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Good night, Titinius: noble, noble Cassius,
Good night, and good repose!

That old fool of a Cassius–remorseful old smooth-bore–is still a bit maudlin–maybe he had another swig at the wine when Shakespeare wasn’t looking.

Cassius: O my dear brother!
This was an ill beginning of the night
Never come such division ‘tween our souls!
Let it not, Brutus.

Brutus: Everything is well.

Cassius: Good night, my lord.

Brutus: Good sight, good brother.

Titinius and Messala: Good night, Lord Brutus.

Brutus: Farewell, every one.

And Cassius is the man whom Caesar denounced as having a lean and hungry look: “Let me have men about me that are fat . . . such men are dangerous.” (Mr Archibald held with that–and he had a lean, if not a hungry, look too.) When Antony put in a word for Cassius, Caesar said that he wished he was fatter anyhow. “He thinks too much,” Caesar said to Antony. He read a lot; he could look through men; he never went to the theatre, and heard no music; he never smiled except as if grinning sarcastically at himself for “being moved to smile at anything.” Caesar said that such men were never at heart’s ease while they could see a bigger man than themselves, and therefore such men were dangerous. “Come on my right hand, for this ear is deaf, and tell me truly what thou think’st of him.” (That’s a touch, for deafness in people affected that way is usually greater in the left ear.)

When Lucilius returned from taking a message from Brutus to Cassius re the loan of the fivers aforementioned and other matters–and before the arrival of Cassius with his horse and foot, and the quarrel–Brutus asked Lucilius what sort of a reception he had, and being told “With courtesy and respect enough,” he remarked, “Thou hast described a hot friend cooling,” and so on. But Cassius will cool no more until death cools him to-morrow at Philippi.

The rare gentleness of Brutus’s character–and of the characters of thousands of other bosses in trouble–is splendidly, and ah! so softly, pictured in the tent with his servants after the departure of the others. It is a purely domestic scene without a hint of home, women, or children–save that they themselves are big children. The scene now has the atmosphere of a soft, sad nightfall, after a long, long, hot and weary day full of toil and struggle and trouble–though it is really well on towards morning.

Lucius comes in with the gown. Brutus says, “Give me the gown,” and asks where his (Lucius’s) musical instrument is, and Lucius replies that it’s here in the tent. Brutus notices that he speaks drowsily. “Poor knave, I blame thee not, thou are o’er-watched.” He tells him to call Claudius and some other of his men: “I’d have them sleep on cushions in my tent.” They come. He tells them he might have to send them on business by and by to his “brother” Cassius, and bids them lie down and sleep, calling them sirs. They say they’ll stand and watch his pleasure. “I will not have it so; lie down, good sirs.” He finds, in the pocket of his gown, a book he’d been hunting high and low for–and had evidently given Lucius a warm time about–and he draws Lucius’s attention to the fact:

Look, Lucius, here’s the book I sought for so:
I put it in the pocket of my gown.

Lucius: I was sure your lordship did not give it to me.

Brutus: Bear with me, good boy, I am much forgetful, etc.

He asks Lucius if he can hold up his heavy eyes and touch his instrument a strain or two. But better give it all–it’s not long:

Lucius: Ay, my lord, an’t please you.

Brutus: It does, my boy:
I trouble thee too much, but thou art willing.

Lucius: It is my duty, sir.

Brutus: I should not urge thy duty past thy might;
I know young bloods look for a time of rest.