Chapter III: Act THE SECOND: Scene I

_MADELON's Apartment._

_LA GLOIRE and MADELON discovered. MADELON seated at a Table covered with Eatables, Wines, &c. LA GLOIRE standing near the Table._

_La Gloire._ Blessings on her heart, how cleverly she feeds! the meat goes as naturally into her little mouth, as if it had been used to the road all the time of the famine: though, Heaven knows, 'tis a path that has, lately, been little frequented.

_Madelon._ A votre sante, mon ami;--your health, La Gloire.
[_Drinks._

_La Gloire._ Nay, I'll answer thee in that, though bumpers were Englishmen, and went against my French stomach. [_Takes Wine._] Heaven bless thee, my poor Madelon! May a woman never tumble into the mire of distress; and, if she is in, ill befall him that won't help her clean out again. [_Drinks._

_Madelon._ There; enough.
[_Comes from Table._

_La Gloire._ So: one kiss for a bonne bouche.--[_Kisses her._]--Dost love me the better for this feast, now, Madelon?

_Madelon._ No, truly, not a jot. I love you e'en as well before dinner as after.

_La Gloire._ What a jewel is regular affection!--to love, equally, through the week, maigre days, and all! I cannot but own a full meal makes an improvement in the warmth of my feelings. I can eat and drink myself into a glow of tenderness, that fasting can never come up to. And what hast thou done in my absence, Madelon?

_Madelon._ Little, La Gloire, but grieve with the rest. I have thought on you; gone to confession in the morning; seemed happy, in the day, to cheer my poor old father:--but my heart was bursting, La Gloire:--and, at night, by myself, I looked at this little cross you gave me, and cried.

_La Gloire._ [_Smothering his Tears._] Madelon, I,--I--I want another draught of burgundy. [_Drinks._

_Madelon._ Once, indeed,--I thought it was hard,--Father Antony enjoined me penance, for thinking so much about you.

_La Gloire._ An old----What, by putting peas in your shoes, as usual?

_Madelon._ Yes; but, as it happened, I escaped.

_La Gloire._ Ay, marry! how?

_Madelon._ Why, as the famine pressed, the holy fathers had boiled all our punishments, in puddings for the convent; and there was not a penitential pea left in the town.

_La Gloire._ O, gluttony! to deprive the innocent of their hard, dry penances, and apply them, soft, to their own offending stomachs! I never could abide these pampered friars. They are the pot-bellied children of the Pope, nursed at the bosom of old mother church; and plaguy chubby boys they are. One convent of them, in a town, breeds a famine sooner than an English blockade. But, what says thy father within, here, Madelon, to our marriage?

_Madelon._ Truly, he has no objection, but in respect to your being a soldier.

_La Gloire._ Sacre bleu! object to my carrying arms! my glory! my pride!

_Madelon._ Pr'ythee, now, 'tis not for that.

_La Gloire._ Degrade my profession!--my--look ye, Madelon; I love thee with all my heart--with an honest soldier's heart--else I could tell your father, that a citizen could never get on in the world, without a soldier to do his journey-work:--and your soldier, look ye--'sblood! it makes me fret like a hot day's march!--your soldier, in all nations, when he is rusted down to your quiet citizen, and so sets up at home for himself, is in double respect, for having served such an honourable apprenticeship.

_Madelon._ Nay, now, La Gloire, my father meant not----

_La Gloire._ Marry, I would tell your father this to his teeth; which, were it not for my captain and me--two soldiers, mark you me--might not, haply, have been so soon set a going.

_Madelon._ Ungenerous! I could not have spoken such cutting words to you, La Gloire.--My poor father only meant, that the wars might separate us. But I had a remedy for that, too, for all your unkindness.

_La Gloire._ Pish!--remedy?--well--psha!--what was the remedy, Madelon?

_Madelon._ Why, I could have followed you to the camp.

_La Gloire._ And wouldst thou follow me then?

_Madelon._ Ay, surely, La Gloire: I could follow him I love all over the world.

_La Gloire._ And bear the fatigue of a campaign, Madelon?

