A CADET (entering, with a string of old battered plumed beaver hats, full of holes, slung on his sword):
See, Cyrano,—this morning, on the quay
What strange bright-feathered game we caught!
The hats
O’ the fugitives. . .
CARBON:
‘Spolia opima!’
ALL (laughing):
Ah! ah! ah!
CUIGY:
He who laid that ambush, ’faith!
Must curse and swear!
BRISSAILLE:
Who was it?
DE GUICHE:
I myself.
(The laughter stops):
I charged them—work too dirty for my sword,
To punish and chastise a rhymster sot.
(Constrained silence.)
The CADET (in a low voice, to Cyrano, showing him the beavers):
What do with them? They’re full of grease!—a stew?
CYRANO (taking the sword and, with a salute, dropping the hats at De Guiche’s feet):
Sir, pray be good enough to render them
Back to your friends.
DE GUICHE (rising, sharply):
My chair there—quick!—I go!
(To Cyrano passionately):
As to you, sirrah!. . .