THE MAN. O youngest born of Satan's brood!--(_He paces up and down the hall, speaking to himself_:) Dreams, dreams, beautiful dreams--but their realization is impossible! Who could achieve them? Adam died in the desert--the flaming sword still guards the gates--we are never more to enter Paradise! In vain we dream!
PANCRATIUS (_aside_). I have driven the probe to the core of his heart; I have struck the electric nerve of Poetry, which quivers through the very base of his complicated being!
THE MAN. Progress of humanity; universal happiness; I once believed them possible! There--there--take my head--my life--if that were possi--.... (_He sighs, and is silent for a moment._) It is past! two centuries ago it might have been--but now.... But now I have seen and know there will be nothing but assassination and murder--murder on either side--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 preëminent 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!