cheek. Is it not, prince? PHILOTAS. What do I know of that? PARMENIO. Well, well, time brings experience! Further I will tell your father what I believe you wish---- PHILOTAS. And what is that? PARMENIO. To be with him again as soon as possible. Your childlike longing, your anxious impatience---- PHILOTAS. Why not home-sickness at once! Knave! Wait and I will teach you to think differently. PARMENIO. By Heavens you must not! My dear youthful hero, let me tell you, you are still a child! Do not let the rough soldier so soon stifle in you the loving child! Or else one might not put the best construction on your heart; one might take your valour for inborn ferocity. I also am a father, father of an only son, who is but a little older than you, who with equal ardour--But you know him! PHILOTAS. I know him. He promises everything that his father has accomplished. PARMENIO. But if I knew that the young rogue did not long for his father at every moment when service leaves him free, and did not long for him as the lamb longs for its dam, I should wish--you see--that I had not begotten him. At present he must love more than respect me. I shall soon enough have to content myself with the respect, when nature guides the stream of his affection in another channel; when he himself becomes a father. Do not grow angry, prince!