_Father Hudson_. When will ye leave the man, thou empty ghost?
_Treason_. When Treason in the flesh shall come to meet him.
_Both Choruses_. Surely it is a good thing for a hero to die in his youth; for then is he perfect. The bark is not broken on the wand nor the neck worn by the yoke.
Surely young men are better than old; and we praise them deservedly.
This man, a few years since, could endure reverse; but now he is broken and worn away: his soul bows down; he cannot hold out longer.
It is a good thing when a young hero dies; for so is he safe. His immortality is meted to him. O spare us a trial like this man"s who is on the brink of great misfortune.
_Arnold_. [_Starting up._] They have betrayed me! Who goes there?
[_Enter_ Joshua Smith. _Exit_ Treason.]
_Joshua Smith_. A friend!
_Arnold._ His name?
_Joshua Smith_. Joshua Smith. And yours?
_Arnold_. Arnold, my man. Good G.o.d! you startled me. I must have slept. What news? Will Andre come?
_Joshua Smith_. He"s just behind me.
All is as we planned.
The British sloop-of-war hangs in the tide.
The _Vulture_ brought him, and she waits for him Not two miles to the south. I boarded her. With every point Raised in your letters Andre is agreed; And back of him, Sir Henry Clinton stands; And back of _him_,--ye"ll hear it now?--King George!
Packt, stamped upon, agreed, and understood, The bargain"s struck. Your hand, my Lord! Sir Benedict!
Lord Ruler Benedict, The Lord Protector of the Colonies, And Duke of,--what you will. Young Andre follows.
I chased ahead to find you. Put it high!
You"ll put the figure high?--I"m out of breath--
_Arnold_. I"ll put it high enough to help a friend.-- No fear of that, my lad. Go rest awhile: Stand sentinel upon the sh.o.r.e below.
[_Exit_ Smith. _As he goes out he indicates_ Arnold _to_ Andre _by a gesture. Enter_ Andre. _His slender, refined, almost girlish youth is in contrast with_ Arnold"s _battle-worn, gigantic figure._]
_Arnold_. [_Aside._] At last my arrows strike!
[_To_ Andre.] What! Major Andre!
This is a crazy meeting,--somewhat strange After your jigging nights in Philadelphia,-- A _Mischianza_, where we play a masque, And act a drama fraught with consequence More serious than any since the Duke Brought back King Charles. Two true-born Englishmen, If you"ll accept my hand, shall this day place A jewel in old England"s diadem, Which some rash spirits would shake out of it.
_Andre_. Have you the papers ready?
_Arnold_. They are here; The plans of all the out-posts to the dot, And every man on duty in the Fortress.
_Andre_. The general is in Hartford?
_Arnold_. And returns Not for some days. Our garrison I"ll post Distributively on the distant hills; While from the _Vulture_ half a thousand men Land in the darkness. Thus without a blow, But with the magic of a countersign, West Point becomes your own.
_Andre_. Is there some house Or tavern, where with more deliberate mind We may o"erlook the papers, and make note Of our exacter meanings?
_Arnold_. Close at hand, The mansion of my agent, Joshua Smith.
_Andre_. Good, we"ll go there. O Arnold, death is nothing; Our lives are forfeit to our country"s cause.
Which of us would not quit the world in peace After some act that scaled the walls of time, And stood on the rampart?
_Arnold_. Right, and bravely said! I"ve given my life As many times as I have mounted horse To reconnoitre--
_Andre_. But this is different, Arnold.
_Arnold_. Different, ay different! it saves men"s lives: Without a drop of blood it ends a war.
_Andre_. You are a veteran, and know the feel Of imminent death. I could die bravely, too.
_Arnold_. Of course you could. All fear is bookish talk Cooked up by writers out of literature, To give the shudder to dyspeptic girls.
Dying is easy. Come along, my friend!
A gla.s.s of port shall cure us of such fears; Moments like this make mirth in after years.
[_Exeunt_ Arnold _and_ Andre.]
_Father Hudson_. Is there no way to stop them; can ye not Bring pause to these excited rushing men?
_Leader of Men_. Pause is unknown, as to your moving waters, That take their G.o.d-directed, downward course, Deaf to beseechment.
_Father Hudson_. "Tis most pitiful.
_Both Choruses_. No, not to mirth can my voice be tuned, while these two men converse. Often their story comes to me in the night, and causes weeping.
One, the young troubadour, the boy poet, beloved by all, burning for fame; and, in his innocence, he performs the mean work of a spy.
And the other, the old hero, seven times baptized with immortality-in-action, who betrays his country out of foolishness.
To the first, death by hanging: to the second, one and twenty years of dishonored life.
Which of them shall have most of pity? Which of them could we see again with gladness, or greet with a gay demeanor?
The fate of the young man I deem the better; because he is young, and because death took him in his beauty.
Strange it is what souls are woven together by destiny; and out of what substance life is wrought.
All men become something incredible to themselves; for they are unwound like a coc.o.o.n, and know not which way the thread doth run.
They dance like motes in the sunbeam for a moment, and then are illumined no more. Legend takes some of them, and they become pictures; and the rest, it would seem, enter again into nothingness.
Grant me to know the desire of mine own heart beforehand; that I may not be deceived. Give me not much, but a true thing, and one that lasts forever.
[_The distant sound of cannonading is heard._]
_Father Hudson_. Surely I hear a sound disquieting--