Merciful heav'n! do mine eyes serve me truly?
Justiniani, with pale haggard face,
Retiring from his post!
Where are you going, chief? (Stopping him sternly.)
JUSTINIANI.
Compels me. Midst yon streams of liquid fires,
And hurling ruins and overwhelming mass
Of things unknown, unseen, uncalculable,
All arms and occupation of a soldier
Are lost and turn'd to naught: man's strength is naught:
The fangs of hell are in my new-torn flesh;
I must on for a space and breathe fresh air.
CONSTANTINE.
That stands between our success or our ruin:—
The sight of thy turn'd back from their screw'd pitch
Will turn more hearts than all the pressing foe:
Thou must not go.
JUSTINIANI.
The fangs of fiends are in my new torn flesh:
Nature compels me, and I must have succour.
(Exit hastily, and writhing with pain.)
CONSTANTINE.
