table, and dipping her handkerchief in a glass
of water):
Give here!

CYRANO (sitting by her):
So soft! so gay maternal-sweet!

ROXANE:
And tell me, while I wipe away the blood,
How many 'gainst you?

CYRANO:
Oh! A hundred--near.

ROXANE:
Come, tell me!

CYRANO:
No, let be. But you, come tell
The thing, just now, you dared not. . .

ROXANE (keeping his hand):
Now, I dare!
The scent of those old days emboldens me!
Yes, now I dare. Listen. I am in love.

CYRANO:
Ah!. . .

ROXANE:
But with one who knows not.

CYRANO:
Ah!. . .

ROXANE:
Not yet.

CYRANO:
Ah!. . .

ROXANE:
But who, if he knows not, soon shall learn.

CYRANO:
Ah!. . .

ROXANE:
A poor youth who all this time has loved
Timidly, from afar, and dares not speak. . .

CYRANO:
Ah!. . .

ROXANE:
Leave your hand; why, it is fever-hot!--
But I have seen love trembling on his lips.

CYRANO:
Ah!. . .

ROXANE (bandaging his hand with her handkerchief):
And to think of it! that he by chance--
Yes, cousin, he is of your regiment!

CYRANO:
Ah!. . .

ROXANE (laughing):
--Is cadet in your own company!

CYRANO:
Ah!. . .

ROXANE:
On his brow he bears the genius-stamp;
He is proud, noble, young, intrepid, fair. . .

CYRANO (rising suddenly, very pale):
Fair!

ROXANE:
Why, what ails you?

CYRANO:
Nothing; 'tis. . .
(He shows his hand, smiling):
This scratch!

ROXANE:
I love him; all is said. But you must know
I have only seen him at the Comedy. . .

CYRANO:
How? You have never spoken?

ROXANE:
Eyes can speak.

CYRANO:
How know you then that he. . .?

ROXANE:
Oh! people talk
'Neath the limes in the Place Royale. . .
Gossip's chat
Has let me know. . .

CYRANO:
He is cadet?

ROXANE:
In the Guards.

CYRANO:
His name?

ROXANE:
Baron Christian de Neuvillette.

CYRANO:
How now?. . .He is not of the Guards!

ROXANE:
To-day
He is not join your ranks, under Captain
Carbon de Castel-Jaloux.

CYRANO:
Ah, how quick,
How quick the heart has flown!. . .But, my poor child. . .

THE DUENNA (opening the door):
The cakes are eaten, Monsieur Bergerac!

CYRANO:
Then read the verses printed on the bags!
(She goes out):
. . .My poor child, you who love but flowing words,
Bright wit,--what if he be a lout unskilled?

ROXANE:
No, his bright locks, like D'Urfe's heroes. . .

CYRAN