Arnold. And now they do not trust me.
Mrs. Arnold. Is there a soldier in the British Isles That has a list of battles like your own?
Arnold. It may be not.
Mrs. Arnold. Then make allowances for jealousy.
To Englishmen, their battles are a sport,
With every post of danger dearly prized,
Like the crack stations in the shooting field,—
Never enough for all. They bribe and jockey,—
Knife their own brothers to get near the spoil.
And would they not repel a foreigner,—
One they had cause to envy? Englishmen
Are very unforgiving of defeat.
It is your glory, the impediment:
So gluttonous are soldiers of reward—
So sporting-keen are Englishmen for fame.
Arnold. It may be so.
Mrs. Arnold. Your temperament is of colossal mould, And sees too simply.
Arnold. I was a traitor.
Mrs. Arnold. Are you a man to take the common talk,
And be its dupe? How often have we spoke
Of the returning wars that shall restore
The lustred fame and power that is your due?
Belated are they; yet to reason's eye
Certain to come. God keeps such eminence
As in your soul exists, to show mankind
The height of heroes.
Arnold. Error: it is gone out.
Mrs. Arnold. Never such light goes out! No smoke of the world—
Sin, error, evil, anguish, touch it not.
It burns forever with ethereal force
Beyond pollution. I can see your soul;
And never has its aspect been more bright
Than on this morn.