Metz. He ’s leagued with Labastida,—for the church
Deserts you too.
Max. The church gone with him! No! no! I can’t believe it!
Metz. You do not doubt me!
Max. Not you! But in my ear
The tale turns miracle! And I must doubt,
Though on your tongue ’t is truth!
Metz. ’T is truth indeed!
The troops he was to bring you from the city,
He led for his own glory against Diaz,
Thinking to make himself the conqueror
And president of Mexico.
Max. My troops!
What then?
Metz. Porfirio Diaz routed them
To the last man. Marquez himself escaped
Alone,—fled unattended from the field.
Max. My troops! my troops!... And this is friendship! O God,
Give me but enemies!
Salm. Your Majesty—
Max. Who calls me majesty? There ’s none in me.
I am a riven oak whose leaf-light friends
Fly with misfortune’s Autumn. (Steps away, bowed in grief)