Page:The collected works of Henrik Ibsen (Volume 5).djvu/339

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What? You do not know me? Are you not Phocion the dyer? Are you not the son of?

I am not the son of anybody. Get you gone, woman! You are mad! I do not know you; I have never seen you.

[He hastens in among the crowd.   [With soldiers, from the right.] Clear the way here! [''The soldiers force the multitude back towards the houses. Old faints in the arms of the women on the left. All gaze expectantly down the street.''

[In a knot of people behind the guard, to the right.] Yes, by the Sun-God, there he comes, the blessed Emperor!

Do not push so, behind there!

Can you see him? The man with the white fillet round his brow, that is the Emperor.

The man all in white?

Yes, yes, that is he.