That my son is your father's prisoner, as you are mine.
PHILOTAS.
Your son my father's prisoner? Your Polytimet? Since when? How? Where?
ARIDÄUS.
Fate willed it thus! From equal scales it took equal weights at the same time, and the scales are balanced still.
STRATO.
You wish to know more details. Polytimet led the very squadron, towards which you rushed too rashly; and when your soldiers saw that you were lost, rage and despair gave them superhuman strength. They broke through the lines and all assailed the one in whom they saw the compensation for their loss. The end you know! Now accept a word of advice from an old soldier: The assault is not a race; not he who first, but he who most surely meets the enemy, approaches victory. Note this, too ardent prince! otherwise the future hero may be stifled in his earliest bud.
ARIDÄUS.
Strato, you vex the prince with your warning, though it be friendly. How gloomily he stands there!