How you may handle me concerns me little. The project will as roundly ripe itself Without as with me. Trusty souls remain, Though my far bones bleach white on austral shores!-- I thank you for the audience. Long ere this I might have reft your life! Ay, notice here-- [He produces a dagger; which is snatched from him.] They need not have done that! Even had you risen To wrestle with, insult, strike, pinion me, It would have lain unused. In hands like mine And my allies', the man of peace is safe, Treat as he may our corporal tenement In his misreading of a moral code. [Exeunt GEVRILLIERE and the constable.] FOX Trotter, indeed you well may stare at me! I look warm, eh?--and I am windless, too; I have sufficient reason to be so. That dignified and pensive gentleman Was a bold bravo, waiting for his chance. He sketched a scheme for murdering Bonaparte, Either--as in my haste I understood-- By shooting from a window as he passed, Or by some other wry and stealthy means That haunt sad brains which brood on despotism, But lack the tools to justly cope therewith!... On later thoughts I feel not fully sure If, in my ferment, I did right in this. No; hail at once the man in charge of him, And give the word that he is to be detained. [The secretary goes out. FOX walks to the window in deep reflection till the secretary returns.] SECRETARY I was in time, sir. He has been detained. FOX Now what does strict state-honour ask of me?-- No less than that I bare this poppling plot To the French ruler and our fiercest foe!-- Maybe 'twas but a hoax to pocket pay; And yet it can mean more... The man's indifference to his own vague doom Beamed out as one exalted trait in him, And showed the altitude of his rash dream!-- Well, now I'll get me on to Downing Street, There to draw up a note to Talleyrand Retailing him the facts.--What signature Subscribed this desperate fellow when he wrote? SECRETARY “Guillet de la Gevrilliere.” Here it stands. FOX Doubtless it was a false one. Come along. [Looking out the window.] Ah--here's Sir Francis Vincent: he'll go with us. Ugh, what a twinge! Time signals that he draws Towards the twelfth stroke of my working-day! I fear old England soon must voice her speech With Europe through another mouth than mine! SECRETARY I trust not, sir. Though you should rest awhile. The very servants half are invalid From the unceasing labours of your post, And these cloaked visitors of every clime That market on your magnanimity To gain an audience morning, night, and noon, Leaving you no respite. FOX 'Tis true; 'tis true.-- How I shall love my summer holiday At pleasant Saint-Ann's Hill! [He leans on the secretary's arm, and they go out.] SCENE II THE ROUTE BETWEEN LONDON AND PARIS