There stands the old man dead to feel of pain,
He sings, instead of shrieking out, and clutching
To get the knife that’s held before his eyes,
He sings the psalm which the Three Men of yore
Sang in the fiery oven, and he lifts
At every added pang his voice the louder,
And when he bates it prophesies forsooth!
Herod (aside).
Such is their breed. Yes—will they e’er be other?
Joab.