A PEASANT. A quarrel! Mark them!
A MONK. Shame! On such a night
When angels fill the air, and voices sweet,
Mysterious, sing their golden songs of peace—
On this glad night to quarrel?
THE SOLDIER. Why, to-night—
THE MONK. On such a night was Christ, our Saviour, born,
While all the earth was wrapped in sacred peace.
This is the holy eve, and on the morrow,
With solemn chant we shall observe the birth
Of that sweet Christ-child whom we worship all.
THE SOLDIER. Then I'll not quarrel—my hand upon it. There.
THE MERCHANT. Nor I. And here's my hand, good soldier. There.
[The company is silent for a moment, while the wind moans in the great chimney.]
THE MERCHANT [crossing himself]. Hark to the wind. Meseemeth that it wails
Like some lost soul.
THE SOLDIER. Some say it is the soul
Of that accursed Jew who crossed our Lord
When he was on his way to Calvary,
And was condemned to wander ever more
Until the Christ a second time should come.
[The faces grow solemn, in the fire-light, and the voices are lowered.]