Works

'It happened in 1803,' began my old acquaintance, 'not long before Austerlitz. The regiment in which I was an officer was quartered in Moravia.
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Somewhere, sometime, long, long ago, I read a poem. It was soon forgotten ... but the first line has stuck in my memory -

'How fair, how fresh were the roses ...'
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WORKMAN. Why do you come crawling up to us? What do ye want? You're none of us.... Get along!

MAN WITH WHITE HANDS. I am one of you, comrades!
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'Thou shalt hear the fool's judgment....' You always told the truth, O great singer of ours. You spoke it this time, too.
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