For all your reckless fury will expire,
When matched against our prudence and our skill,
Which have the power to crush the proudest will.
[Exeunt Scipio and his men, and presently they sound to arms in the town, and Morandro enters wounded and streaming with blood, with a little white basket on his left arm, containing a small piece of biscuit stained with blood, and says:
Morandro.
Com'st them not, Leoncio, say?
Friend, what hath befallen thee?
If thou comest not with me,
How can I without thee stay?
Friend, where art thou, tell me, where?