Father Hudson. Would I might know the ending of that man,
  Whose fate and story clinging to my name
  Do make me human!

Leader of Men. Human was his end,
  And very moving. Wouldst thou wait awhile,
  Or see the story now?

Father Hudson. Now, now, my son!

Invocation. [Sung in contralto voice, as before, by the Leader of Women.] Storm-shadowed, precipitous valley, And ye threatening towers of stone that hold back the mountains, Letting the dark stream pass; Storm King, and Donderberg, homes of reverberant thunder; Thou steep theatre, where his story trod its stage, And where the circling thought of it returns With ever profounder, ever accumulating echoes, Calling to Humanity, compelling attention, provoking the unexpected tear,— Open yet once again your treasured legend; Out of the encrusted box, the precious parchment, Out of the vestment-chambers, the hallowed rags.

[As the verse now changes its form, the music also slightly changes character.]

  Lo, now, our holiday calls on the past for its lessons,
    Lo, while the flame of the frost-bite fingers the dale,
  Lo, in the lambent blaze of autumnal quiescence,
    Flows Father Hudson, at peace, through his populous vale.

  Fruit trees garland his margins,—vines, and the brazen
    Hillocks of billowy rye o'er the undulous deep
  Stretch to the Berkshires, proclaiming the conquering season;
    Dash on the Catskills, repulsed by the envious steep.

  Woe, royal river! In grief I gaze on thy harvest,
    Anxious to me my thought as thy riches unroll.
  Mortal, beware lest in riotous plenty thou starvest!
    Give me the fruits of the spirit, the songs of the soul.

Father Hudson. A sweet voice but sad,—trembling sad.

Leader of Men. Hush, it invokes the craggy wilderness,
  And seeks an entrance for its piercing cry.

Leader of Women. [Sings. The music again changing with the metre.]
  Give up the scene, give up, ye sordid rocks,
  The last of Arnold in his English home,
  Which in your bosom lives for evermore,
  A deathless picture; England cast it out
  Not being English, and it shivered on,
  Coiling about the world, till it was caught
  And locked into your rocky fastnesses
  Where it lives ever; and your mountain ribs
  Ache with the imposition.

ACT II

[_The centre of the stage slowly opens, disclosing a sitting-room. A writing-table covered with letters. Somewhere in the foreground a sofa or low couch: An engraved portrait of George III. Arnold is sitting at the table, but his arm-chair is turned away. He is in a profound reverie, gazing at the floor. He is dressed in the uniform of a British officer. His hair is gray and his face worn. At the back of the stage at one side of the door, sits Treason, somewhat in the attitude of a sheriff's officer keeping guard._]

Treason. [To Arnold.]
  What are you muttering, comrade? Go to sleep!
  And yet sleep not too sound; there's work ahead!
  With all the world against us. What of that?
  We ne'er were beaten yet. Get money first:
  A fortune in your fist. With honest luck,
  Your hand against the world! But money first.
  [Aside.] He breaks apace, and I await each day
  The knock of Death—
  [Knocking.] No, no, not yet, Sir Death!
  There's life in him and, mayhap, years of grief.
  Leave me to tousle him. He's strong as hemp
  And bears his ragging well.
  [More knocking.] Not yet, not yet!

[Enter Death.]

Treason. You are unjust to come before the time.

Death. The moment and myself are on the stroke.

Treason. Thou deemest that this man is soon to die?

Death. Death is already in him.

Treason. Yea, his body.— His mind is brighter than it was before.

Death. My shadow lights his mind; but it is Death.

Treason. How hast thou entered him without a struggle?

Death. The struggle was thy work.

Treason. Give me some moments.

Death. [Pointing to the door with great dignity.] The man is mine. Hence! Silence! Obey!

[Exit Treason. Death_ takes Treason's place by the door._]

Arnold. [Waking.] They deny me the opportunity of honorable death.
  This is the twentieth year of sodden waiting.
  Fighting by land and sea and soldier's work,
  As hot as heart could wish,—boy generals,—
  Wars on all hands, in Holland, France, and Spain,
  With military honors falling thick;—
  And I, a Tantalus set in a lake of thirst,
  Up to my neck in battles all about,
  Without the power to reach them!

[Enter Mrs. Arnold. She has a youthful face, and her hair is prematurely white. She passes by Death _without seeing him. A gesture of surprise and pity as she sees Arnold. She kisses him on his forehead, and sits down next him on a lower chair._]

Mrs. Arnold. Surely, my husband you have not been forth!
  After the sullen fever you have had
  'Twas most unwise.—
  [Pause.]
  You have been grieved, and wear the ashen look.

Arnold. Age, and the chafing of a few stern thoughts.

Mrs. Arnold. Have I not earned the right to know them?

Arnold. Indeed, thou hast! An angel from the sky
  Accepting the bad bargain of a man,
  Could not have found a worse. You took me up
  A battered piece of ordnance, broken in spirit,
  Accursed to myself and to my kind;
  And underneath me thou hast held an arm
  Sustaining as the seraph's upward look
  Askance against Apollyon.

Mrs. Arnold. Benedict!
  You shall not talk so.—

Arnold. Next, your mother's heart
  Became the mother to my three grown boys,
  Giving them such devotion and such love
  As rarely flows from out a mother's hope
  To her own children.

Mrs. Arnold. Benedict, your words
  Cut me like knives. Why, why this catalogue?

Arnold. Something compels me.—

Mrs. Arnold. Where have you been?
  Has some insulting taunt
  Cast by a coward in a public place
  Where you could not resent it, stung your patience?
  These are the pebbles small men throw at great.

Arnold. No. 'Tis the season for my wounds to ache;
  And with them aches the rest.—

Mrs. Arnold. Where have you been?

Arnold. Three hours in his Lordship's ante-room.

Mrs. Arnold. The War Office? And what has been