_Madelon._ Any thing with you, La Gloire. I warrant us, we should be happy enough. Ay, and I could be useful too. I could pack your knapsack; sing canzonets with you, to make us merry on a day's march; mix in the soldier's dance upon occasion; and, at sun-set, I would dress up our little tent, as neat as any captain's in the field: then, at supper, La Gloire, we should be as cheerful!----

_La Gloire._ Now could I cut my tongue out for what I have said!--Cuff me; slap my face, Madelon; then kiss me, and forgive me: and, if ever I bestride my great war-horse again, and let him run away with me, and trample over the heart of my best friends, I wish he may kick me off, and break my neck in a ditch for my pains.--But--what--ha! ha!--what should we do with our children, Madelon?

_Madelon._ Ah! mon Dieu! I had forgot that:--but if your endeavours be honest, La Gloire, Providence will take care of them, I warrant you.

DUETT. LA GLOIRE AND MADELON.

Madelon. _Could you to battle march away,_
_And leave me here complaining?_
_I'm sure 'twould break my heart to stay,_
_When you are gone campaigning._

_Ah! non, non, non!_
_Pauvre Madelon_
_Could never quit her rover:_
_Ah! non, non, non!_
_Pauvre Madelon_
_Would go with you all the world over._

La Gloire. _No, no, my love! ah! do not grieve;_
_A soldier true you'll find me:_
_I could not have the heart to leave_
_My little girl behind me._

_Ah! non, non, non!_
_Pauvre Madelon_
_Should never quit her rover:_
_Ah! non, non, non!_
_Pauvre Madelon_
_Should go with me all the world over._

Both. _Then let the world jog as it will,_
_Let hollow friends forsake us,_
_We both shall be as happy still_
_As war and love can make us._

_Ah! non, non, non!_
_Pauvre Madelon_
_Shall never quit her rover:_
_Ah! non, non, non,!_
_Pauvre Madelon_
_Shall go with {you/me} all the world over._

_La Gloire._ By the mass, Madelon, such a wife as thou wilt be, would make a man, after another campaign,--for another I must have, to satisfy the cravings of my appetite,--go nigh to forswear the wars.

_Madelon._ Ah, La Gloire! would it were so! but the sound of a trumpet will ever lead thee after it.

_La Gloire._ Tut--a trumpet!--thy voice, Madelon, will drown it.

_Madelon._ Ah, La Gloire!
[_Shaking her Head._

_La Gloire._ Nay, then, I am the veriest poltroon, if I think the sound of a trumpet would move me any more than--[_A Parley is sounded from the Walls._]--Eh!--gad--oh!--ecod there's a bustle! a parley from the walls; which may end in a skirmish, or a battle--or a--I'll be with you again in the chopping off of a head.

_Madelon._ Nay, now, La Gloire, I thought the sound of a trumpet----

_La Gloire._ A trumpet--simpleton!--that was a--gad I--wasn't it a drum?--Adieu, Madelon! I'll be back again ere--[_Parley._]----March! --Charge!--Huzza! [_Draws his Sword, and exit._

_Madelon._ Well-a-day! a soldier's wife must have a fearful time on't. Yet do I love La Gloire; he is so kind, so tender!--and he has, simply, the best leg in the army. Heigho!--It must feel very odd to sleep in a tent:--a camp must be ever in alarms, and soldiers always ready for surprise.--Dame Toinette, who married a corporal, ere I was born, told me, that, for one whole campaign, her husband went to bed in his boots.

SONG.--MADELON.

_Little thinks the townsman's wife,_
_While at home she tarries,_
_What must be the lass's life,_
_Who a soldier marries._
_Now with weary marching spent,_
_Dancing now before the tent,_
_Lira, lira, lira, lira, lira la,_
_With her jolly soldier._

_In the camp, at night, she lies,_
_Wind and weather scorning,_
_Only grieved her love must rise,_
_And quit her in the morning;_
_But the doubtful skirmish done,_
_Blithe she sings at set of sun;_
_Lira, lira, lira, lira, lira la,_
_With her jolly soldier._

_Should the captain of her dear_
_Use his vain endeavour,_
_Whisp'ring nonsense in her ear,_
_Two fond hearts to sever,_
_At his passion she will scoff;_
_Laughing, thus, she'll put him off,--_
_Lira, lira, lira, lira, lira la,_
_For her jolly soldier._
[Exit.

SCENE II.

_The Town Hall of Calais._

_CITIZENS, SOLDIERS, and CRIER, discovered._

_Crier._ Silence!--An ye all talk thus, there's an end to conversation. Your silence, my masters, will breed a disturbance. Mass, 'tis hard that I, who am Crier, should be laughed at, and held at nought among you.

