Soldiers. 
     —­There it is! 
     —­There what? 
     —­The tower—­the fortress—­
     —­That the tower!—­
     —­That mouse-trap!  We could pitch it down the rocks
     With our own hands. 
     —­The rocks it hangs among
     Dwarf its proportions and conceal its strength;
     Larger and stronger than you think. 
     —­No matter;
     No place for Poland’s Prince to be shut up in. 
     At it at once!

     Capt. 
     No—­no—­I tell you wait—­
     Till those within give signal.  For as yet
     We know not who side with us, and the fort
     Is strong in man and musket.

     Sol. 
     Shame to wait
     For odds with such a cause at stake.

     Capt. 
     Because
     Of such a cause at stake we wait for odds—­
     For if not won at once, for ever lost: 
     For any long resistance on their part
     Would bring Basilio’s force to succour them
     Ere we had rescued him we come to rescue. 
     So softly, softly, softly, still—­

     A soldier (discovering Fife). 
     Hilloa!

     Soldiers. 
     —­Hilloa!  Here’s some one skulking—­
     —­Seize and gag him! 
     —­Stab him at once, say I:  the only way
     To make all sure. 
     —­Hold, every man of you! 
     And down upon your knees!—­Why, ’tis the Prince! 
     —­The Prince!—­
     —­Oh, I should know him anywhere,
     And anyhow disguised. 
     —­But the Prince is chain’d. 
     —­And of a loftier presence—­
     —­’Tis he, I tell you;
     Only bewilder’d as he was before. 
     God save your Royal Highness!  On our knees
     Beseech you answer us!

     Fife. 
     Just as you please. 
     Well—­’tis this country’s custom, I suppose,
     To take a poor man every now and then
     And set him on the throne; just for the fun
     Of tumbling him again into the dirt. 
     And now my turn is come.  ’Tis very pretty.

     Sol. 
     His wits have been distemper’d with their drugs. 
     But do you ask him, Captain.

     Capt. 
     On my knees,
     And in the name of all who kneel with me,
     I do beseech your Highness answer to
     Your royal title.

     Fife. 
     Still, just as you please. 
     In my own poor opinion of myself—­
     But that may all be dreaming, which it seems
     Is very much the fashion in this country
     No Polish prince at all, but a poor lad
     From Muscovy; where only help me back,
     I promise never to contest the crown
     Of Poland with whatever gentleman
     You fancy to set up.

     Soldiers. 
     —­From Muscovy? 
     —­A spy then—­
     —­Of Astolfo’s—­
     —­Spy! a spy
     —­Hang him at once!