BARRERE. Traitor, thou didst. Yes, the accomplice of their dark designs, Awhile didst thou defend them, when the storm Lour'd at safe distance. When the clouds frown'd darker, Fear'd for yourself, and left them to their fate. Oh, I have mark'd thee long, and through the veil Seen thy foul projects. Yes, ambitious man, Self-will'd dictator o'er the realm of France, The vengeance thou hast plann'd for patriots, Falls on thy head. Look how thy brother's deeds Dishonour thine! He, the firm patriot; Thou, the foul parricide of Liberty! ROBESPIERRE JUNIOR. Barrere--attempt not meanly to divide Me from my brother. I partake his guilt, For I partake his virtue. ROBESPIERRE. Brother, by my soul, More dear I hold thee to my heart, that thus With me thou dar'st to tread the dangerous path Of virtue, than that nature twined her cords Of kindred round us. BARRERE. Yes, allied in guilt, Even as in blood ye are. Oh, thou worst wretch, Thou worse than Sylla! hast thou not proscrib'd, Yea, in most foul anticipation slaughter'd Each patriot representative of France? BOURDON L'OISE. Was not the younger Caesar too to reign O'er all our valiant armies in the south, And still continue there his merchant wiles? ROBESPIERRE JUNIOR. His merchant wiles! Oh, grant me patience, heaven! Was it by merchant wiles I gain'd you back Toulon, when proudly on her captive towers Wav'd high the English flag? or fought I then With merchant wiles, when sword in hand I led Your troops to conquest? fought I merchant-like, Or barter'd I for victory, when death Strode o'er the reeking streets with giant stride, And shook his ebon plumes, and sternly smil'd Amid the bloody banquet? when appall'd The hireling sons of England spread the sail Of safety, fought I like a merchant then? Oh, patience! patience! BOURDON L'OISE. How this younger tyrant Mouths out defiance to us! even so He had led on the armies of the south, Till once again the plains of France were drench'd With her best blood. COLLOT D'HERBOIS. Till once again display'd Lyons' sad tragedy had call'd me forth The minister of wrath, whilst slaughter by Had bathed in human blood. DUBOIS CRANCE. No wonder, friend, That we are traitors--that our heads must fall Beneath the axe of death! when Caesar-like Reigns Robespierre, 'tis wisely done to doom The fall of Brutus. Tell me, bloody man, Hast thou not parcell'd out deluded France As it had been some province won in fight Between your curst triumvirate. You, Couthon, Go with my brother to the southern plains; St. Just, be yours the army of the north; Meantime I rule at Paris.