Ig. No! Patriots!
Soldiers! And martyrs if they die! My lord,
If they have plundered, ’t was to feed an army;
If they have killed,—that is the aim of war.
They are your foes, but noble ones,—and men,
Not creatures to be caught in traps and shot
Like beasts!
Max. We ’ll look to this. Marquez, at once
Send a dispatch commanding they be held
As prisoners of war until we ’ve time
To examine them.
Mar. I will, your majesty.
Ig. My lord, at Callovalla when the French
Had routed the Republicans, there came
At night some student priests into the field
To help the wounded and to cheer the dying.
This man, Marquez, set on them with his troop
And made them prisoners. The morning sun
Beheld each saintly minister shot dead.
And you would trust this devil with the life
Of captive foes? A man whose hands are red
With God’s own blood?
Mar. He lies! Your majesty,
I ’ll prove him traitor to your very eyes!
Ig. Traitor?
Mar. Ay, sir, and spy! Lay bare his arm,
And see the branded cross!—the sacred mark
Of those who ’ve sworn to die in Juarez’ cause!
(Snatches at Ignacio’s arm as if he would expose it)
Ig. Liar and devil! do not touch me!
Mar. Spy!