_All._ Hear! hear!

_Crier._ Listen.--The good John de Vienne, our governor--a blessing on his old merry heart!--grieving for your distress, has, e'en now, called a parley on the walls, with the English; and has chosen me, in his wisdom, to ring you all into the town hall, here; where, an you abide his coming, you will hear, what he shall seem to signify unto you. And, by our lady, here the governor comes!--[_Rings._]--Silence!

_All._ Silence!

_Crier._ Nay, 'tis ever so. An I were to bid a dumb man hold his tongue, by my troth, I think a' would cry "Silence," till the drum of my ear were bursten. Silence!

_Enter JOHN de VIENNE, EUSTACHE de ST. PIERRE following. JOHN de VIENNE seats himself at the Head of the Council Table; EUSTACHE sits in the Front, among the CITIZENS._

_De Vienne._ You partly know why I have here convened you.
I pr'ythee, now,--I pr'ythee, honest friends!
Summon up all the fortitude within you,
Which you are masters of. Now, Heaven forgive me!
I almost wish I had not been a soldier;--
For I have, here, a matter to deliver
Requires a schoolman's preface. 'Tis a task,
Which bears so heavy on my poor old heart,
That 'twill go nigh to crack beneath the burden.
You know I love you, fellow citizens:
You know I love you well.

_All._ Ay, ay; we know it.

_De Vienne._ I could be well content, in peace, or peril,
To 'bide with you for ever.

_Eust._ No one doubts it.
I never, yet, did hear of governor,
Spite of the rubs, and watchful toil of office,
Would willingly forego his place.

_De Vienne._ Why, how now!
Why, how now, friend! dost thou come o'er me thus?
But I shall find a time--it fits not now--
When I will teach thee----'Sdeath! old John de Vienne,
A veteran, bluff soldier, bearded thus!
And sneer'd at by a saucy--Mark you me!--
[_Rises._
Well, let it pass:--the general calamity
Will sour the best of us.--[_Sits._]--My honest citizens,
I once more pray you, think that ye are men:
I pray you, too, my friends----

_Eust._ I pray you, sir,
Be somewhat brief; you'll tire else. These same citizens
These honest citizens, would fain e'en know
The worst at once. When members are impatient
For a plain tale, the orator, (you'll pardon me,)
Should not be too long winded.

_De Vienne._ Fellow, peace!
Ere now I've mark'd thee.--Thou art he, I take it,--
'Tis Eustache de St. Pierre, I think, they call thee--
Whom all the town, our very children, point at,
As the most growling knave in christendom;--
Yea, thou art he.

_Eust._ The same. The mongrels, here,
Cannot abide rough honesty:--I'm hated.
Smooth talking likes them better:--You, good sir,
Are popular among them.

_All._ Silence!

_Eust._ Buz!

_De Vienne._ Thus, then, in brief. Finding we are reduced,
By famine, and fatigue, unto extremity,
I sounded for a parley from the walls;--
E'en now 't has ended:--Edward order'd forth
Sir Walter Manny; and I needs must own,
A courteous knight, although an enemy.--
I told him our distress. Sir Knight, said I--
And here it makes me almost blush to think
An Englishman should see me drop a tear;
But, 'spite of me, it stole upon my cheek;--
To speak the honest truth, Sir Knight, said I,
My gallant men are perishing with hunger:--
Therefore I will surrender.

_Eust._ Surrender!
[_The rest look amazed._

_De Vienne._ But, conceive me,
On this condition;--that I do secure
The lives, and liberties, of those brave fellows,
Who, in this galling and disastrous siege,
Have shared with me in each fatigue and peril.

_All._ Huzza! Long live our governor! Huzza!

_De Vienne._ I thank you, friends.--It grieves me to repay
Your honest love, with tidings, sure, as heavy
As ever messenger was charged withal.
The King of England steels his heart against us.
He does let loose his vengeance; and he wills,--
If we would save our city from the sword,
From wild destruction,--that I straight do send him
Six of my first and best reputed citizens,
Bare headed, tendering the city keys;
And,--'sdeath, I choke!--with vile and loathsome ropes,
Circling their necks, in guise of malefactors,
To suffer instant execution.

