Another Voice. Henry, have mercy on thyself!
Third Voice. Weak, wearied, famished, drive us not upon the walls!
Fourth Voice. Where do they drive us? where?
The Man. To death!—(To George, folding him in his arms.) With this embrace I would fain bind thee to my heart forever, George! Alas! I know our paths are widely sundered: it may not be, my son! my son!
Struck by a ball, George sinks dying in his arms.
Voice (from above). To me! to me! pure spirit! Up to me, my son!
The Man. Ha! to my aid, soldiers! (He draws his sword, and holds it before the lips of the wounded boy.) The blade is crystal clear; no moisture dims the cold and glittering steel! Breath and life already gone! O George, my son!
Ha! they are upon me! On I on! They are at last but a sword's length from me! Back! Back! into the abyss, ye sons of freedom. Back!
Rushing on of man, confusion, struggle.