CATILINE. Your quiet-patience wounds me tenfold more Than would a cry of anguish from your lips!
[An old SOLDIER enters and approaches CATILINE.]
THE SOLDIER. Forgive me, master, that thus unannounced I enter your abode at this late hour. Ah, be not wroth—
CATILINE. What is your errand here?
THE SOLDIER. My errand here is but a humble prayer, Which you will hear. I am a needy man, One who has sacrificed his strength for Rome. Now I am feeble, can no longer serve; Unused my weapons rust away at home. The hope of my old age was in a son, Who labored hard and was my one support. Alas,—in prison now he's held for debt. And not a ray of hope—. Oh, help me, master!
[Kneeling.]
THE SOLDIER. If but a penny! I have gone on foot From house to house; each door is long since closed. I know not what to do—
CATILINE. The paltry knaves! A picture this is of the many's want. Thus they reward the old brave company. No longer gratitude is found in Rome! Time was I might have wished in righteous wrath To punish them with sword and crimson flames; But tender words have just been spoken here; My soul is moved; I do not wish to punish;— To ease misfortune likewise is a deed.— Take this, old warrior;—clear with this your debt.
[He hands him the purse with the gold.]
THE SOLDIER. [Rising.] O gracious lord,—dare I believe your words?