Bal.Hark!
Myr. You are right; some steps approach, but slowly.
Enter Soldiers, bearing in Salemenes wounded, with a broken javelin in his side: they seat him upon one of the couches which furnish the Apartment.
Myr. Oh, Jove!
Bal.Then all is over.
Sal.That is false.
Hew down the slave who says so, if a soldier.
Myr. Spare him—he's none: a mere court butterfly,90
That flutter in the pageant of a monarch.
Sal. Let him live on, then.