“And now he thinks: ‘The Empire is tottering,
There’s little chance of victory.’
Then, creeping furtively backwards, he tries to slink away.
Remain, renegade, in the building!
“‘The ceiling falls,’ you say! ‘if they see me
They will seize and stop me as I go,’
Daring neither to rest nor fly, you miserably watch the roof
And then the door,
“And shiveringly you put your hand upon the bolt.
Back into the dismal ranks!
Back! Justice, whom they have thrust into a pit,
Is there in the darkness.
“Back! She is there, her sides bleeding from their knives,
Prostrate; and on her grave
They have placed a slab. The skirt of your cloak
Is caught beneath the stone.
“Thou shalt not go! What! Quit their house!
And fly from their fate!
What! Would you betray even treachery itself,
And make even it indignant?
“What! Did you not hold the ladder to these tricksters
In open daylight?
Say, was the sack for these robbers’ booty
Not made by you beforehand?
“Falsehood, Hate, with its cold and venomous fang,
Crouch in this den.
And thou wouldst leave it! Thou! more cunning than Falsehood,
More viperous than Hate.”