André

ACT II

Scene, a PrisonAndré, discovered in a pensive posture, sitting at a table; a book by him and candles: his dress neglected, his hair dishevelled: he rises and comes forwardAndréKind heaven be thank'd for that I stand aloneIn this sad hour of life's brief pilgrimage!Single in misery; no one else involving,In grief, in shame, and ruin. 'T is my comfort.Thou, my thrice honour'd sire, in peace went'st downUnto the tomb, nor knew to blush, nor knewA pang for me! And thou, revered matron,Couldst bless thy child, and yield thy breath in peace!No wife shall weep, no child lament, my loss.Thus may I consolation find in whatWas once my woe. I little thought to joyIn not possessing, as I erst possest,Thy love, Honora! André's death, perhaps,May cause a cloud pass o'er thy lovely face;The pearly tear may steal from either eye;For thou mayest feel a transient pang, nor wrongA husband's rights: more than a transient pangO mayest thou never feel! The morn draws nighTo light me to my shame. Frail nature shrinks. —And is death then so fearful? I have brav'dHim, fearless, in the field, and steel'd my breastAgainst his thousand horrors; but his cool,His sure approach, requires a fortitudeWhich nought but conscious rectitude can give.[Retires, and sits leaning. Enter Bland unperceived by AndréBlandAnd is that André! Oh, how chang'd! Alas!Where is that martial fire, that generous warmth,Which glow'd his manly countenance throughout,And gave to every look, to every act,The tone of high chivalrous animation? —André, my friend! look up.AndréWho calls me friend?BlandYoung Arthur Bland.André [rising]That name sounds like a friend's.[With emotion.I have inquir'd for thee – wish'd much to see thee —I prithee take no note of these fool's tears —My heart was full – and seeing thee —Bland [embracing him]O André! —I have but now arrived from the south —Nor heard – till now – of this – I cannot speak.Is this a place? – Oh, thus to find my friend!AndréStill dost thou call me friend? I, who dared actAgainst my reason, my declared opinion;Against my conscience, and a soldier's fame?Oft in the generous heat of glowing youth,Oft have I said how fully I despis'dAll bribery base, all treacherous tricks in war:Rather my blood should bathe these hostile shores,And have it said, "he died a gallant soldier,"Than with my country's gold encourage treason,And thereby purchase gratitude and fame.BlandStill mayest thou say it, for thy heart's the same.AndréStill is my heart the same: still may I say it:But now my deeds will rise against my words;And should I dare to talk of honest truth,Frank undissembling probity and faith,Memory would crimson o'er my burning cheek,And actions retrospected choke the tale.Still is my heart the same. But there has pastA day, an hour – which ne'er can be recall'd!Unhappy man! tho' all thy life pass pure;Mark'd by benevolence thy every deed;The out-spread map, which shews the way thou'st trod,Without one devious track, or doubtful line;It all avails thee nought, if in one hour,One hapless hour, thy feet are led astray; —Thy happy deeds, all blotted from remembrance;Cancel'd the record of thy former good.Is it not hard, my friend? Is 't not unjust?BlandNot every record cancel'd – Oh, there are hearts,Where Virtue's image, when 't is once engrav'd,Can never know erasure.AndréGenerous Bland![Takes his hand.The hour draws nigh which ends my life's sad story.I should be firm —BlandBy heaven thou shalt not die!Thou dost not sure deserve it. Betray'd, perhaps —Condemn'd without due circumstance made known?Thou didst not mean to tempt our officers?Betray our yeoman soldiers to destruction?Silent. Nay, then 't was from a duteous wishTo serve the cause thou wast in honour bound —AndréKind is my Bland, who to his generous heart,Still finds excuses for his erring friend.Attentive hear and judge me. —Pleas'd with the honours daily shower'd upon me,I glow'd with martial heat, my name to raiseAbove the vulgar herd, who live to die,And die to be forgotten. Thus I stood,When, avarice or ambition Arnold tempted,His country, fame, and honour to betray;Linking his name to infamy eternal.In confidence it was to be propos'd,To plan with him the means which should ensureThy country's downfall. Nothing then I sawBut confidential favour in the service,My country's glory, and my mounting fame;Forgot my former purity of thought,And high-ton'd honour's scruples disregarded.BlandIt was thy duty so to serve thy