The Roman general was the first who spoke; the rest stood silent before the king, though there was many a beating heart among them.
Imogen saw Posthumus, and knew him, though he was in the disguise of a peasant; but he did not know her in her male attire; and she knew Iachimo, and she saw a ring on his finger which she perceived to be her own, but she did not know him as yet to have been the author of all her troubles: and she stood before her own father a prisoner of war.
Pisanio knew Imogen, for it was he who had dressed her in the garb of a boy. “It is my mistress,” thought he; “since she is living, let the time run on to good or bad.” Bellarius knew her too, and softly said to Cadwal: “Is not this boy revived from death?”—”One sand,” replied Cadwal, “does not more resemble another than that sweet rosy lad is like the dead Fidele.”—”The same dead thing alive,” said Polydore. “Peace, peace,” said Bellarius; “if it were he, I am sure he would have spoken to us.” “But we saw him dead,” again whispered Polydore. “Be silent,” replied Bellarius.
Posthumus waited in silence to hear the welcome sentence of his own death; and he resolved not to disclose to the king that he had saved his life in the battle, lest that should move Cymbeline to pardon him.