TOGETHER:
Oh!
CARBON:
Up with you!
THIRD CADET:
—Cannot move a limb.
FOURTH CADET:
Nor can I.
THE FIRST (looking at himself in a bit of armor):
My tongue is yellow. The air at this season of the year is hard to digest.
ANOTHER:
My coronet for a bit of Chester!
ANOTHER:
If none can furnish to my gaster wherewith to make a pint of chyle, I shall
retire to my tent—like Achilles!
ANOTHER:
Oh! something! were it but a crust!
CARBON (going to the tent and calling softly):
Cyrano!
ALL THE CADETS:
We are dying!