country.AndréNay, nay; be cautious ever to admitThat duty can beget dissimulation.On ground, unoccupied by either part,Neutral esteem'd, I landed, and was met.But ere my conference was with Arnold clos'd,The day began to dawn: I then was toldThat till the night I must my safety seekIn close concealment. Within your posts convey'd,I found myself involv'd in unthought dangers.Night came. I sought the vessel which had borneMe to the fatal spot; but she was gone.Retreat that way cut off, again I soughtConcealment with the traitors of your army.Arnold now granted passes, and I doff'dMy martial garb, and put on curs'd disguise!Thus in a peasant's form I pass'd your posts;And when, as I conceiv'd, my danger o'er,Was stopt and seiz'd by some returning scouts.So did ambition lead me, step by step,To treat with traitors, and encourage treason;And then, bewilder'd in the guilty scene,To quit my martial designating badges,Deny my name, and sink into the spy.BlandThou didst no more than was a soldier's duty,To serve the part on which he drew his sword.Thou shalt not die for this. Straight will I fly —I surely shall prevail —AndréIt is in vain.All has been tried. Each friendly argument —BlandAll has not yet been tried. The powerful voiceOf friendship in thy cause, has not been heard.My General favours me, and loves my father —My gallant father! would that he were here!But he, perhaps, now wants an André's care,To cheer his hours – perhaps, now languishesAmidst those horrors whence thou sav'd'st his son!The present moment claims my thought. André —I fly to save thee! —AndréBland, it is in vain.But, hold – there is a service thou may'st do me.BlandSpeak it.AndréOh, think, and as a soldier think,How I must die – The manner of my death —Like the base ruffian, or the midnight thief,Ta'en in the act of stealing from the poor,To be turn'd off the felon's – murderer's cart,A mid-air spectacle to gaping clowns: —To run a short, an envied course of glory,And end it on a gibbet. —BlandDamnation!!AndréSuch is my doom. Oh! have the manner changed,And of mere death I'll think not. Dost thou think – ?Perhaps thou canst gain that– ?Bland [almost in a frenzy]Thou shalt not die!AndréLet me, Oh! let me die a soldier's death,While friendly clouds of smoke shroud from all eyesMy last convulsive pangs, and I'm content.Bland [with increasing emotion]Thou shalt not die! Curse on the laws of war! —If worth like thine must thus be sacrificed,To policy so cruel and unjust,I will forswear my country and her service:I'll hie me to the Briton, and with fire,And sword, and every instrument of deathOr devastation, join in the work of war!What, shall worth weigh for nought? I will avenge thee!AndréHold, hold, my friend; thy country's woes are full.What! wouldst thou make me cause another traitor?No more of this; and, if I die, believe me,Thy country for my death incurs no blame.Restrain thy ardour – but ceaselessly intreat,That André may at least die as he lived,A soldier.BlandBy heaven thou shalt not die! —[Bland rushes off: André looks after him with an expression of love and gratitude, then retires up the stage. Scene closes.]Scene, the General's Quarters Enter M'Donald and Seward, in conversationM'Donald [coming forward]Three thousand miles the Atlantic wave rolls on,Which bathed Columbia's shores, ere, on the strandOf Europe, or of Afric, their continents,Or sea-girt isles, it chafes. —SewardOh! would to heavenThat in mid-way between these sever'd worlds,Rose barriers, all impassable to man,Cutting off intercourse, till either sideHad lost all memory of the other!M'DonaldWhat spur now goads thy warm imagination?SewardThen might, perhaps, one land on earth be found,Free from th' extremes of poverty and riches;Where ne'er a scepter'd tyrant should be known,Or tyrant lordling, curses of creation; —Where the faint shrieks of woe-exhausted age,Raving, in feeble madness, o'er the corseOf a polluted daughter, stained by lustOf viand-pamper'd luxury, might ne'er be heard; —Where the blasted form of much abusedBeauty, by villainy seduced, by knowledgeAll unguarded, might ne'er be view'd, flittingObscene, 'tween lamp and lamp, i' th' midnight streetOf all defiling city; where the child —M'DonaldHold! Shroud thy raven imagination!Torture not me with images so curst!SewardSoon shall our foes, inglorious, fly these shores.Peace shall again return. Then Europe's portsShall pour a herd upon us, far more fellThan those, her mercenary