Scene—Stage in complete shadow. An Irish Glen surrounded by bare mountains covered with dwarf oaks, overhanging a big bog. The Moon is shining dimly. Caspar discovered with a pouch and hanger, busily engaged in making a Circle of fairy lanterns, in the middle of which is placed a turnip-skull, a shillelagh, a bunch of shamrock, a crucible, and a bullet-mould. Distant mutterings heard.
Chorus of Distant Party-Spirits.
Shindy now would be a boon,
("Hear, hear! Hear, hear!")
Interest in M-tch-llst-wn hath died,
("Hear, hear! Hear, hear!")
Mischief must be stirred up soon.
("Hear, hear! Hear, hear!")
And Obstruction once more tried.
("Hear, hear! Hear, hear!")
Ere this S-ss-n's course is run
We must really have some fun.
("Hear, hear! Hear, hear!")
[At the end of chorus, a Big Bell booms twelve times; the Circle being finished, Caspar within it, draws his hanger round the lanterns, and at the twelfth stroke strikes it into the turnip-skull.
Caspar (kneeling, and raising the skull on the hanger at arm's length).
Zamiel, Zamiel, hear me, hear!
By this bogey-skull appear!
Zamiel, rise, for things look queer!
[A confused noise is heard, a Meteor (looking rather like a long-expected Blue-Book) falls on the Circle, and Zamiel, looking coldly triumphant, appears.
Zamiel. Why callest thou?
Caspar. Well, hang it! I like that!
But, by St. Patrick's beard, your advent's pat,
Our foes boast three years longer they may live.
Zamiel. No!
Caspar. Then good reason you and I must give.
Zamiel. Who says so?
Caspar. One who hardly dared—till now—
To face thy really rayther freezing brow;
But, moved by reason, and a late Report,
He's on the job; and we shall have some sport.
Zamiel. What doth he seek?
Caspar. To be supplied
With bullets which thy skill shall guide.
Zamiel. Six shall obey,
The seventh—who'll say?
Caspar. Lord of the mystic League,
I hope, by sly intrigue,
To rule the seventh also,
And let it kill—you know!
Zamiel. Too risky.
Caspar. Oh, I say,
Let's have no more delay.
Three long years yet to sway?
Pooh, Zamiel! It's child's-play.
Zamiel. Enough—no more! I'll tell thee now
By this day month there'll be—a row?
[More mutterings are heard and repeated in chorus. The skull and hanger sink, and in their place a hearth with lighted coals and faggots, rise out of the earth, within the Circle. The Moon becomes red.
Caspar. Well served! Bless thee, Zamiel!
The day will be ours!