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SCENE III.
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SCENE III.

The wood behind Baynton's meadow. Enter from opposite sides, Norman Maurice, Catesby, Surgeon; and Colonel Blasinghame Savage, Surgeon.
Savage.
Can nothing reconcile our parties, Catesby?

Catesby.
The invitation to the field is yours:
Yours still must be each overture for peace.

Savage.
What will content you, Blasinghame?

Blasinghame.
His blood!

Savage,
[to Catesby.]
I'm sorry, but you hear?

Catesby.
To business, then!
Maurice is at his post; so, place your man.

[Maurice and Blasinghame confront each other.
Maurice.
Art ready, sir?

Blasinghame.
For vengeance! You have foil'd me—
Disgraced me in the eyes of all our people,
So, look to it, for by the God that made me,
I'll write my living tortures on your heart!

Maurice.
Your blood upon your head!

[They fight. Maurice disarms him.
Blasinghame.
Curse on the weapon!

Maurice.
Curse not the weapon!—curse the hand, the heart—
The cause,—which have betrayed you;—not the weapon!
Your life is at my mercy!

Blasinghame,
[folding his arms.]
Take it, then!
I would not live dishonor'd. You may slay me,

108

But cannot conquer me.—My breast is open!

Maurice.
I will not slay you. I will conquer you.
Your life is mine. I give it you. Live on,
A wiser and a better man hereafter.

Blasinghame,
[tottering and turning away.]
My strength is gone from me; my heart is crush'd.
Look, Savage,—these are tears, and not of blood.
Come with me, for I falter.

[Going.
Savage,
[to Maurice.]
You're a man
Among ten thousand, Maurice. Now, forgive him.
He weeps. The strong man weeps.—I must go with him,
But know me for your friend.

[Exit Savage following Blasinghame.
Catesby.
'Twas nobly done.
When I consider Blasinghame's career,
His brutal murders, his long tyrannies,
The provocation you have had to slay him—
I marvel that you spared him. Sir, your triumph
Is now without alloy.

Maurice.
I'm glad you think so,
Yet deem the merit of forbearance small.
Had he been bolder, I had never spared him;
But could not strike him when, with folded arms,
He stood to meet the stroke. But—let's to Mercer.

[Exeunt.