CATILINE. Yes, if I only could!
FURIA. Have courage,—spectre of a former hero; Your hour of rest is near. Come, bend your head;— I shall adorn you with the victor's crown.
[She offers the wreath to him.]
CATILINE. Bah,—what is that? A poppy-wreath—!
FURIA. [With wild glee.] Well, yes; Are not such poppies pretty? They will glow Around your forehead like a fringe of blood.
CATILINE. No, cast the wreath away! I hate this crimson.
FURIA. [Laughs aloud.] Ah, you prefer the pale and feeble shades? Good! I shall bring the garland of green rushes That Sylvia carried in her dripping locks, The day she came afloat upon the Tiber?
CATILINE. Alas, what visions—!
FURIA. Shall I bring you rather The thorny brambles from the market-place, With crimson-spots, the stain of civic blood, That flowed at your behest, my Catiline?
CATILINE. Enough!