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with Lucy. Jackson, standing in the doorway, has seen all this. 64 INT. UNMARKED CAR - MOVING - DAY Nico at the wheel has just pulled away from the bakery. Jackson, in the passenger seat, studies her partner for a few moments, shaking her head at the contradictions in this man. Educated, classy, an elegant dresser -- yet underneath an out-and-out wild man. JACKSON I don't get you, Toscani. (beat) What the hell are you doing being a shitheel cop? With your background? For a long moment Nico says nothing. Then, quietly, look- ing straight ahead: NICO When I was overseas, I saw some things. Things that eat your guts out. Things that stay in front of your eyes like they were burned in and branded. He turns to Jackson. NICO You can walk away from them, Jax. You can quit, but you know it's still going on. You try something anyway -- (smiles a moment) -- I know I'm not going to change the world. I can't stop the tonnage coming in, I can't fight the boys behind the desks pushing their buttons -- ANGLE INCLUDING MEAN STREETS OUTSIDE NICO But maybe here, huh? (indicates street) Maybe in my own city, my own neighborhood, on my own block -- maybe here I can do something. He turns a corner. NICO That's why I'm a shitheel cop. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 20A. * 64A INT. POLICE STATION - DAY Behind the desk, a few detectives man the phones. A Latin attorney, ABANDANO, is at the counter. COP (O.S.) You can see your client. As soon as she's through eating her dinner. 65 INT. POLICE LOCKUP - "CAGE" AND HALLWAY - EVENING Hookers, female addicts, etc. in the downtown "cage." Nico has the girl in the red dress and lizard shoes (CARLA DECARLO) out in the hallway adjacent to the lock- up. Nico is Mr. Charm, offering her a heart-shaped box of chocolates. NICO Carla... Carla -- I just want the name of your boyfriend -- CARLA I got 200 boyfriends. The hooker, Carla DeCarlo, slaps the box away, cursing in Spanish. 21. CARLA Pinchi cabron, cabeza colon! Some of the chocolates tumble onto the lockup floor, the detainees snap them up, start munching. The girl con- tinues to spit curses at Nico, gesturing with her hands with Latin flamboyance. Nico grabs her by the elbow, as a jailer opens the lockup door. More curses are being flung at Nico from various females in the cage. Nico heaves Carla in among them. Carla flops down on a bench next to a tall black hooker. MOVE IN ON the black hooker. It's Nico's partner, Jackson, dolled up like a street- walker, playing her undercover role to the hilt. JACKSON (to Nico) Why can't you sons-a-bitches ever treat someone with a little respect? NICO (walking away) Take it easy, sister. JACKSON I ain't your goddamn sister. We ain't got the same mother, motherfucka. Carla fires one final parting salvo of obscenities, then sags back among the women. Carla starts to cry. Jackson comforts her; Carla responds, lets herself be comforted. CUT TO: 66 EXT. DOWNTOWN - FINANCIAL DISTRICT - DAY Jackson, back in her normal daytime wear, exits a building. She gets into Nico's car. 67 INT. CAR - DAY Jackson checks her makeup in the rearview mirror. Nico sits behind the wheel. The two are on some kind of stakeout. JACKSON The lawyer's name is Abandano. He's on the third floor. I got a look at him. I couldn't get how he's connected, but according to Carla, he's a lousy lay. NICO Maybe we can bust him for that. Jackson spots something, gestures subtly out window -- ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 22. 68 EXT. DOWNTOWN BUILDING - DAY A short, slick-looking Latin man in a business suit emerges from the building. JACKSON That's our stud. Nico and Jackson leave their car and follow him on foot. 69 EXT. FINANCIAL DISTRICT - BANK - DAY ABANDANO meets a striking-looking middle-aged woman in front of a stately financial institution. They go in. Jackson remains out on the street, while Nico follows the couple in. 70 LATER Jackson has been waiting, sipping some coffee. Nico emerges from the bank, signaling to his partner to follow him. Abandano and the woman exit from the bank's revol- ving doors and immediately jump into a cab. Nico and Jackson look at each other and step in front of another cab. Nico opens the cab door, flips his badge open, then asks the occupant to leave. Jackson gets in the front seat next to the protesting cabbie. 