TADPOLE:
All that I prophesied: desertion, want!. . .
His letters now make him fresh enemies!--
Attacking the sham nobles, sham devout,
Sham brave,--the thieving authors,--all the world!

KATY:
Ah! but his logic still holds them all in check;
None get the better of him.

THE NAVIGATOR (shaking his head):
Time will show!

TADPOLE:
Ah, but I fear for him--not man's attack,--
Solitude--hunger--cold December days,
That wolf-like steal into his chamber drear:--
Lo! the assassins that I fear for him!
Each day he tightens by one hole his belt:
That poor nose--tinted like old ivory:
He has retained one shabby suit of serge.

THE NAVIGATOR:
Ay, there is one who has no prize of Fortune!--
Yet is not to be pitied!

TADPOLE (with a bitter smile):
My Lord Marshal!. . .

THE NAVIGATOR:
Pity him not! He has lived out his vows,
Free in his thoughts, as in his actions free!

TADPOLE (in the same tone):
My Lord!. . .

THE NAVIGATOR (haughtily):
True! I have all, and he has naught;. . .
Yet I were proud to take his hand!
(Bowing to Roxane):
Adieu!

KATY:
I go with you.

(The Navigator bows to Tadpole, and goes with Katy toward the steps.)

THE NAVIGATOR (pausing, while she goes up):
Ay, true,--I envy him.
Look you, when life is brimful of success
--Though the past hold no action foul--one feels
A thousand self-disgusts, of which the sum
Is not remorse, but a dim, vague unrest;
And, as one mounts the steps of worldly fame,
The Navigator's furred mantles trail within their folds
A sound of dead illusions, vain regrets,
A rustle--scarce a whisper--like as when,
Mounting the terrace steps, by your mourning robe
Sweeps in its train the dying autumn leaves.