Guimard.[Writes.] That is written! May I die now?
Biskra. Now you may die like a cowardly soldier who has deserted his comrades, and thou art like to have a pretty funeral, with jackals to sing on thy corpse. [Doing, an, “attack” on her guitar.] Dost thou hear the drums going—to the attack—the infidels who have sun and Simoon with them advance—from an ambush. [Beats on her guitar.] Shots are fired along the whole line, the Franks are unable to load, the Arabs are spread out and shoot, the Franks fly.
Guimard.[Raises himself.] The Franks do not fly.
Biskra.[Blows the “retreat” on a flute she has taken up.] The Franks fly when the retreat is blown.
Guimard. They’re retreating, they’re retreating, and I am here. [Pulls off his epaulettes.] I am dead. [Falls on the floor.]
Biskra. Yes, thou art dead. Thou knowest not that thou hast been dead for a long time. [Goes to the charnel-house, takes up a skull.]
Guimard. Have I been dead? [Feels his face.]
Biskra. A long time! A long time! Look at thyself in the mirror! [Shows the skull.]
Guimard. Ah! Am I that?
Biskra. Look at your protruding cheeks. Seest thou not how the vultures have eaten thine eyes? Dost thou not feel again the hole by your right grinder which you had taken out? Dost thou not see the hole in the chin where that pretty little imperial sprouted which thy Elise fancied so to caress? Dost thou not see the ears which thy little Georges was wont to kiss every morning over the breakfast-table? Dost thou see how the axe has taken away the hair at the neck, when the executioner was beheading the deserter?