71 EXT. FEDERAL BUILDING - DAY Abandano and the woman are crossing the plaza as Nico and Jackson run up the block. Near the entrance to the Federal * Building, a small but vocal group of protestors are * gathered, carrying signs and chanting slogans. The frus- * trated cabbie watches them in the background. 72 PLAZA Jackson and Nico watch Abandano and the woman pass the * crowd of demonstrators and enter the building. Jackson acts * indifferent, almost frustrated; Nico keenly senses something. CUT TO: 73 INT. EXPENSIVE RESTAURANT ("BOGOTA") - DAY * The main dining room. No customers, just busboys readying tables for the evening's business. We notice one of the * busboys is the "pimp" Nico found with Lucy. * 74 BOOTH NEAR BACK HALLWAY The owner's table. Stacks of dining checks, a cashbox and calculator, full ashtrays, wine glasses. BAUTISTA SALVANO, a heavyset, swarthy Venezuelan dressed in a tux with the collar open, glowers across the table at a mus- cular, scar-faced Latin busboy -- the kind who looks like he does more for his boss than clean up the tables. The busboy (NARDO) is nervous, apologetic -- ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 23. SALVANO (pissed off) -- I brought you in for your muscles, Nardo, not your mouth. NARDO (scared) I'm sorry, boss. SALVANO Your English is getting good... You're showing it off. Showing it off on the street -- NARDO I keep quiet. I never talk no more -- Salvano glowers at Nardo like he's about to punch him. Instead he reaches over, playfully chokes the busboy -- then releases him, as if all is forgiven. SALVANO Make yourself useful. (indicates empty wine bottle on table) Get downstairs, bring me one of these. (as Nardo stands, starts for back hallway) Then get back to work. 75 INT. RESTAURANT BASEMENT STOREROOM - LATE AFTERNOON Nardo enters at the top of the stairs, radiating relief. He trots down into the empty basement, toward a floor-to- ceiling wine rack. NARDO (to himself) I thought I was dead, man. (whistles with relief) I thought I was fucking dead. He crosses to the wine rack. It's dark, hard to see. He searches for the bottle. Suddenly: a METALLIC sound behind him. Nardo turns -- CHI CHI TESTAMENTE, a wiry, pock-faced Latino, stands in the shadows (it is clear he has been waiting there, hiding) -- holding a small silencer automatic. CHI CHI You were right, cabron. * ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 24. One SHOT between the eyes and Nardo CRASHES backward into the WINE RACK, eyes wide with shock and bewilderment. Chi Chi SHOOTS him AGAIN; Nardo drops like a stone. Coolly, professionally, Chi Chi pumps FOUR more SHOTS into the prone busboy's head. Chi Chi ejects the clip into his palm, unscrews the silencer, holsters the gun. Salvano appears at the top of the stairs. Two busboys are behind him. One of them is the young pimp. The busboys hurry * down, the pimp -- scared shitless but playing it macho-cool. * Salvano comes down the stairs. Chi Chi stands over his work. SALVANO (to busboys) Clean up this mess. CHI CHI * Who knows who else is talking -- * SALVANO * He was a young fool. * 76 BACK IN UPSTAIRS DINING ROOM Salvano and Chi Chi emerge from the basement steps and walk toward their booth. CHI CHI We're crazy waiting for this bullshit 'shipment.' Let me waste the other fucker now. Salvano puts a hand on Chi Chi's shoulder. SALVANO Be patient. This will be done the way it was planned. CUT TO: 77 EXT. BODY AND FENDER SHOP - NIGHT Rusting cyclone fences surround a mud-lot repair yard in a dingy industrial section. Young Lation and black workers finish up for the night; through the dirty, security-barred office window we can see Chi Chi talking on the phone. The lawyer, Abandano, is also there. 