Page:Three Plays Sunderland Hills.pdf/125

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117

Voices Outside:

Torches, fire!
But stay that devil's brat who slips away
To call the soldiers from the guard-house up.
He doubles like a hare, stones, stones and staves.
A hit, a hit!
Ah, would you?
Head him off.


Theonöe:

Shame on you, spare him, he is but a child.


Voices:

A wolf cub can but grow into a wolf,
Better to take him ere his fangs be grown.
He bleeds, he bleedstrample him underfoot,
There, there, take that from blesséd Babylas
To Artemis, your demon patroness,
Enough, enough, a fine day's work is here,
There boy, get up.——