[_The CITIZENS appear confounded. A Pause._

Friends,
I do perceive you're troubled:--'tis enough
To pose the stoutest of you. Who among you
Can smother nature's workings, which do prompt
Each, to the last, to struggle for himself?
Yet, were I not objected to, as governor,
There might be found--no matter.--Who so bold,
That, for the welfare of a wretched multitude,
Involved with him, in one great common cause,
Would volunteer it on the scaffold?

_Eust._ [_Rises._] I:----
E'en I;--the growling knave, whom children point at.
To save those children, and their hapless mothers,
To snatch the virgin from the ravisher,
To shield the bent and hoary citizen,
To push the sword back from his aged throat,
(Fresh reeking, haply, in his house's blood,)
I render up myself for sacrifice.----
Will no one budge? Then let the English in;
Let in the enemy, to find us wasted,
And winking in the socket. Rouse, for shame!
Rouse, citizens! Think on your wives, your infants!
And let us not be so far shamed in story,
That we should lack six men within our walls,
To save them thus from slaughter.

_De Vienne._ Noble soul!
I could, for this, fall down and worship thee.
Thou warm'st my heart. Does no one else appear,
To back this gallant veteran?

_D'Aire._ Eustache,--
Myself, and these two brothers, my companions,
All of your house, and near of kin to you,
Have ponder'd on your words:--we sure must die,
If we or go, or stay:--but, what weighs most--
We would not see our helpless little ones
Butcher'd before our eyes. We'll go with thee.

_Eust._ Now, by our good St. Dennis,
I do feel proud! My lowly house's glory
Shall live on record. What are birth and titles?
Feathers for children. The plain honest mind,
That branches forth in charity and virtue,
Shrinks lordly pomp to nought; and makes vain pedigree
Blush at his frothy boasting.--We are four;--
Fellows in death and honour.--Two remain
To fill our number.

_De Vienne._ Pause a while, my friends;
We yet have breathing time;--though troth but little.--
I must go forth, a hostage to the English,
Till you appear. Break up our sad assembly;--
And, for the rest, agree among yourselves.
Were the time apt, I could well waste a year
In praising this your valour.
[_To EUSTACHE._

_Eust._ Break we up. If any
Can wind his sluggish courage to the pitch,
Meet me anon i'th' market-place: and, thence,
Will we march forth. Ye have but this, remember;
Either plunge bravely into death, or wait
Till the full tide of blood flows in upon you,
And shame and slaughter overwhelm us. Come;
My noble partners, come!
[_Exeunt._

SCENE III.

_An apartment in the GOVERNOR's House._

_Enter JULIA and RIBAUMONT._

_Ribau._ Yet, hear me, Julia----

_Julia._ Pr'ythee, good my lord,
Press me not thus: my father's strict command--
I must not say 'tis harsh--forbids me listen.

_Ribau._ Is then the path of duty so precise,
That 'twill not for a little deviate?
Sweet, let it wind, and bend to recollection.
Think on our oaths; yes, lady, they are mutual:--
You said you loved; I treasured the confession,
As misers hoard their gold: nay, 'twas my all.--
Think not I chatter in the idle school
Of whining coxcombs, where despair and death
Are words of course; I swell not fancied ills
With windy eloquence: no, trust me, Julia,
I speak in honest, simple suffering:
And disappointment, in my life's best hope,
So feeds upon my life, and wears me inward,
That I am nearly spirit-broken.

_Julia._ Why, why this, my lord?
You urge me past a maiden's modesty.
What should I say?--In nature's course, my lord,
The parent sits at helm, in grey authority,
And pilots the child's action: for my father,
You know what humour sways him.

_Ribau._ Yes, court policy;
Time-serving zeal: tame, passive, blind, obedience
To the stern will of power; which doth differ
As wide from true, impulsive loyalty,
As puppet work from nature. O, I would
The time were come!--our enemy, the English,
Bid fairest first to show a bright example;
When, 'twixt the ruler and the ruled, affection
Shall be reciprocal: when majesty
Shall gather strength from mildness; and the subject
Shall look with duteous love upon his sovereign,
As the child eyes its father. Now, by Heaven!
Old John de Vienne is turn'd a temporiser;
Making his daughter the poor topmost round
Of his vile ladder to preferment. 'Sdeath!
And you to suffer this! O, fie, fie, Julia!
'Twould show more noble in you to lay bare
Your mind's inconstancy, than thus to keep
The semblance of a passion; meanly veiling
Your broken faith with the excuse of duty.
Out on't! 'tis shallow--you ne'er loved.

