DICKON Trust me, Goody. Between here and Justice Merton’s, I will play the mother-hen, and I promise thee, our bantling shall be as stuffed with compliments as a callow chick with caterpillars.
[As he throws open the big doors, the cawing of crows is heard again.]
Hark! your lordship’s retainers acclaim you on your birthday. They bid you welcome to your majority. Listen! “Long live Lord Ravensbane! Caw!”
GOODY RICKBY Look! Count ’em, Dickon. One for sorrow, Two for mirth, Three for a wedding, Four for a birth— Four on ’em! So! Good luck on thy birthday! And see! There’s three on ’em flying into the Justice’s field. —Flight o’ the crows Tells how the wind blows!— A wedding! Get ye gone. Wed the girl, and sting the Justice. Bless ye, my son!
THE SCARECROW [With a profound reverence.]
Mother—believe me—to be—your ladyship’s— most devoted—and obedient—son.
DICKON [Prompting him aloud.] Ravensbane.
THE SCARECROW [Donning his hat, lifts his head in hauteur, shakes his lace ruffle over his hand, turns his shoulder, nods slightly, and speaks for the first time with complete mastery of his voice.] Hm! Ravensbane! [With one hand in the arm of Dickon, the other twirling his cane (the converted chaise-spoke), wreathed in halos of smoke from his pipe, the fantastical figure hitches elegantly forth into the daylight, amid louder acclamations of the crows.]
[A] Here the living actor, through a trap, concealed by the smoke, will substitute himself for the elegantly clad effigy. His make-up, of course, will approximate to the latter, but the grotesque contours of his expression gradually, throughout the remainder of the act, become refined and sublimated till, at the finale, they are of a lordly and distinguished caste.