The Mortal Gods and Other Plays Part 17

_Fam._ He's just Iduso's age.

_Lis._ [_Softened_] And has to take A man's work on him?

_Fam._ N-o----

_Lis._ I said it now.

What do you know? Look at your hands--not stumps Like mine.

_Mas._ Who hugs the post to-night?

_Gon._ I heard Of seven warned.

_Yso._ My man! He hasn't come!

_Mas._ G.o.d's mercy, give us peace! It was his turn To put away the knives.

[_Ysobel leans against hut. Famette takes bowl from her_]

_Lis._ There's seven, you say?

_Ben._ None from this yard. Famette, you haven't seen A flogging yet?

_Fam._ And never will, you beast!

_Ben._ Your never's short,--less than an hour.

_Fam._ What do you mean?

_Ben._ The whip draws blood to-night, And we must all look on, for our soul's good.

It is the master's order.

_Fam._ I'll not go!

_Mas._ Why, G.o.d looks on, Famette, and so may we.

All Heaven sees it, and I'll pledge my--fish-- That not an angel blanches.

_Gon._ You should see The master!

_Fam._ _He_ is there? Does _he_ look on?

_Mas._ O, not quite that. To eye the work Would show too grossly, but you'll see him there,-- Somewhat aside, leaning against a yew, Most carefully at ease. Then he will light A delicate cigar that fills the grove With a fantastic odor, like, we'll say, Faint musk that creeps on burning pine.

You will approve the quality, Famette.

That is his signal.

_Fam._ Oh!

_Mas._ Long as he puffs, And soft, white rings twirl upward to the leaves, The lashes fall. And when, grown gently weary, As 'twere half accident, from his high thoughts Remote, he clears the cindered tip--like this-- The whip is still.

_Fam._ Where, where am I?

_Mas._ In h.e.l.l, Sweetheart.

_Fam._ Who are you, Masio? You are not As these that suffer speechless.

_Mas._ Pinch the difference!

A little learning, and a few opinions That brought me here.

_Fam._ [_Moving aside with him_] What did you do?

_Mas._ I spoke The truth too near the ear of Cordiaz, And there's no greater crime.

_Fam._ You are a prisoner?

But you're not guarded.

_Mas._ No, they leave me free, In hope I'll run. Then they will shoot me down.

And you--what brought you here? Ten pesos Could never buy you--nor a hundred either.

_Fam._ I mean to lead these men to join Bolderez:

_Mas._ What! Lead them out?

_Fam._ And you will help me do it.

_Mas._ Well, when I want to die. You're mad.

We're all Sprats in a net. _You'll_ not get out, once let The master see you. Better hide those eyes----

_Yso._ [_Running and catching Mas...o...b.. the shoulder_]

You lied to me! You lied! They've got my Grija!

Down in the lower yard!

_Grija._ [_Entering and making his way to her_] No! Here I am.

Safe in, old tear-box.

_Yso._ Holy Mary!

[_Tells her beads rapidly as he leads her aside_]

_Fam._ [_Aroused_] Men!

If Osa looked from yonder mountain scarp, Would she descend to lead such currish hearts To liberty?

_Gon._ We are not dogs.

_Fam._ Then shame To bear the life of dogs!

_Ben._ What do you know Of Osa?

_Fam._ Know? Does she not guard the shrine Cherished ten centuries in your secret hills?

Priestess and princess, daughter of your kings,-- The ancient poet kings who ruled and sang In palaces where now your huddled huts Give you a slave's foul shelter!