Publia.
What? You do not know me? Are you not Phocion the dyer? Are you not the son of?
Phocion.
I am not the son of anybody. Get you gone, woman! You are mad! I do not know you; I have never seen you.
[He hastens in among the crowd.
A Subaltern. [With soldiers, from the right.] Clear the way here! [The soldiers force the multitude back towards the houses. Old Publia faints in the arms of the women on the left. All gaze expectantly down the street.
Phocion.
[In a knot of people behind the guard, to the right.] Yes, by the Sun-God, there he comes, the blessed Emperor!
A Soldier.
Do not push so, behind there!
Phocion.
Can you see him? The man with the white fillet round his brow, that is the Emperor.
A Citizen.
The man all in white?
Phocion.
Yes, yes, that is he.
