FIRST CADET (using his breastplate as a looking-glass).
My tongue is yellow. Indigestion!
ANOTHER CADET.
As to me, if my gastric organ gets not wherewith to produce a pint of chyle, I'll retire into my tent—like Achilles.
SEVERAL CADETS.
Bread! Something to eat! Now!
CARBON (going to the tent of Cyrano and speaking low to him).
Cyrano, help! Come with your ready wit, and put some life into them. Give them new courage.
A CADET (to another who is chewing something).
What are you nibbling at?