His stealthy arrow did; he let it whizz
Across the garden as I trod the grass.
Such little splits of wood may in a moment
End years of ripening fame. A month ago
The hurried marble thundered down on you,
To-day an arrow swept my hair. Say, Holiness,
Would you prefer to have that lad of Naples
Teasing your moments with his fears and murmurs
Or me shot dead, our dead dreams under me?
ALEXANDER.
My tawny Splendour, wherefore ask?
CESARE.
[Spreading his palms.] Then wherefore?
ALEXANDER.
CESARE.
I killed in self-defence?