_Arnold_. [_Waking._] They deny me the opportunity of honorable death. This is the twentieth year of sodden waiting. Fighting by land and sea and soldier's work, As hot as heart could wish,--boy generals,-- Wars on all hands, in Holland, France, and Spain, With military honors falling thick;-- And I, a Tantalus set in a lake of thirst, Up to my neck in battles all about, Without the power to reach them! [_Enter_ Mrs. Arnold. _She has a youthful face, and her hair is prematurely white. She passes by_ Death _without seeing him. A gesture of surprise and pity as she sees _Arnold_. She kisses him on his forehead, and sits down next him on a lower chair._] _Mrs. Arnold_. Surely, my husband you have not been forth! After the sullen fever you have had 'Twas most unwise.-- [_Pause._] You have been grieved, and wear the ashen look. _Arnold_. Age, and the chafing of a few stern thoughts. _Mrs. Arnold_. Have I not earned the right to know them? _Arnold_. Indeed, thou hast! An angel from the sky Accepting the bad bargain of a man, Could not have found a worse. You took me up A battered piece of ordnance, broken in spirit, Accursed to myself and to my kind; And underneath me thou hast held an arm Sustaining as the seraph's upward look Askance against Apollyon. _Mrs. Arnold_. Benedict! You shall not talk so.-- _Arnold_. Next, your mother's heart Became the mother to my three grown boys, Giving them such devotion and such love As rarely flows from out a mother's hope To her own children. _Mrs. Arnold_. Benedict, your words Cut me like knives. Why, why this catalogue? _Arnold_. Something compels me.-- _Mrs. Arnold_. Where have you been? Has some insulting taunt Cast by a coward in a public place Where you could not resent it, stung your patience? These are the pebbles small men throw at great. _Arnold_. No. 'Tis the season for my wounds to ache; And with them aches the rest.-- _Mrs. Arnold_. Where have you been? _Arnold_. Three hours in his Lordship's ante-room. _Mrs. Arnold_. The War Office? And what has been decided? _Arnold_. I could not see his Lordship. Three hours late. They sent me word his Lordship was not in. It is the iteration wears me down. Year after year,--year after leaden year,-- Kicking my heels in England's ante-rooms, Where proud men pass me by: and now and then I catch a glimpse of some American,-- A former pal, a former enemy;-- It is the same, both pal and enemy Give me a fit of trembling. 'Twas not so; Yet as the years decline our nerves grow sick: I dread it more and more.