Oh come, good Phocion;—help me, for our friendship’s and our fellowship’s sake——
Phocion.
Are you mad, woman? I do not know you.
Publia.
What? You do not know me? Are you not Phocion the dyer? Are you not the son of——?
Phocion.
I am not the son of anybody. Get you gone, woman! You are mad! I do not know you; I have never seen you.
[He hastens in among the crowd.
A Subaltern.
[With soldiers, from the right.] Clear the way here!