y
Old country airs with plaintive rhythm recurring,
Where lurk sweet echoes of the dear home-voices,
Each note of which calls like a little sister,
Those airs slow, slow ascending, as the smoke-wreaths
Rise from the hearthstones of our native hamlets,
Their music strikes the ear like Gascon patois!. . .
(The old man seats himself, and gets his flute ready):
Your flute was now a warrior in durance;
But on its stem your fingers are a-dancing
A bird-like minuet! O flute! Remember
That flutes were made of reeds first, not laburnum;
Make us a music pastoral days recalling--
The soul-time of your youth, in country pastures!. . .
(The old man begins to play the airs of Languedoc):
Hark to the music, Gascons!. . .'Tis no longer
The piercing fife of camp--but 'neath his fingers
The flute of the woods! No more the call to combat,
'Tis now the love-song of the wandering goat-herds!. . .
Hark!. . .'tis the valley, the wet landes, the forest,
The sunburnt shepherd-boy with scarlet beret,
The dusk of evening on the Dordogne river,--
'Tis Gascony! Hark, Gascons, to the music!

(The cadets sit with bowed heads; their eyes have a far-off look as if
dreaming, and they surreptitiously wipe away their tears with their cuffs and
the corner of their cloaks.)

CARBON (to Cyrano in a whisper):
But you make them weep!

CYRANO:
Ay, for homesickness. A nobler pain than hunger,--'tis of the soul, not of
the body! I am well pleased to see their pain change its viscera. Heart-ache
is better than stomach-ache.

CARBON:
But you weaken their courage by playing thus on their heart-strings!

CYRANO (making a sign to a drummer to approach):
Not I. The hero that sleeps in Gascon blood is ever ready to awake in them.
'Twould suffice. . .

(He makes a signal; the drum beats.)

ALL THE CADETS (stand up and rush to take arms):
What? What is it?

CYRANO (smiling):
You see! One roll of the drum is enough! Good-by dreams, regrets, native
land, love. . .All that the pipe called forth the drum has chased away!

A CADET (looking toward the back of the stage):
Ho! here comes Monsieur de Guiche.

ALL THE CADETS (muttering):
Ugh!. . .Ugh!. . .

CYRANO (smiling):
A flattering welcome!

A CADET:
We are sick to death of him!

ANOTHER CADET:
--With his lace collar over his armor, playing the fine gentleman!

ANOTHER:
As if one wore linen over steel!

THE FIRST:
It