How self intrudes, delusive, on man's thoughts.
He sav'd thy life, yet strove to damn thy country;
Doom'd millions to the haughty Briton's yoke;
The best and foremost in the cause of virtue
To death, by sword, by prison, or the halter;
His sacrifice now stands the only bar
Between the wanton cruelties of war
And our much-suffering soldiers; yet when weigh'd
With gratitude, for that he sav'd thy life,
These things prove gossamer, and balance air;—
Perversion monstrous of man's moral sense!
Bland. Rather perversion monstrous of all good
Is thy accurs'd, detestable opinion.
Cold-blooded reasoners, such as thee, would blast
All warm affection; asunder sever
Every social tie of humanized man.
Curst be thy sophisms, cunningly contriv'd
The callous coldness of thy heart to cover,
And screen thee from the brave man's detestation!
M'Donald. Boy, boy!
Bland. Thou knowest that André 's not a spy.
M'Donald. I know him one. Thou hast acknowledg'd it.
Bland. Thou liest!
M'Donald. Shame on thy ruffian tongue! How passion
Mars thee! I pity thee. Thou canst not harm,
By words intemperate, a virtuous man.
I pity thee; for passion sometimes sways
My older frame, through former uncheck'd habit;
But when I see the havoc which it makes
In others, I can shun the snare accurst,
And nothing feel but pity.
Bland. (Indignantly.) Pity me! (Approaches him, and speaks in an under voice.)
Thou canst be cool, yet, trust me, passion sways thee.
Fear does not warm the blood, yet 't is a passion.
Hast thou no feeling? I have call'd thee liar!
M'Donald. If thou could'st make me one, I then might grieve.
Bland. Thy coolness goes to freezing; thou 'rt a coward!
M'Donald. Thou knowest thou tell'st a falsehood.
Bland. Thou shalt know
None with impunity speaks thus of me.
That to rouse thy courage! (Touches him gently with his open hand, in crossing him. M'Donald looks at him unmoved.) Dost thou not yet feel?
M'Donald. For thee I feel. And, tho' another's acts
Cast no dishonor on the worthy man,
I still feel for thy father. Yet, remember,
I may not, haply, ever be thus guarded;
I may not always the distinction make,
However just, between the blow intended
To provoke, and one that 's meant to injure.
Bland. Hast thou no sense of honor?
M'Donald. Truly, yes:
For I am honor's votary. Honor, with me,
Is worth; 't is truth; 't is virtue; 't is a thing
So high preeminent, that a boy's breath,
Or brute's, or madman's blow can never reach it.
My honor is so much, so truly mine.
That none hath power to wound it, save myself.
Bland. I will proclaim thee through the camp a coward.
M'Donald. Think better of it. Proclaim not thine own shame.
Bland. I 'll brand thee,—damnation!
M'Donald. O passion, passion!
A man who values fame far more than life;
A brave young man; in many things a good;
Utters vile falsehoods; adds injury to insult;
Striving with blood to seal such foul injustice;
And all from impulse of unbridled feeling. (Pause.)
Here comes the mother of this head-strong boy.
Severely rack'd. What shall allay her torture?
For common consolation, here, is insult.
(Enter Mrs. Bland and Children.)
