Chorus of Philosophers. We have wakened the human race, and torn them away from the days of childhood! We have found truth, and brought it to light from the womb of darkness! Combat, murder, and die for it, brethren!
The Son of the Philosopher (to the Man). Brother and friend, I drink your health out of the skull of an old saint! May we soon meet again!
A Maiden (dancing). Kill Prince John for me!
Second Maiden. Count Henry for me!
Children. Bring us back the head of a noble for a ball.
Other Voices. Good fortune guide your daggers home!
Chorus of Artists. On these sublime old ruins we build no temples more; we paint no pictures, mould no statues for forgotten shrines; our arches shall be formed of pointed pikes and naked blades; our pillars built of ghastly piles of human skulls; the capitals of human hair dyed in gushing streams of crimson blood; our altar shall be white as snow, our god will rest upon it, the cap of liberty: Hurrah! hurrah!
Other Voices. On! on! the morning dawn already breaks!
The Baptized. They will soon catch and hang us; we are but one step from the gallows.
The Man. Fear nothing, Jew, they follow Leonard, and observe us no longer. I see with my own eyes, I understand with my own mind, and for the last time before it engulfs me, the chaos now generating in the abyss of Time, in the womb of Darkness, for my own destruction, for the annihilation of my brethren!