To him who saved me wounded as I lay
Fighting against his country; took me home;
Tended me like a brother till recover’d,
Perchance to fight against him once again—
And now my sword put back into my hand
By his—if not his son—still, as so seeming,
By me, as first devoir of gratitude,
To seem believing, till the wearer’s self
See fit to drop the ill-dissembling mask.
(Aloud) Well, a strange turn of fortune has arrested