CHRISTIAN:
This little spot!
CYRANO (taking the letter, with an innocent look):
A spot?
CHRISTIAN:
A tear!
CYRANO:
Poets, at last,—by dint of counterfeiting—
Take counterfeit for true—that is the charm!
This farewell letter,—it was passing sad,
I wept myself in writing it!
CHRISTIAN:
Wept? why?
CYRANO:
Oh!. . .death itself is hardly terrible,. . .
—But, ne’er to see her more! That is death’s sting!
—For. . .I shall never. . .
(Christian looks at him):
We shall. . .
(Quickly):
I mean, you. . .
CHRISTIAN (snatching the letter from him):
Give me that letter!
(A rumor, far off in the camp.)
VOICE Of SENTINEL:
Who goes there? Halloo!
(Shots—voices—carriage-bells.)