"… conscious of the rectitude of my intentions…. that I may be restored to the favor of my most Gracious Sovereign—… cheerfully cast myself at his feet imploring his Royal Grace and Protection…. the unalterable attachment to the Person, Family, and Interests of my Sovereign, and to the Glory of his reign.—…"
[He throws the letter quietly on the table. To Mrs. Arnold.]
West Point I did deliberately betray:
I begged the post intending to betray it.
All was conceived before I married you.
Mrs. Arnold. [As before.] God have mercy upon us!
Arnold. They must pet me then,
To show that loyal treason reaps reward.
'Twas policy, not liking for my face,
That made King George so sweet.
What in this world of savage Englishmen,
Strange monsters that they are, have you and I
Found of a country? Friends, good hearts and true;
But alien as the mountains of the moon,
More unrelated than the Polander,
Are Englishmen to us. They are a race,
A selfish, brawling family of hounds,
Holding a secret contract on each fang,
'For us,' 'for us,' 'for us.' They'll fawn about;
But when the prey's divided;—Keep away!
I have some beef about me and bear up
Against an insolence as basely set
As mine own infamy; yet I have been
Edged to the outer cliff. I have been weak,
And played too much the lackey. What am I
In this waste, empty, cruel, land of England,
Save an old castaway,—a buccaneer,—
The hull of derelict Ambition,—
Without a mast or spar, the rudder gone,
A danger to mankind!
[He sits down upon the couch. Mrs. Arnold throws herself on his knees and sobs convulsively.]
Both Choruses. Who shall praise a woman, save He that made her, save God that understandeth all things?
I will sing a song of woman, and magnify the wife of a man's soul. His goodness she has discerned when no man else can find it: his crimes are known to her, yet is he not in them: she seeketh his soul among many.
She divineth salvation out of hell; and bringeth water from the desert. Who shall praise a woman save He that made her; save God who understandeth all things?
Father Hudson. Sorrow is erecting a tomb for this man in my heart. Whence comes the peculiar pang, my children? Whence comes this pity that will not be denied, but bedews your faces?