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procession of Apollo has to stand still while the other, with the prisoners—men in chains, surrounded by soldiers, and accompanied by a great concourse of people—passes on.

My child! Hilarion!

[Among the prisoners.] Rejoice, my mother! Poor deluded creatures! When I hear madness thus speaking in you, I almost doubt whether I have the right to punish you. [Among the prisoners.] Stand aside; take not from us our crown of thorns. Night and horror,—what voice is that? 'Twas this one, sire, who spoke. [He pushes one of the prisoners forward, a young man, who leads a half-grown lad by the hand.

[With a cry.] Agathon!

[ looks at him, and is silent.

Agathon, Agathon! Answer me; are you not Agathon?

I am.