(He tears his face.
Oh! that my nails would fill themselves with foulness!
That my limbs, that this frame
Would grow old and like the charred log cover itself with scales of ash!
That this snout
Would grow the tusks of a boar and dig the earth like a ploughshare!
Our leader is dead. O beasts, my brothers, hail!
The Standard Bearer (to one of these who is caring for tête-d'or): You hold his hair on your arm and you bury there the comb.
And also the comb buries itself in my soul and I see this as though it were in a dream.
O soldiers, what has happened?