errors,
And following the only light you knew.
The king himself accepted your return
And raised you with his hand.

_Arnold_. [_Very quietly._] I was a traitor.

_Mrs. Arnold_. [_With great vehemence._] No, no, no!
You were the noblest hero of them all!

_Arnold_. And now they do not trust me.

_Mrs. Arnold_. Is there a soldier in the British Isles
That has a list of battles like your own?

_Arnold_. It may be not.

_Mrs. Arnold_. Then make allowances for jealousy.
To Englishmen, their battles are a sport,
With every post of danger dearly prized,
Like the crack stations in the shooting field,--
Never enough for all. They bribe and jockey,--
Knife their own brothers to get near the spoil.
And would they not repel a foreigner,--
One they had cause to envy? Englishmen
Are very unforgiving of defeat.
It is your glory, the impediment:
So gluttonous are soldiers of reward--
So sporting-keen are Englishmen for fame.

_Arnold_. It may be so.

_Mrs. Arnold_. Your temperament is of colossal mould,
And sees too simply.

_Arnold_. I was a traitor.

_Mrs. Arnold_. Are you a man to take the common talk,
And be its dupe? How often have we spoke
Of the returning wars that shall restore
The lustred fame and power that is your due?
Belated are they; yet to reason's eye
Certain to come. God keeps such eminence
As in your soul exists, to show mankind
The height of heroes.

_Arnold_. Error: it is gone out.

_Mrs. Arnold_. Never such light goes out! No smoke of the world--
Sin, error, evil, anguish, touch it not.
It burns forever with ethereal force
Beyond pollution. I can see your soul;
And never has its aspect been more bright
Than on this morn.

_Arnold_. You are not used to talk to me like this.

_Mrs. Arnold_. Nor you to tell me that you are a traitor.

_Arnold_. Perhaps some change is coming over us.

_Mrs. Arnold_. It may be freedom from the load of thought.

_Arnold_. It may be death.

[_She kneels by him in silent anguish._]

_Both Choruses_. Surely truth is not born except through pain; and the
long delay increaseth it.

It is a happiness for a young man to see his error. But for an old,
only death remains. He hath no strength for new things. Let him die
in his old ways, yea, though they be evil.

Very sad is repentance when it is too late; when the blight has fallen,
and no fruit come