ng,
and puts on the coat of his old American uniform._]

Never weep, dear wife.
I seek the truth you teach me. It is thus
Your thoughts do guide me;--and I must go back
To where I lost the way.
[_Showing sword-knots._] That ornament
Washington gave me,--with such words of praise
As must preserve it till the judgment day
Against corruption. Should I meet that man,
Will his reluctant and offended shade
Pass sadly on? Or will he greet me there,--
There, but not here. There, there, but never here!
On toward that shadowy spot I blindly go,
Claiming the past.

[_He lies down on the couch, and_ Mrs. Arnold _kneels by his side.
Exit_ Death.]

_Both Choruses_. Surely the past must be allowed to all men; and not
to him alone. What good there was in us cannot be lost.

God forgets not the virtue of those who have failed; and why should man
seek to judge them? Verily all courage is immortal: the man himself
cannot kill it.

Lo, what great things are done through even bad men; and this man had
in him much goodness.

[_A pause. Distant military music. Four young boys dressed in white,
and bearing tall spears with little banners attached to the tips, enter
and stand each at one corner of the couch. The arrangement suggests a
medieval church tomb, of which_ Mrs. Arnold's _kneeling figure forms a
part._]

_Both Choruses_. Not on the shores of America--
Not on our shuddering strand,
Can Arnold's tomb be laid.

Nor in his land of illusions--
Britain's contemptuous Isle,
Can stone be added to stone.

Yet in a corner of Memory,
Hallowed by terrible pain,
Stand the stones of his grave.

There, his trophies of victory,
Piled in marshal array,
Gorgeous, perennial--

Spoils, heroic, tumultuous,
Emblems, worthy remembrance--
Marking a hero's grave.

[_While this is being sung there enters a procession of youths dressed
in white, each carrying a gigantic wreath, inscribed with one of_
Arnold's _victories:--The Maine Wilderness, Quebec, Valcour's Island,
St. John's, Ridgefield, Bemis Heights, Saratoga, etc. They circle the
group, and pile the wreaths about the couch, then stand about in
symmetry._]

_Father Hudson_. Enough, my children, I understand. Leave me awhile.
Let there be no loud praises. Go silently.

[_A dead march is played._ Father Hudson _resumes the plastic,
immobile, and almost invisible attitude which h