CYRANO (standing up—bareheaded):
Ay, Roxane.
ROXANE:
An inspired poet?
CYRANO:
Ay, Roxane.
ROXANE:
And a mind sublime?
CYRANO:
Oh, yes!
ROXANE:
A heart too deep for common minds to plumb,
A spirit subtle, charming?
CYRANO (firmly):
Ay, Roxane.
ROXANE (flinging herself on the dead body):
Dead, my love!
CYRANO (aside—drawing his sword):
Ay, and let me die to-day,
Since, all unconscious, she mourns me—in him!
(Sounds of trumpets in the distance.)