What sword, sire?
Julian.
You know he wished for a sword wherewith he might at one blow——
Anatolus.
Hark to the shouts, sire! Now I am sure the Persians are retreating.
Julian.
[Listening.] What song is that in the air?
Anatolus.
Sire, let me summon Oribases; or still better,—come,—come; you are sick!
Julian.