sons, who, now,Threaten our sore chastisement.M'DonaldProphet of ill,From Europe shall enriching commerce flow,And many an ill attendant; but from thenceShall likewise flow blest Science. Europe's knowledge,By sharp experience bought, we should appropriate;Striving thus to leap from that simplicity,With ignorance curst, to that simplicity,By knowledge blest; unknown the gulf between.SewardMere theoretic dreaming!M'DonaldBlest wisdomSeems, from out the chaos of the social world,Where good and ill, in strange commixture, float,To rise, by strong necessity, impell'd;Starting, like Love divine, from womb of Night,Illuming all, to order all reducing;And shewing, by its bright and noontide blaze,That happiness alone proceeds from justice.SewardDreams, dreams! Man can know nought but ill on earth.M'DonaldI'll to my bed, for I have watch'd all night;And may my sleep give pleasing repetitionOf these my waking dreams! Virtue's incentives.[Exit.SewardFolly's chimeras rather: guides to error. Enter Bland, preceded by a SergeantSergeantPacquets for the General.[Exit.BlandSeward, my friend!SewardCaptain! I'm glad to see the hue of healthSit on a visage from the sallow south.BlandThe lustihood of youth hath yet defiedThe parching sun, and chilling dew of even.The General – Seward – ?SewardI will lead you to him.BlandSeward, I must make bold. Leave us together,When occasion offers. 'T will be friendly.SewardI will not cross your purpose.[Exeunt.Scene, A Chamber Enter Mrs. BlandMrs. BlandYes, ever be this day a festivalIn my domestic calendar. This mornWill see my husband free. Even now, perhaps,Ere yet Aurora flies the eastern hills,Shunning the sultry sun, my Bland embarks.Already, on the Hudson's dancing wave,He chides the sluggish rowers, or supplicatesFor gales propitious; that his eager armsMay clasp his wife, may bless his little ones.Oh! how the tide of joy makes my heart bound,Glowing with high and ardent expectation! Enter two Children1st ChildHere we are, Mama, up, and dress'd already.Mrs. BlandAnd why were ye so early?1st ChildWhy, did not you tell us that Papa was to be home to-day?Mrs. BlandI said, perhaps.2nd Child [disappointed]Perhaps!1st ChildI don't like perhaps's.2nd ChildNo, nor I neither; nor "may be so's."Mrs. BlandWe make not certainties, my pretty loves;I do not like "perhaps's" more than you do.2nd ChildOh! don't say so, Mama! for I'm sure I hardly ever ask you anything but you answer me with "may be so," "perhaps," – or "very likely." "Mama, shall I go to the camp to-morrow, and see the General?" "May be so, my dear." Hang "may be so," say I.Mrs. BlandWell said, Sir Pertness.1st ChildBut I am sure, Mama, you said, that, to-day, Papa would have his liberty.Mrs. BlandSo, your dear father, by his letters, told me.2nd ChildWhy, then, I am sure he will be here to-day. When he can come to us, I'm sure he will not stay among those strange Englishmen and Hessians. I often wish'd that I had wings to fly, for then I would soon be with him.Mrs. BlandDear boy! Enter Servant and gives a letter to Mrs. BlandServantAn express, madam, from New-York to Headquarters, in passing, delivered this.2nd ChildPapa's coming home to-day, John.[Exeunt Servant and Children.Mrs. BlandWhat fears assail me! Oh! I did not wantA letter now! [She reads in great agitation, exclaiming, while her eyes are fixed on the paper.]My husband! doom'd to die! Retaliation![She looks forward with wildness, consternation and horror.To die, if André dies! He dies to-day! —My husband to be murdered! And to-day!To-day, if André dies! Retaliation!O curst contrivance! – Madness relieve me!Burst, burst, my brain! – Yet – André is not dead:My husband lives. [Looks at the letter.] "One man has power."I fly to save the father of my children![Rushes out.End of the Second Act

ACT III

Scene, the General's Quarters The General and Bland come forwardGeneral [papers in his hand]Captain, you are noted here with honourablePraises. Depend upon that countenanceFrom me, which you have prov'd yourself so richlyMeriting. Both for your father's virtues,And your own, your country owes you honour —The sole return the poor can make for service.BlandIf from my country ought I've merited,Or gain'd the approbation of her champion,At any other time, I should not dare,Presumptuously, to shew my sense of it;But now, my tongue, all shameless, dares to nameThe boon, the precious recompense, I wish,Which, granted, pays all service, past or future,O'erpays the utmost