I ran--I saw. . .

LE BRET:
'Tis hideous!

RAGUENEAU:
Saw our poet, Sir--our friend--
Struck to the ground--a large wound in his head!

LE BRET:
He's dead?

RAGUENEAU:
No--but--I bore him to his room. . .
Ah! his room! What a thing to see!--that garret!

LE BRET:
He suffers?

RAGUENEAU:
No, his consciousness has flown.

LE BRET:
Saw you a doctor?

RAGUENEAU:
One was kind--he came.

LE BRET:
My poor Cyrano!--We must not tell this