NORTH.
One minute past Seven! True to their time within sixty seconds. This way, this way. Here is the Spot, the Centre of the Grove. Bagpipe—Drum and Horn—music all—silence. Silence, I cry, will nobody assist me in crying silence?
SEWARD AND BULLER.
Silence—silence—silence.
NORTH.
Give me the Speaking-Trumpet that I may call Silence.
SEWARD.
Stentor may put down the Drum, the Horns, the Fifes, and the Serpent, but the Bagpipe is above him—the Drone is deaf as the sea—the Piper moves in a sphere of his own—
BULLER.
I don't hear a syllable you are saying—ah! the storm is dead, and now what a BLESSED CALM.