I can e'er achieve.GeneralBrief, my young friend, briefly, your purpose.BlandIf I have done my duty as a soldier;If I have brav'd all dangers for my country;If my brave father has deserved ought;Call all to mind – and cancel all – but grantMy one request – mine, and humanity's.GeneralBe less profuse of words, and name your wish;If fit, its fitness is the best assuranceThat not in vain you sue; but, if unjust,Thy merits, nor the merits of thy race,Cannot its nature alter, nor my mind,From its determined opposition change.BlandYou hold the fate of my most lov'd of friends;As gallant soldier as e'er faced a foe,Bless'd with each polish'd gift of social life,And every virtue of humanity.To me, a saviour from the pit of death,To me, and many more my countrymen.Oh! could my words portray him what he is;Bring to your mind the blessings of his deeds,While thro' the fever-heated, loathsome holds,Of floating hulks, dungeons obscene, where ne'erThe dewy breeze of morn, or evening's coolness,Breath'd on our parching skins, he pass'd along,Diffusing blessings; still his power exerting,To alleviate the woes which ruthless war,Perhaps, thro' dire necessity, heap'd on us;Surely, the scene would move you to forgetHis late intent – (tho' only serving then,As duty prompted) – and turn the rigourOf War's iron law from him, the best of men,Meant only for the worst.GeneralCaptain, no more.BlandIf André lives, the prisoner finds a friend;Else helpless and forlorn —All men will bless the act, and bless thee for it.GeneralThink'st thou thy country would not curse the man,Who, by a clemency ill-tim'd, ill-judg'd,Encourag'd treason? That pride encourag'd,Which, by denying us the rights of nations,Hath caus'd those ills which thou hast now portray'd?Our prisoners, brave and generous peasantry,As rebels have been treated, not as men.'T is mine, brave yeomen, to assert your rights;'T is mine to teach the foe, that, though array'dIn rude simplicity, ye, yet, are men,And rank among the foremost. Oft their scouts,The very refuse of the English arms,Unquestion'd, have our countrymen consign'dTo death, when captur'd, mocking their agonies.BlandCurse them! [Checking himself.] Yet let not censure fall on André.Oh, there are Englishmen as brave, as good,As ever land on earth might call its own;And gallant André is among the best!GeneralSince they have hurl'd war on us, we must shewThat by the laws of war we will abide;And have the power to bring their acts for trial,To that tribunal, eminent 'mongst men,Erected by the policy of nations,To stem the flood of ills, which else fell warWould pour, uncheck'd, upon the sickening world,Sweeping away all trace of civil life.BlandTo pardon him would not encourage ill.His case is singular: his station high;His qualities admired; his virtues lov'd.GeneralNo more, my good young friend: it is in vain.The men entrusted with thy country's rightsHave weigh'd, attentive, every circumstance.An individual's virtue is, by them,As highly prized as it can be by thee.I know the virtues of this man, and love them.But the destiny of millions, millionsYet unborn, depends upon the rigourOf this moment. The haughty Briton laughsTo scorn our armies and our councils. Mercy,Humanity, call loudly, that we makeOur now despised power be felt, vindictive.Millions demand the death of this young man.My injur'd country, he his forfeit lifeMust yield, to shield thy lacerated breastFrom torture. [To Bland.] Thy merits are not overlook'd.Promotion shall immediately attend thee.Bland [with contemptuous irony]Pardon me, sir, I never shall deserve it.[With increasing heat.] The country that forgets to reverence virtue;That makes no difference 'twixt the sordid wretch,Who, for reward, risks treason's penalty,And him unfortunate, whose duteous serviceIs, by mere accident, so chang'd in form,As to assume guilt's semblance, I serve not:Scorn to serve. I have a soldier's honour,But 't is in union with a freeman's judgment,And when I act, both prompt. Thus from my helmI tear, what once I proudly thought, the badgeOf virtuous fellowship. [Tears the cockade from his helmet.] My sword I keep. [Puts on his helmet.]Would, André, thou hadst never put thine off!Then hadst thou through opposers' hearts made wayTo liberty, or bravely pierc'd thine own![Exit.GeneralRash, headstrong, maddening boy!Had not this action past without a witness,Duty would ask that thou shouldst rue thy folly —But, for the motive, be the deed forgotten.