Elm. (suddenly starting.) It returns

On my bewilder’d soul? Went ye not forth

Unto the rescue? And thou’rt here alone!

—Where are my sons?

Gon. (solemnly.) We were too late!

Elm. Too late!

Hast thou naught else to tell me?

Gon. I brought back

From that last field the banner of my sires,

And my own death-wound.