The Centurion.
[Glad of something to do.]
The townclerk asks your name!
The Friend.
Unknown, a stranger, matters not. A friend!
These faithful souls, all trembling, ill with fear—
What bodes it? [The Slaves all turn to him intuitively, with hope and trust.]
The Magistrate.
[Impatiently.]
That, who knows or cares to know!