[Exit.Scene, a VillageAt a distance some tents. In front muskets, drums, and other indications of soldiers' quarters Enter Mrs. Bland and Children, attended by MelvilleMelvilleThe General's doors to you are ever open.But why, my worthy friend, this agitation?Our Colonel, your husband —Mrs. Bland [in tears, gives him the letter]Read, Melville.1st ChildDo not cry, Mama, for I'm sure if Papa said he would come home to-day he will come yet: for he always does what he says he will.Mrs. BlandHe cannot come, dear love; they will not let him.2nd ChildWhy, then, they told him lies. Oh, fie upon them!Melville [returning the letter]Fear nothing, Madam, 't is an empty threat:A trick of policy. They dare not do it.Mrs. BlandAlas! alas! what dares not power to do?What art of reasoning, or what magic words,Can still the storm of fears these lines have rais'd?The wife's, the mother's fears? Ye innocents,Unconscious on the brink of what a perilousPrecipice ye stand, unknowing that to-dayYe are cast down the gulf, poor babes, ye weepFrom sympathy. Children of sorrow, nurst,Nurtur'd, midst camps and arms; unknowing man,But as man's fell destroyer; must ye now,To crown your piteous fate, be fatherless?O, lead me, lead me to him! Let me kneel,Let these, my children, kneel, till André, pardon'd,Ensures to me a husband, them a father.MelvilleMadam, duty forbids further attendance.I am on guard to-day. But see your son;To him I leave your guidance. Good wishesProsper you![Exit Melville. Enter BlandMrs. BlandMy Arthur, O my Arthur!BlandMy mother![Embracing her.Mrs. BlandMy son, I have been wishingFor you —[Bursts into tears, unable to proceed.BlandBut whence this grief, these tears, my mother?Why are these little cheeks bedew'd with sorrow?[He kisses the children, who exclaim, Brother, brother!Have I done ought to cause a mother's sadness?Mrs. BlandNo, my brave boy! I oft have fear'd, but neverSorrow'd for thee.BlandHigh praise! – Then bless me, Madam;For I have pass'd through many a bustling sceneSince I have seen a father or a mother.Mrs. BlandBless thee, my boy! O bless him, bless him, Heaven!Render him worthy to support these babes!So soon, perhaps, all fatherless – dependent. —BlandWhat mean'st thou, madam? Why these tears?Mrs. BlandThy father —BlandA prisoner of war – I long have known it —But made so without blemish to his honour,And soon exchang'd, returns unto his friends,To guard these little ones, and point and lead,To virtue and to glory.Mrs. BlandNever, never!His life, a sacrifice to André's manes,7Must soon be offer'd. Even now, endungeon'd,Like a vile felon, on the earth he lies,His death expecting. André's executionGives signal for the murder of thy father —André now dies! —Bland [despairingly]My father and my friend!!Mrs. BlandThere is but one on earth can save my husband —But one can pardon André.BlandHaste, my mother!Thou wilt prevail. Take with thee in each handAn unoffending child of him thou weep'st.Save – save them both! This way – haste – lean on me.[Exeunt.Scene, the General's Quarters Enter the General and M'DonaldGeneralHere have I intimation from the foe,That still they deem the spy we have condemn'd,Merely a captive; by the laws of armsFrom death protected; and retaliation,As they term it, threaten, if we our purpose hold.Bland is the victim they have singled out,Hoping his threaten'd death will André save.M'DonaldIf I were Bland I boldly might adviseMy General how to act. Free, and in safety,I will now suppose my counsel needless. Enter an American OfficerOfficerAnother flag hath from the foe arriv'd,And craves admittance.GeneralConduct it hither.[Exit Officer.Let us, unwearied hear, unbias'd judge,Whate'er against our martial court's decision,Our enemies can bring. Enter British Officer, conducted by the American OfficerGeneralYou are welcome, sir.What further says Sir Henry?British OfficerThis from him.He calls on you to think what weighty woesYou now are busy bringing on your country.He bids me say, that, if your sentence reachThe prisoner's life (prisoner of arms he deems him,And no spy), on him alone it falls not.He bids me loud proclaim it, and declare,If this brave officer, by cruel mockeryOf war's stern law, and justice's feign'd pretence,Be murder'd; the sequel of our strife, bloody,Unsparing and remorseless, you will make.Think of the many captives in our power.Already one is mark'd; for André mark'd; —And when his death, unparallel'd in war,The signal gives, then