_Julia._ My lord, my cup of sorrow was brimfull; and you,
I look'd not for it, have thrown in a drop,
Which makes it overflow. No more of that:
You have reviled my father: me, too, Ribaumont;
Heaven knows, I little merit it!--My lord,
Upon this theme we must not meet again.--
Farewell! and do not, do not think unkindly
On her, you, once, did call your Julia.
If it will sooth your anguish, Ribaumont,
To find a fellowship in grief, why think
That there is one, while struggling for her duty,
Sheds many a tear in private.--Heaven be with you!
[_Exit._

_Ribau._ Stay, stay, and listen to me. Gone! and thus too!
And have I lost thee--and for ever, Julia?
Now do I look on life as the worn mariner,
Stretching his eyes o'er seas immeasurable,
And all is drear and comfortless. Henceforward,
My years will be one void; day roll on day,
In sameness infinite, without a hope
To chequer the sad prospect. O! if death
Came yoked with honour to me, I could, now,
Embrace it with as warm and willing rapture,
As mothers clasp their infants.

_Enter LA GLOIRE._

Now, La Gloire! what is the news?

_La Gloire._ Good faith, my lord, the saddest that ever tongue told!

_Ribau._ What is't?

_La Gloire._ The town has surrendered.

_Ribau._ I guessed as much.

_La Gloire._ Upon conditions.

_Ribau._ What are they?

_La Gloire._ Very scurvy ones, my lord.--To save the city from sacking, six citizens must swing for it, in Edward's camp. But four have yet been found; and they are----

_Ribau._ Who?

_La Gloire._ Oh lord!--all of my own family.--There's John d'Aire, Jacque, and Pierre Wissant; my three good cousins german, my lord: and the fourth, who was the first that offered, is--is----

_Ribau._ Who, La Gloire?

_La Gloire._ [_Wiping his Eyes._] I crave your pardon, my lord, for being thus unsoldier-like; but 'tis--'tis my own father.

_Ribau._ Eustache!

_La Gloire._ He, my lord! He! old Eustache de St. Pierre:--the honestest, kindliest soul!--I cannot talk upon't.--Grief plays the hangman with me, and has almost choked me already.

_Ribau._ Why, I am courted to't.--The time, example,
Do woo me to my very wish.--Come hither.
Two, it should seem, are wanting, to complete
The little band of those brave men, who die
To save their fellows.

_La Gloire._ Ay, my lord. There is a meeting upon't, half an hour hence, in the market-place.

_Ribau._ Mark me, La Gloire: and see, that you obey me,
Ev'n to the very letter of my orders.
They are the last, perhaps, my honest fellow,
I e'er shall give thee. Seek thy father out,
And tell him this from me: his gallant bearing
Doth school his betters; I have studied o'er
His noble lesson, and have learnt my duty.
Say, he will find me in the market-place,
Disguised in humble seeming; and I fain
Would pass for one allied to him: and thence--
Dost mark me well?--I will along with him,
Ev'n hand in hand, to death.

_La Gloire._ My lord,--I--I--[_Bursts into tears, falls on his Knees, takes hold of RIBAUMONT's Hand, and kisses it._]--I shall lose my father; when he was gone, I looked you would have been my father. The thought of still serving you was a comfort to me.--You are my commander; and I hope I have, hitherto, never disobeyed orders; but, if I now deliver your message, drum me out for ingratitude, as the greatest rascal that ever came into a regiment.

_Ribau._ Pr'ythee, no more, La Gloire? I am resolved;--
My purpose fix'd. It would be bitter to thee,
To see me die in anger with thee: therefore,
Do thou my bidding; close thy service up,
In duty to my will. Go, find thy father;
I will prepare within the while.--Obey me,--
Or the last look from thy expiring master,
Darting reproach, shall burst thy heart in twain.
Mark, and be punctual!
[_Exit._

_La Gloire._ O, the Virgin! Why was I ever attached to man, woman, or child?

_Enter EUSTACHE de ST. PIERRE._

_Eust._ Where's thy commander, boy--Count Ribaumont?

