_Queen._ [_Kneels._] Oh! then, my liege, Prove it in mercy. War, noble sir! when too far push'd, is butchery: When manly victory o'erleaps its limits, The tyrant blasts the laurels of the conqueror. Let it not dwell within your thoughts, my liege, Thus to oppress these men. And, royal sir! Since you were free to promise Whatever boon I begg'd,--now, on my knee, I beg it, sir. Release these wretched men: Make me the means of cheering the unhappy: And, though my claim were tenfold what it is Upon your bounty, 'twould reward me nobly. _King._ Rise, madam. Tho' it was our fix'd intent To awe these French, by terrible example, Our promise still is sacred, good Philippa. Your suit is won; and we relax our rigour.---- Let them pass free; while we do here pronounce A general pardon. _La Gloire._ A pardon! no!--Oh diable!--My father! and my commander too!--Huzza!--[_Takes the Rope from his Father's Neck, then from his own, and runs down with the Three Kinsmen._]---Oh! that I should live to unrope my poor old father, and master! [_Runs to RIBAUMONT, and takes the Rope off his Neck._ _Enter MADELON._ [_She and LA GLOIRE rush into each other's Arms._ _Madelon._ Oh! my poor La Gloire!--My tears-- _La Gloire._ That's right! Cry, Madelon!--cry for joy, wench!--Old Eustache is safe!--my Captain and relations free!--Here's a whole bundle of honest necks recovered: mine's tossed in, in the lump; and we'll be married, Madelon, to-morrow. _King._ Now, my lord! for you:-- We have, I trust, some influence here; Nor will we quit your town, until we see Your marriage solemnized-- [_To RIBAUMONT._ _O'Carrol._ Well, if I didn't know what crying was before, I have found it out at last.--'Faith it has a mighty pleasant relieving sort of a feel with it. _King._ Prepare we, then, to enter Calais; straight Give order for our march-- Breathe forth, our instruments of war; and, as We do approach the rugged walls, sound high The strains of victory. GRAND CHORUS. _Rear, rear our English banner high_ _In token proud of victory!_ _Where'er our god of battle strides,_ _Loud sound the trump of fame!_ _Where'er the English warrior rides,_ _May laurel'd conquest grace his name._ [_Exeunt omnes._ THE END. End of Project Gutenberg's The Surrender of Calais, by George Colman