Andrew— Mother!
Macias— His ears are keen
From listening to the crickets in the stones,
Year after year. Jesu, that's a long time.
The eagles that were young upon the crags
When he came here are gray. God, fifty years!
For fifty years to watch the lizards spawn,
To feed them, name them, miss them then and see
In the green crevices of the old wall
Another brood come forth. Each rook that haunts
These musty gables here, he knows them all;
Knows every tomb-bat in the coffin'd crypt;
Can tell the spiders, where they cast their webs
In the dark corners, where and how and why;
The rere-mice, when they breed; the vermin—God!
Fifty long years, fifty! And all that time
To count the days like beads and feel them black!
I'd rather be a fox. I'd rather be—
Never to have chased the chamois up the cliffs!
Never to have felt the thrill of stag at bay,
Or heard the pheasant in the wild brown brake
Whir! (Walking right.) I'd rather be a chipmunk free to—
Andrew—You got the dogs shut in?
Macias— (At the corner of the dormitory.)
They're shut in. Why?
Andrew—Hear it.
Macias— I hear nothing.
Andrew— Far down in the dark.
There, groaning in the wind.
It tries to rise.
Some stag or something's fallen from the rocks.
Are the dogs in? Is Twinkle in, and Spot?
(Macias walks back.)
There's something moving round it.