(The stage darkens for a moment. It becomes light again, and the Pictures are seen to have become animated.) CHORUS OF FAMILY PORTRAITS. Painted emblems of a race, All accurst in days of yore, Each from his accustomed place Steps into the world once more. (The Pictures step from their frames and march round the stage.) Baronet of Ruddigore, Last of our accursed line, Down upon the oaken floor— Down upon those knees of thine. Coward, poltroon, shaker, squeamer, Blockhead, sluggard, dullard, dreamer, Shirker, shuffler, crawler, creeper, Sniffler, snuffler, wailer, weeper, Earthworm, maggot, tadpole, weevil! Set upon thy course of evil, Lest the King of Spectre-land Set on thee his grisly hand! (The Spectre of Sir Roderic descends from his frame.) SIR ROD. Beware! beware! beware! ROB. Gaunt vision, who art thou That thus, with icy glare And stern relentless brow, Appearest, who knows how? SIR ROD. I am the spectre of the late Sir Roderic Murgatroyd, Who comes to warn thee that thy fate Thou canst not now avoid. ROB. Alas, poor ghost! SIR ROD. The pity you Express for nothing goes: We spectres are a jollier crew Than you, perhaps, suppose! CHORUS. We spectres are a jollier crew Than you, perhaps, suppose! SONG—SIR RODERIC. When the night wind howls in the chimney cowls, and the bat in the moonlight flies, And inky clouds, like funeral shrouds, sail over the midnight skies— When the footpads quail at the night-bird's wail, and black dogs bay at the moon, Then is the spectres' holiday—then is the ghosts' high-noon! CHORUS. Ha! ha! Then is the ghosts' high-noon! As the sob of the breeze sweeps over the trees, and the mists lie low on the fen, From grey tomb-stones are gathered the bones that once were women and men, And away they go, with a mop and a mow, to the revel that ends too soon, For cockcrow limits our holiday—the dead of the night's high-noon! CHORUS. Ha! ha! The dead of the night's high-noon!