Arnold. Different, ay different! it saves men's lives:
Without a drop of blood it ends a war.
André. You are a veteran, and know the feel
Of imminent death. I could die bravely, too.
Arnold. Of course you could. All fear is bookish talk
Cooked up by writers out of literature,
To give the shudder to dyspeptic girls.
Dying is easy. Come along, my friend!
A glass of port shall cure us of such fears;
Moments like this make mirth in after years.
[Exeunt Arnold and André.]
Father Hudson. Is there no way to stop them; can ye not Bring pause to these excited rushing men?
Leader of Men. Pause is unknown, as to your moving waters, That take their God-directed, downward course, Deaf to beseechment.
Father Hudson. 'Tis most pitiful.
Both Choruses. No, not to mirth can my voice be tuned, while these two men converse. Often their story comes to me in the night, and causes weeping.
One, the young troubadour, the boy poet, beloved by all, burning for fame; and, in his innocence, he performs the mean work of a spy.
And the other, the old hero, seven times baptized with immortality-in-action, who betrays his country out of foolishness.