_La Gloire._ O father!----

_Eust._ Peace!--I must a word with him.
I have a few short thanks I would deliver,
Touching his care of thee: it is the last
Of all my worldly packages; that done,
I may set forward on my journey.

_La Gloire._ Oh, father! I shall never go to bed again in peace as long as I live. Sorrow will keep my eyes open half the night; and when I drop into a doze at day-break, I shall be hanged with you, father, a score of times every morning.

_Eust._ I could have spared this meeting.--Boy, I will not--
Nor would I, had I time for't, ring a chime
Of drowsy document, at this, our parting.
Nor will I stuff the simple plan of life,
That I would have thee follow, with trim angles,
And petty intersections of nice conduct;
Which dotards, rotten in their wisdom, oft
Will mark, in mathematical precision,
Upon a stripling's mind, until they blur
The modest hand of nature. Thou'rt a soldier;
'Tis said a good one;--and I ne'er yet knew
A rough, true soldier, lack humanity:--
If, then, thou canst, with one hand, push aside
The buffets of the world, and, with the other,
Stretch'd forth, in warm and manly charity,
Assist the weak,----be thankful for the ground-work,
And e'en let impulse build upon't;--thou needst
No line, nor level, formal age can give thee,
To raise a noble superstructure. Come;
Embrace me;--when thy father sleeps in honour,
Think that--[_Embracing him, he bursts into Tears._]--my son,
my boy!--Psha! pish! this nature--
Conduct me to----

_La Gloire._ [_Catching hold of him._] Hold! hold!--We shall leap here, from bad to worse. I--I am bidden, father, to deliver a message to you.

_Eust._ Be quick, then; the time wears.

_La Gloire._ No, truly, 'twill not come quick. I must force it out in driblets. My captain bids me say, that--that brave men are scarce. Find six in the town, and you find all;--so he will join you at the market-cross, and--go with you--to----

_Eust._ The scaffold!

_La Gloire._ Yes, the sca--that word sticks so in my throat, I can't squeeze it out, for the life of me.

_Eust._ Why, this shows nobly now! our honest cause
Is graced in the addition. Lead me--[_Observing LA GLOIRE,
weeping_]--how now?
Out on thee, knave! thoul't bring disgrace upon me.
By Heaven! I feel as proud in this, my death;----
And thou, the nearest to my blood, to sully
My house's name with womanhood--Shame! shame!
Where is the noble Ribaumont?
[_Going._

_La Gloire._ Stay, father, stay! I can hold it no longer. I love Madelon too well to keep her waking o'nights, with blubbering over her for the loss of my father, and my captain:--another neck is wanting to make up the half dozen; so I'll e'en along, father, as the sixth.

_Eust._ [_After a Pause._] I know not what to answer.--Thou hast shaken
My manhood to the centre.--Follow, boy!
Thy aim is honour; but the dreary road to't,
Which thou must tread, does stir the father in me.
'Tis such a nice and tickle point, between
The patriot and the parent, that, Heaven knows,
I need a counsellor.--I'll to thy captain.
With him, anon, you'll find me.
[_Exit._

_La Gloire._ So! how many a lad, with a fair beginning of life, comes to an untimely conclusion!--My poor Madelon, too! she little thinks that----

_MADELON peeping in._

_Madelon._ Hist! hist! La Gloire!

_La Gloire._ Eh?

_Madelon._ Why, where hast thou been, La Gloire? I have been seeking you all over the town. I feared you would get into danger. Finding the Governor's gate thrown open, and all the city in confusion, I e'en ventured in to look for you. Where hast thou been, La Gloire?

_La Gloire._ Been? no where--but I am going----

_Madelon._ Where, La Gloire?

_La Gloire._ A--a little way with my father. Hast heard the news, Madelon?

_Madelon._ Only in part. I hear the town has surrendered: and that six poor men are to be executed; and march from the town gates. But we shall then be in safety, La Gloire. Poor fellows! I would not see them go forth for the world!

_La Gloire._ Poor fellows!--a hem!--Ay, poor fellows! True, Madelon; I would not have thee shocked with the sight, I confess.

_Madelon._ But, pr'ythee, La Gloire, keep at home now with me. You are ever gadding. You soldiers are so wild and turbulent--How can you, La Gloire? You must be present, now, at this horrid ceremony?

_La Gloire._ Why, truly, I----I must be present;--but it will be for the last time, Madelon. I take little pleasure, in it, believe me.

