procession of Apollo has to stand still while the other, with the prisoners—men in chains, surrounded by soldiers, and accompanied by a great concourse of people—passes on.
Publia.
My child! Hilarion!
Hilarion.
[Among the prisoners.] Rejoice, my mother! Julian. Poor deluded creatures! When I hear madness thus speaking in you, I almost doubt whether I have the right to punish you. Another Voice. [Among the prisoners.] Stand aside; take not from us our crown of thorns. Julian. Night and horror,—what voice is that? The Leader of the Guard. 'Twas this one, sire, who spoke. [He pushes one of the prisoners forward, a young man, who leads a half-grown lad by the hand.
Julian.
[With a cry.] Agathon!
[The Prisoner looks at him, and is silent.
Agathon, Agathon! Answer me; are you not Agathon?
The Prisoner.
I am.
