_Arnold_. You are not used to talk to me like this.

_Mrs. Arnold_. Nor you to tell me that you are a traitor.

_Arnold_. Perhaps some change is coming over us.

_Mrs. Arnold_. It may be freedom from the load of thought.

_Arnold_. It may be death.

[_She kneels by him in silent anguish._]

_Both Choruses_. Surely truth is not born except through pain; and the long delay increaseth it.

It is a happiness for a young man to see his error. But for an old, only death remains. He hath no strength for new things. Let him die in his old ways, yea, though they be evil.

Very sad is repentance when it is too late; when the blight has fallen, and no fruit cometh thereafter. Very sad is the grief of an old man.

I cannot lay hold of it. There is no comfort to be given him, for he knoweth the world.

_Father Hudson_. What causes the man to see these things now?

_Leader of Men_. What causes thy waters to pour down in March, or the leaf upon your banks to sprout in April? It is because the season fulfils itself; and what is to be, cometh forth, and no one may stop it.

_Both Choruses_. Now may I say that no man is made of iron, or lives beyond the stroke of reproach.

The arrows strike him when he shows it not. The scornful glance of a friend reaches his quick. He suffers very much.

In his last days he betrayeth the havoc. In his fall his wounds are laid bare. The secret of his heart becomes an open book, and a child may read it.

_Arnold_. I would not speak; but the sea-bottom of me Is being raked to the surface. Hold you still; You are the daughter of good Tory folk, And common talk on King and loyalty Had in your ears a meaning and a place Quite strange to mine. For my Rhode Island stock, Grown far afield, and long acclimated, Had dropped all meanings for the name of King, Of Church, of mother country. Such appeals Were like a tinsel fringe of superst.i.tion, Alien imposture. It was all a fraud.

[_He walks across the room, takes the portrait of George III and throws it, not savagely, but with deliberate contempt, into the corner, where it lies shattered._ Mrs. Arnold _remains on her knees and raises her hands in helpless supplication._]

There lies the dog that bit me. Now desist: It is not easy; yet it must come out.

A letter that I wrote to this same King, Or to his secretary, George Germain,-- Imploring favors for my villainy-- If I appear unmanned, it's physical, And needs no moment's thought--The letter's here, [_Takes a letter from his pocket._]

And through its h.e.l.l of shame as through a gate I see Elysian fields, peopled with comrades.

_Mrs. Arnold_. [_Aside._] G.o.d have mercy upon us!

_Arnold_. I'll not read all, but phrases here and there.

[Arnold _reads from the letter with some difficulty and with pauses--but very distinctly._]

"... conscious of the rect.i.tude of my intentions.... that I may be restored to the favor of my most Gracious Sovereign--... cheerfully cast myself at his feet imploring his Royal Grace and Protection....

the unalterable attachment to the Person, Family, and Interests of my Sovereign, and to the Glory of his reign.--..."

[_He throws the letter quietly on the table. To_ Mrs. Arnold.]

West Point I did deliberately betray: I begged the post intending to betray it.

All was conceived before I married you.

_Mrs. Arnold_. [_As before._] G.o.d have mercy upon us!

_Arnold_. They must pet me then, To show that loyal treason reaps reward.

'Twas policy, not liking for my face, That made King George so sweet.

What in this world of savage Englishmen, Strange monsters that they are, have you and I Found of a country? Friends, good hearts and true; But alien as the mountains of the moon, More unrelated than the Polander, Are Englishmen to us. They are a race, A selfish, brawling family of hounds, Holding a secret contract on each fang, 'For us,' 'for us,' 'for us.' They'll fawn about; But when the prey's divided;--Keep away!

I have some beef about me and bear up Against an insolence as basely set As mine own infamy; yet I have been Edged to the outer cliff. I have been weak, And played too much the lackey. What am I In this waste, empty, cruel, land of England, Save an old castaway,--a buccaneer,-- The hull of derelict Ambition,-- Without a mast or spar, the rudder gone, A danger to mankind!

[_He sits down upon the couch._ Mrs. Arnold _throws herself on his knees and sobs convulsively._]

_Both Choruses_. Who shall praise a woman, save He that made her, save G.o.d that understandeth all things?

I will sing a song of woman, and magnify the wife of a man's soul. His goodness she has discerned when no man else can find it: his crimes are known to her, yet is he not in them: she seeketh his soul among many.

She divineth salvation out of h.e.l.l; and bringeth water from the desert.

Who shall praise a woman save He that made her; save G.o.d who understandeth all things?

_Father Hudson_. Sorrow is erecting a tomb for this man in my heart.

Whence comes the peculiar pang, my children? Whence comes this pity that will not be denied, but bedews your faces?

_Leader of Men_. From the greatness of the man, comes it Father; and from his ignorance of himself.

_Father Hudson_. Is it true that he was a hero?

_Leader of Men_. Such a hero as antiquity can show, towering, magnificent, made of cloud and thunder, made of lightning and glory, a G.o.d among fighting men, a Hector or Mars appearing from the bosom of the sky on the day of battle, bringing victory.

No one had seen his like before; nor since him has one like him come.

To his country he gave the column of his strength. In her need he sustained her. He planted her high. His name became bulwark: many times gave he his strength. Yea, his life also grudged he not.

_Father Hudson_. Would he had died in his glory, would he had been struck down and died long ago! So had he been spared this humiliation.

On my sh.o.r.es he belongs: the memory of his infamy and of his fame covers me: Saratoga knew him, and West Point acknowledges him. No tomb shall he have; yet shall the hills remember him. His glory is eaten up in shame; and yet shall mercy say her word. See, he begins again.

What new anguish will he reveal?

Arnold. [_He has now recovered his composure._]

Where are the boys? If death be soon to come I'd gladly see them. Is it not most strange That one possessing nothing to bequeath Of all those things men covet for their sons, Should have so many? For what rank or name, Honor or fatherland, or worldly goods, All that men sweat for,--have I here to leave?

Country I've none. My land was over there Where my first honors sprouted. And my boys Are foreigners,--young Englishmen--brought up Upon King George's bounty. When he bought My loyalty he took my children, too.

Ben, he is dead, my eldest,--he was killed In the West Indies, fighting for the King.

Sir Grenville Temple brought me back his sword.

(G.o.d bless him for it!) Send and fetch down Ben's sword.

[Mrs. Arnold _rings. Enter servant. She speaks to servant in dumb-show. Exit servant._]

Richard and Henry, your two foster sons, Settled in Canada on royal grants.

And our four sons,--your Edward, Robert, George And little William,--are all pensioners, a.s.sisted servants of the English crown.

Where are they? I must see them. It is strange That I, remembering them, can yet not think Quite plainly where they are.