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 decided?
Arnold. I could not see his Lordship. Three hours late.
They sent me word his Lordship was not in.
It is the iteration wears me down.
Year after year,—year after leaden year,—
Kicking my heels in England's ante-rooms,
Where proud men pass me by: and now and then
I catch a glimpse of some American,—
A former pal, a former enemy;—
It is the same, both pal and enemy
Give me a fit of trembling. 'Twas not so;
Yet as the years decline our nerves grow sick:
I dread it more and more.
Mrs. Arnold. O Benedict,
This is the mood that kills us. Have we not
A thousand times resolved it, made all plain?
You in your right of conscience chose a course
Beside your King, recanting many errors,
And following the only light you knew.
The king himself accepted your return
And raised you with his hand.
Arnold. [Very quietly.] I was a traitor.
Mrs. Arnold. [With great vehemence.] No, no, no! You were the noblest hero of them all!