Colonel Bland must die.General'T is well, sir; bear this message in return.Sir Henry Clinton knows the laws of arms:He is a soldier, and, I think, a brave one.The prisoners he retains he must account for.Perhaps the reckoning's near. I, likewise, amA soldier; entrusted by my country.What I shall judge most for that country's good,That shall I do. When doubtful, I consultMy country's friends; never her enemies.In André's case there are no doubts: 't is clear:Sir Henry Clinton knows it.British OfficerWeigh consequences.GeneralIn strict regard to consequence I act;And much should doubt to call that action right,However specious, whose apparent endWas misery to man. That brave officerWhose death you threaten, for himself drew notHis sword – his country's wrongs arous'd his mind;Her good alone his aim; and if his fallCan further fire that country to resistance,He will, with smiles, yield up his glorious life,And count his death a gain; and tho' ColumbiansWill lament his fall, they will lament in blood.[General walks up the stage.M'DonaldHear this! hear this, mankind!British OfficerThus am I answered? Enter a Sergeant with a letterSergeantExpress from Colonel Bland.[Delivers it and exit.GeneralWith your permission.[Opens it.British OfficerYour pleasure, sir. It may my mission further.M'DonaldO, Bland! my countryman, surely I know thee!General'T is short: I will put form aside, and read it.[Reads.] "Excuse me, my Commander, for having a moment doubted your virtue: but you love me. If you waver, let this confirm you. My wife and children, to you and my country. Do your duty." Report this to your General.British OfficerI shall, sir.[Bows, and exit with American Officer.GeneralO, Bland! my countryman![Exit with emotion.M'DonaldTriumph of virtue!Like him and thee, still be Americans.Then, tho' all-powerful Europe league against us,And pour in arms her legions on our shores;Who is so dull would doubt their shameful flight?Who doubt our safety, and our glorious triumph?Scene, the Prison Enter BlandBlandLingering, I come to crush the bud of hopeMy breath has, flattering, to existence warm'd.Hard is the task to friendship! hard to say,To the lov'd object there remains no hope,No consolation for thee; thou must die;The worst of deaths; no circumstance abated. Enter André in his uniform, and dress'dAndréIs there that state on earth which friendship cannot cheer?BlandLittle I bring to cheer thee, André.AndréI understand. 'T is well. 'T will soon be past.Yet, 't was not much I ask'd. A soldier's death.A trifling change of form.BlandOf that I spoke not.By vehemence of passion hurried on,I pleaded for thy precious life alone;The which denied, my indignation barr'dAll further parley. But strong solicitationNow is urg'd to gain the wish'd-for favour.AndréWhat is 't o'clock?Bland'T is past the stroke of nine.AndréWhy, then, 't is almost o'er. But to be hung —Is there no way to escape that infamy?What then is infamy? – no matter – no matter.BlandOur General hath received another flag.AndréSoliciting for me?BlandOn thy behalf.AndréI have been ever favour'd.BlandThreat'nings, now;No more solicitations. Harsh, indeed,The import of the message: harsh, indeed.AndréI am sorry for it. Would that I were dead,And all was well with those I leave behind.BlandSuch a threat! Is it not enough, just heaven,That I must lose this man? Yet there was leftOne for my soul to rest on. But, to knowThat the same blow deprives them both of life —AndréWhat mean'st thou, Bland? Surely my GeneralThreats not retaliation. In vengeance,Dooms not some better man to die for me?BlandThe best of men.AndréThou hast a father, captive —I dare not ask —BlandThat father dies for thee.AndréGracious heaven! how woes are heap'd upon me!What! cannot one, so trifling in life's scene,Fall, without drawing such a ponderous ruin?Leave me, my friend, awhile – I yet have life —A little space of life – let me exert itTo prevent injustice: – From death to saveThy father, thee to save from utter desolation.BlandWhat mean'st thou, André?AndréSeek thou the messengerWho brought this threat. I will my last entreatySend by him. My General, sure, will grant it.BlandTo the last thyself![Exit.AndréIf, at this moment,When the pangs of death already touch me,Firmly my mind against injustice strives,And the last impulse to my vital powersIs given by anxious wishes to redeemMy fellowmen from pain; surely my end,Howe'er accomplished, is not infamous.[Exit.End of the Third Act