SCENE II--A STREET IN ROME.

_Enter Marius and Horatius, two patricians._

_Marius._ He dared! he dared! he dared!

_Horatius._ And will dare more, Until Rome wakens from her lethargy And is herself again.

_Marius._ Till then we wait, Enduring insult, tyranny, from him, The common enemy of nobleman And pleb.

_Horatius._ Alas! once was he common friend To both--our lawgiver; what changed him so?

_Marius._ A worm of pride that gnawed into his heart, A blast of fiery desert wind that dried, Withered and seared his noble disposition. To-day he is a monster, where he was But yesterday a leader and a god.

_Horatius._ He angered the patricians by his show Of democratic policy; the plebs By barring intermarriage 'twixt the two Opposing classes! [_Enter Virginius and Icilius._

_Virginius._ Blessings, health to you! Good wishes of a Roman unto Romans.

_Horatius_ (_bitterly_). Say rather, helpless, sullen, brooding curs! We are no more--methinks _thou_ art no more; Nor even thou, Icilius, our tribune. There are no free, courageous sons of Rome, But victims only, cowed beneath the lash Of the Decemvirs--curses on their heads!

_Virginius._ Methinks I'm not the dog that thou hast said, For 'tis my part and wish to play the man. The name of Appius I do despise, And only bide my time to bury it Deep in the soil, along with him who bears Its weight. Although I will not fling myself Upon the altar of Unreason as A bootless sacrifice, yet am I still Nor dog, nor worm, but one who waits and prays, Nor prays alone, but puzzles out his plan Of action. No, nor plans alone, but strives; And striving, must achieve, unless the hand Of sudden Death come in to tear the web. Friends, we are hard pressed and we pant in pain, Yet tyrants, howsoever strong, are still Weaker than Justice and are shorter-lived Than Liberty, the queen whom Justice serves. Because our wrongs are heavy must we brood, And chafe, and curse our stars and Appius? What war was ever closed successfully With sullen warriors and men untrained, Unready or undone by foul Despair?

_Icilius._ Thou hast inspired me and curbed my wrath, Which held in it no reason, all unbound, Ready to leap a lion on its prey. Ay, there's a time for all things. I shall wait, Knowing, Virginius, that thy words are true. Wisdom, the gods be thanked, hath never flowed Forth from thy lips in words of honeyed sounds, Nor yet in pompous phrases burdened down With ponderous eloquence, but bold and frank, Shining as bright and ringing forth as true As thy good sword that thou hast borne so well In camp, palestra, or in battle-field.

_Virginius._ My words are bold, for I am full of grief At men's delinquency and heavy souls; Frank--ay; because 'tis late to talk in riddles Or metaphors, that veil the precious truth Within; shining with fervor, ringing true, Because the cause I do uphold is true As life and death is real.

_Horatius._ Thine eloquence Is worthy of a better hearing than This little company. I would that thou Wouldst lead us into action, noble pleb.

_Virginius._ My duties are at present with mine own-- With her, my fair ewe-lamb; when she becomes The spouse of this our friend and our tribune, Virginius shall owe himself to none, But feel compelled the Commonwealth alone To serve. And here's my hand in oath that I Shall serve it well! The gods help Appius!

[_Enter Sicinius, in civilian garments._

_Marius._ Greetings, Sicinius, and health to thee!

_Sic._ And Heaven's favor unto you, my friends. How now! All deep in sombre conference?

_Icilius_ (_impetuously_). Sicinius! What curse hath come to Rome, That bends her proud and regal head beneath The yoke of shame? The collar of the serf Hangs heavy round her haughty neck. Ye gods! The mightly Romulus, methinks, must find The grave a cell that keeps him from his Rome; How must his mighty spirit chafe when he Receiveth tidings from the newly dead, Concerning this, his city, now so low Amid the dust of Wrong and Bigotry! Tell us, thou man of action, what bold move We needs must make. Oh! be our OEdipus!

_Horatius._ Hist, noble tribune! Favor silence. These Are times of peril; cast thou Caution's die.

_Icilius_ (_amazed_). What! knowest thou not this man, Sicinius? He who has bearded all the noble Ten, He whose brave words of indignation ring From hill to hill of Rome? Sicinius!

_Horatius_ (_sullenly_). I have been absent from the town these twelve Long moons, nor know I all that thou dost know.

_Icilius._ Why, man, look not so sour and so sad.

_Virginius._ Peace, youths! Sicinius hath but little chance To speak his mind. I beg of thee that thou, Good friend, expound thy views as to these days Of tyranny, for Romans are at bay.

_Sic._ If I should speak, then would I speak myself Into my grave; so twist mine earnest tongue As soon would wring it from its fevered roots, Mine eyeballs blind themselves with fiery tears Of love for Rome; my life would withered be With all the curses breathing forth, aflame With hate for Appius! Oh, ye gods! in what Have we outraged you that we now are cursed With such a blight as Famine never cast Over the fields of plenty, withering Alike the grain and the wild wayside bloom, Sweeping across the vast, bright lands of peace, And leaving staring Ruin in its way? Oh! Rome, thou much-wronged child of Romulus, That I might break the seals from off thine eyes, And place a flaming sword within thy hand, A watchword in thine ear--"Endure for her Who is thy rightful mistress, Liberty." A battle-cry upon thy glowing lips, "Onward!" A prayer within thy mighty heart, And prophecy to stir thy godlike soul To action. But the times are ripening! [_A pause._ Could I relate thy wrongs, I would not cease, Nor spare myself, but speaking, sink to earth, Worn with the task. Yet who can number them That are as numberless as Heaven's stars? I say, as I have said to you before, We Romans will again secede, again March, in a body, to the Sacred Mount, And threaten as of old another Rome, A nobler Rome, a Rome unbound and free, To found thereon, or else a revolution, Bloody and merciless and full of horrors, Shall ravage Rome, but we be satisfied. The fire and the sword hath ready tongues; They fawn not to the great, nor spare the high, They lick and bite nor fail in eloquence. So, to the fire and the sword must we Resort; for city, home, and cherished ones Demand that guilty blood, as a libation, Be poured in answer to the blood of Rome, Which crieth to her children from the ground!

[_Exeunt._