e--nothing
can satisfy now but an unceasing war of mutual extermination!

PANCRATIUS. Woe then to the vanquished! Falter not, seeker of universal
happiness! Cry but once with us: '_Woe to the oppressors of the
people_!' and stand preeminent o'er all, the First among the Victors!

THE MAN. Have you already explored all the paths in the dark and unknown
country of the Future? Did Destiny, withdrawing at midnight the curtains
of your tent, stand visibly before you, and, placing her giant hand upon
your scheming brain, impress upon it the mystic seal of victory? or in
the heat of midday, when the world slept, and you alone were watching,
did she glide pale, pitiless, and stern before you, and promise
conquest, that you thus threaten me with defeat and ruin? You are but a
man of clay as fragile as my own, and may be the victim of the first
well-aimed ball, the first sharp thrust of the sword! Your life, like
mine, hangs on a single thread, and you have no immunity from death!

PANCRATIUS. Dreams! idle dreams! Oh do not deceive yourself with hopes
so vain, for no bullet aimed by man will reach me, no sword will pierce
me, while a single member of your haughty caste remains capable of
resisting the task which it is my destiny to fulfil. And what doom
soever may befall me, after its completion, count, will be too late to
offer you the least advantage. (_The clock strikes._) Hark! time
flies--and scorns us both!

If you are weary of your own life, save at least your unfortunate son!

THE MAN. His pure soul is already saved in heaven: on earth he must
share the fate of his father.

His head sinks heavily, and remains for some time buried in his
hands.

PANCRATIUS. You reject too all hope for him?... (_Pauses._) Nay--you are
silent--you reflect--it is well: reflection becomes him who stands upon
the brink of the grave!

THE MAN. Away! away! Back from the passionate mysteries now surging
through the depths of my soul! Profane them not with a word; they lie
beyond your sphere!

The rough, wide world belongs to you; feed it with meat; flood it with
wine; but press not into the holy secrets of my heart! Away! away from
me, framer of material bliss!

PANCRATIUS. Shame upon you, warrior, scholar, poet, and yet the slave of
one idea and its dying forms! Thought and form are wax beneath my
plastic fingers!

THE MAN. In vain would you seek to follow my thoughts; you will never
understand me, for all your forefathers