It is the Apostle; and may that same Lord,

O Julian, to thy soul’s salvation bless

The seasonable thought!

The dying Count

Then fix’d upon the Goth his earnest eyes,

No time, said he, is this for bravery,

As little for dissemblance. I would fain

Die in the faith wherein my fathers died,

Whereto they pledged me in mine infancy....

A soldier’s habits, he pursued, have steel’d