Ben. Your never's short,—less than an hour.
Fam. What do you mean?
Ben. The whip draws blood to-night,
And we must all look on, for our soul's good.
It is the master's order.
Fam. I'll not go!
Mas. Why, God looks on, Famette, and so may we.
All Heaven sees it, and I'll pledge my—fish—
That not an angel blanches.
Gon. You should see
The master!
Fam. He is there? Does he look on?
Mas. O, not quite that. To eye the work
Would show too grossly, but you'll see him there,—
Somewhat aside, leaning against a yew,
Most carefully at ease. Then he will light
A delicate cigar that fills the grove
With a fantastic odor, like, we'll say,
Faint musk that creeps on burning pine.
You will approve the quality, Famette.
That is his signal.
Fam. Oh!
Mas. Long as he puffs,
And soft, white rings twirl upward to the leaves,
The lashes fall. And when, grown gently weary,
As 'twere half accident, from his high thoughts
Remote, he clears the cindered tip—like this—
The whip is still.