'Twas he, that headed those, who forced her hence.
Cleom. Pantheus bleeds!
Panth. A scratch, a feeble dart,
At distance thrown by an Egyptian hand.
Crat. You heard me not; Cleanthes is——
Cleom. He was——no more, good mother;
He tore a piece of me away, and still
The void place aches within me.—O, my boy,
I have bad news to tell thee.
Cleon. None so bad,