Julian.
'Tis the hosts of the Galilean, I tell you! Look—those in the red-edged garments are the martyrs who died in blood. Singing women surround them, and weave bowstrings of the long hair torn from their heads. Children are with them, twining slings from their unravelled entrails. Burning torches! Thousandfold—multitudinous! They are hastening hitherward! They are all looking at me; all rushing straight upon me!
Anatolus.
'Tis the Persians, sire! Our ranks are giving way
Julian.
They <g>shall</g> not give way!—You <g>shall</g> not! Stand fast, Greeks! Stand, stand, Romans! Today we will free the world!
[The battle has in the meantime swept forward over the plain again. Julian hurls himself with drawn sword into the thickest of the fight. General confusion.
Anatolus.
[Calling out to the right.] Help, help! The Emperor is in deadly peril!
Julian.
[Among the combatants.] I see him; I see him! A longer sword! Who has a longer sword to lend me?
Soldiers.
[Streaming in from the right.] With Christ for the Emperor!