_Madelon._ I would thou wouldst home with me! I have provided, out of thy bounty, a repast for us this evening. My father, who has ne'er stirred out these three weeks, is filled with joy for thy return;--he will sit at our table, La Gloire; he will give us his blessing, and wish us happy in marriage. Come, you shall not away, this evening, in sooth, now!

_La Gloire._ I must, Madelon; I must. The throng will press, and--and I may lose somewhat of value. 'Tis seldom a soldier's pocket is heavy; but I carry all my worldly goods about me. I would fain not lose it; so e'en be mistress on't till my return. Here is a casket;--with five years' wages from my captain; three quarters' pay from my regiment; and eleven marks, plucked from the boot of a dead English corporal: 'tis my whole fortune; keep it, Madelon, for fear of accidents: and if any cross accident ever should befall me, remember, you are heir apparent to the bulk of my property.

_Madelon._ But why thus particular? I would you would stay quiet with me!

_La Gloire._ But for this once, Madelon; and I shall be quiet ever after.--Kiss me. So;--Adieu!

_Madelon._ Adieu, La Gloire! Remember, now, at night----

_La Gloire._ Adieu!--At night!--Mercy on me!--should I stay three minutes longer, my heart would rescue my neck; for the breaking of one, would save the stretching of the other. [_Aside._--_Exit._

_Madelon._ How rich my La Gloire has got in the wars! My father, too, has something to throw in at our wedding: and, when we meet, we shall be the happiest couple in Picardy.

SONG.--MADELON.

_I tremble to think, that my soldier's so bold;_
_To see with what danger he gets all his gold;_
_Yet danger all over, 'twill keep out the cold,_
_And we shall be warm when we're married,_

_For riches, 'tis true that I covet them not,_
_Unless 'tis to better my dear soldier's lot;_
_And he shall be master of all I have got,_
_The very first moment we're married._

_My heart how it beats, but to look to the day,_
_In church, when my father will give me away!_
_But that I shall laugh at, I've heard many say,_
_A day or two after we're married._
[Exit.

SCENE IV.

_Calais._

_A Gate, leading out of the Town._

_Enter CITIZENS._

_1 Cit._ Stand back; they are coming.

_3 Cit._ Nay, my masters, they will not forth, this quarter of an hour. Men seldom move lightly on such a heavy occasion.

_4 Cit._ Who are the two others that have filled up the number?

_3 Cit._ Marry, two more of old Eustache's family. His own son; and the other, as 'tis rumoured, a relation, in the town, that few of us are acquainted withal.

_4 Cit._ That's strange.

_3 Cit._ Why, ay; but when a man chuses a rope for his preferment, few are found envious enough to dispute the title with him.--By the rood! here they come!

_Enter EUSTACHE de ST. PIERRE, RIBAUMONT, LA GLOIRE, JOHN D'AIRE, J. WISSANT, P. WISSANT, going to execution: a Procession of SOLDIERS, FRIARS, NUNS, &c. accompanying them.--A solemn March; then, a Halt._

_Ribau._ I pr'ythee, peace, Eustache! I fain would 'scape
Observance from the rabble. Hurry o'er
This irksome march; and straightway to the camp.

_Eust._ Enough--Set forth! We are engaged, my friends,
Upon a business here, which most, I wot,
Do think of moment; and we would not waste
The time in idle ceremony. On!--
Ere we are usher'd to the English camp,
And most of you, I trust, will follow thither,--
We will bestow the little time allow'd us
In manly leave-taking. Strike, and set onward!

_Citizens._ Bless our countrymen! Bless our deliverers!

GLEE.--_By the Persons of the Procession._

_Peace to the heroes! peace! who yield their blood,_
_And perish, nobly, for their country's good!_
_Peace to their noble souls! their bodies die;_
_Their fame shall flourish long in memory;_
_Recorded still, in future years,_
_Green in a nation's gratitude, and tears._

CHORUS.

_Sound! sound in solemn strains, and slow!_
_Dully beat the muffled drum!_
_Bid the hollow trumpet blow,_
_In deaden'd tones, clear, firm, and low;--_
_For, see! the patriot heros come!_

[_Towards the End of the Chorus, the Characters proceed on their March
out of the Town; and when the last Persons of the Procession are going
through the Gates, the Curtain drops._