SCENE--_Stage in complete shadow. An Irish Glen surrounded by bare mountains covered with dwarf oaks, overhanging a big bog. The Moon is shining dimly._ CASPAR _discovered with a pouch and hanger, busily engaged in making a Circle of fairy lanterns, in the middle of which is placed a turnip-skull, a shillelagh, a bunch of shamrock, a crucible, and a bullet-mould. Distant mutterings heard._ _Chorus of Distant Party-Spirits._ Shindy now would be a boon, ("_Hear, hear! Hear, hear!_") Interest in M-tch-llst-wn hath died, ("_Hear, hear! Hear, hear!_") Mischief must be stirred up soon. ("_Hear, hear! Hear, hear!_") And Obstruction once more tried. ("_Hear, hear! Hear, hear!_") Ere this S-ss-n's course is run We must really have some fun. ("_Hear, hear! Hear, hear!_") [_At the end of chorus, a Big Bell booms twelve times; the Circle being finished,_ CASPAR _within it, draws his hanger round the lanterns, and at the twelfth stroke strikes it into the turnip-skull._ _Caspar (kneeling, and raising the skull on the hanger at arm's length)_. ZAMIEL, ZAMIEL, hear me, hear! By this bogey-skull appear! ZAMIEL, rise, for things look queer! [_A confused noise is heard, a Meteor (looking rather like a long-expected Blue-Book) falls on the Circle, and_ ZAMIEL, _looking coldly triumphant, appears._ _Zamiel._ Why callest thou? _Caspar._ Well, hang it! I like that! But, by St. Patrick's beard, your advent's pat, Our foes boast three years longer they may live. _Zamiel._ No! _Caspar._ Then good reason you and I must give. _Zamiel._ Who says so? _Caspar._ One who hardly dared--till now-- To face thy really rayther freezing brow; But, moved by reason, and a late Report, He's on the job; and we shall have some sport. _Zamiel._ What doth he seek? _Caspar._ To be supplied With bullets which thy skill shall guide. _Zamiel._ Six shall obey, The seventh--who'll say? _Caspar._ Lord of the mystic League, I hope, by sly intrigue, To rule the seventh also, And let it kill--_you_ know! _Zamiel._ Too risky. _Caspar._ Oh, I say, Let's have no more delay. Three long years yet to sway? Pooh, ZAMIEL! It's child's-play. _Zamiel._ Enough--no more! I'll tell thee now By this day month there'll be--a row? [_More mutterings are heard and repeated in chorus. The skull and hanger sink, and in their place a hearth with lighted coals and faggots, rise out of the earth, within the Circle. The Moon becomes red._ _Caspar._ Well served! Bless thee, ZAMIEL! The day will be ours! [CASPAR _moves to and fro, places faggots on the coals, blows the fire, which blazes and fumes. In the smoke certain cabalistic letters appear._