De Guiche
[turning round],
Six?
Cyrano
[volubly].
First, with body naked as your hand,
Festooned about with crystal flacons, full
O' th' tears the early morning dew distils ;
My body to the sun's fierce rays exposed
To let it suck me up, as 't sucks the dew !
De Guiche
[surprised, making one step towards Cyrano].
Ah ! That makes one !
Cyrano
[stepping back, and enticing him further away].
And then, the second way,
To generate wind - for my impetus -
To rarefy air, in a cedar case,
By mirrors placed icosahedron-wise.
De Guiche
[making another step],
Two!
Cyrano
[still stepping backwards].
Or - for I have some mechanic skill -
To make a grasshopper, with springs of steel,
And launch myself by quick succeeding fires
Saltpetre-fed to the stars' pastures blue !
De Guiche
[unconsciously following him and counting on his fingers].
Three !
