A DRAMATIC SKETCH. 209 



1st Chief. — You are expert, young Christian, to evade, 

 And give your betters — ay, your victors, pause. 



Clau. — Grant you my captors, not my betters. Moor 1 

 Fran. — Hear me — time wears, and mightier matters press — 

 Choose, now, or hfe or death, for all you love ! 

 Scan you this proud array ? — not one is here 

 But, at my nod, would tap your life's last drop. 

 And throw your bones a picking to my dogs ! 

 You have a father, deadly in our eye ; 

 A mother, too, both idolized by you — 

 Both idolizing, both proscrib'd by us : 

 With you it lies to save them, and with you 

 To seal their fate, if't please you, and your own ! 

 Pledge us your Christian oath, your soldier's name, 

 Leave us your word of honour, as a pawn 

 You will induce them to surrender ; — then 

 We loose your chains, and trust you, sir, at large. 



Clau. — Dost trace submission graven on my brow? 

 And selfish fear, that plots a parent's fall ? 

 Thou dard'st, all brave and reckless as thou art, 

 Attempt the son, — ignoble man of blood ! — 

 With such a bribe his aged father's shame ? 

 Fran. — Be, then, their murderer ! 



Clau. Their murderer ! — {Contemptuously) 



If I should do thy bidding and prevail. 

 Then should I be their murderer indeed ; 

 Killing their good name thro' the times to come ! . 



Fran. — Chiefs ! do ye hear ? — {Furiously) — A Mars ! — {Ironically) 

 Chief. A Mars ! 



Clau. A man ! 



Fran. — You two shall be our heralds ; valiant swain ! 

 Truly, your parents' eyes will wink for joy, 

 Reading the book of these unrugged brows ! 

 Clau. — Jibe on, you waste your breath 1 

 Fran. Swift to their haunt, 



You den of thieves. 



Clau. A hive of honest men ! 



Fran. — Peace ? — and, in brief, — " if before set of sun, 

 To-morrow eve, ye open not your gates. 

 To-morrow eve, your son shall close his eyes 

 In cruellest death, his blood be on your heads !" (Exeunt two Chiefs.) 



Clau. — Is there no sound to chafe you to the deed. 

 And spur the slow-paced malice of your soul ? 

 Oh ! call them back — I would, a thousand times, 

 'Twas done, 'twas over, past reprieve, or change, 

 Than my poor parents, wretch ! should be assail'd, 

 (God's pity on them and his strong su])port !) 

 With horrible suspense, and throes of hell. 

 Strike, miscreant ! strike — strike, coward hearts ! not men ! 

 Ye gang of infidels, blasphemers, knaves ! 

 Loose me, I'll pluck your beards ; alas ! alas 1 

 My mother's shrieks, my father's rolling eyes ! 

 Kind renegade ! stab me to the heart. 



