ogs from that scrap anyway. And, yes, Antony _was_ good
at orating. He was great at orating over dead men--especially dead
"friends" (as he called his rivals) and dead enemies. Brutus was "the
noblest Roman of them all" when Antony came across him stiff later on.
Now when I die--

Octavius, by the way, orated over Antony and his dusky hussy later on
in Egypt, and they were the most "famous pair" in the world. I wonder
whether the grim humour of it struck Octavius _then_: but then that
young man seemed to have but little brains and less humour.

But now they go to see about settling the matter with ironmongery. You
can imagine the fight; the heat and the dust, for it was spring in a
climate like ours. The bullocking, sweating, grunting, slaughter, the
crack and clash and rattle as of fire-irons in a fender. The bad Latin
language; the running away and chasing _en masse_ and by individuals.
The mutual pauses, the truces or spells--"smoke-ho's" we'd call
'em--between masses and individuals. The battered-in, lost, discarded or
stolen helmets; the blood-stained, dinted, and loosened armour with bits
missing, and the bloody and grotesque bandages. The confusion amongst
the soldiers, as it is to-day--the ignorance of one wing as to the
fate of the other, of one party as to the fate of the other, of one
individual as to the fate of another:

Brutus: Ride, ride, Messala, ride, and give these bills [directions
to officers]
Unto the legions on the other side:

Poor Cassius, routed and in danger of being surrounded, and thinking
Brutus is in the same plight, or a prisoner or dead--and that Titinius
is taken or killed--gets his bondman, whose life he once saved, to kill
him in return for his freedom.

Stand not to answer: here, take thou the hilts;
And when my face is cover 'd, as 'tis now,
Guide thou the sword.
Caesar, thou art revenged,
Even with the sword that kill'd thee.

Good-bye, Cassius, old chap!

Titinius and Messala, coming too late, find Cassius dead; and Titinius,
being left alone while Messala takes the news to Brutus, kills himself
with Cassius's sword. Titinius, farewell!

Come Brutus and those that are left.

Brutus: Where, where, Messala, doth his body lie?

Messala: Lo, yonder, and Titinius mourning it.

Brutus: Titinius' face is upward.

Cato: He is slain.