78 EXT. ALLEY - REAR OF SHOP - NIGHT Nico finishes connecting a small transmitter which has been hastily wired to the entering phone line. 79 INT. UNMARKED CAR - NIGHT Nico and Jackson in the shadows down the street from the body shop. Nico wears earphones, a small tape recorder on the seat beside him. Jackson does not look happy. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 25. JACKSON Toscani, you're going to have me doing time. NICO Lighten up, Jax. No one's bringing this into court. JACKSON Except against us. NICO I don't give a shit how we do it. I just wanna get there. Jackson gives Nico a dirty look, but stifles her protest. JACKSON I thought you said you were gonna protect me. Cover my butt. Be my guardian angel -- Nico hears something through the earphones. Gestures for silence -- 80 ANGLE THROUGH OFFICE WINDOW Chi Chi listens with increased intensity to something on the phone. He starts writing it down -- 81 BACK TO NICO In unmarked car. He's writing it down too. NICO I got the shipment. * JACKSON What? What's he saying? NICO (scribbling furiously) '... Engine block has cleared customs. Serial number VA-748. Pick up Tuesday, 3 May as authorized.' 82 EXT. BODY SHOP - NIGHT Chi Chi emerges from the office, tucking a scrap of paper into his pocket. Abandano follows. They get into a late-model Lincoln which pulls out onto the street. * 83 EXT. STREET - NIGHT Nico and Jackson's car follows at a discreet distance. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 26. NICO (V.O.) Unit Ten Tango X-ray. I need a vehicle registration I.D. POLICE RADIO (V.O.) Go ahead, please. NICO (V.O.) '86 Lincoln. Illinois 354 Dog '67. * 84 INT. UNMARKED CAR - MOVING - NIGHT Jackson picks up Nico's pad to take down the response. After a moment: POLICE RADIO (V.O.) Vehicle registration follows. Leaseholder: Ramon Testamente, registered alien. Nation of origin: Venezuela. Do you wish criminal record search? NICO (into mike) I want to know when he wipes his * behind. * 85 SERIES OF SHOTS As Nico and Jackson tail the Lincoln out of the industrial zone into a fancier, non-Latin neighborhood. On the sidewalks we glimpse theatergoers, fashionable white couples out on the town. 86 LINCOLN Pulls up to a valet park outside a ton-y restaurant. A sign says: "BOGOTA." * 87 INT. UNMARKED CAR - MOVING Nico and Jackson exchange a glance. JACKSON Salvano? NICO Jackpot. 88 EXT. RESTAURANT - NIGHT Chi Chi and Abandano get out of their car, a valet takes it, Chi Chi enters the restaurant. 89 INT. SALVANO'S RESTAURANT - NIGHT Nico and Jackson enter the main dining room, which we recognize from the scene with Nardo the busboy. 27. The place is packed with fashionable people of all races. A band plays salsa; couples dance. Nico and Jackson pass easily as a hip "uptown" couple. A pretty Latin HOSTESS approaches them. HOSTESS Two for dinner? NICO Two for drinks. They elbow up to the packed bar, standing. Nico squints toward the rear dining room. 90 NICO'S POV - DOWN BAR Looking past numerous patrons, we see Chi Chi whisper something to a waiter and take a seat at a rear table (the same "owner's table" where Salvano sat before.) The waiter hurries off into a back hallway. 91 NICO AND JACKSON - AT BAR Jackson moves to the salsa beat. A BARMAID approaches. JACKSON Gimme something stiff. I need it. BARMAID Who doesn't? Nico's eyes never leave Chi Chi. 92 REAR DINING ROOM From the back hallway Salvano emerges -- in his tux, looking prosperous. He sits down beside Chi Chi and Abandano. A waitress brings two drinks. After a few words, Chi Chi removes the scrap of paper from his pocket, hands it to Salvano. NICO (O.S.) You'll have your engine block next Tuesday, boss. 93 BACK TO NICO AND JACKSON As the Barmaid brings their drinks. Jackson sees her peaceful week to retirement flying out the window. JACKSON Why couldn't it be a week from Tuesday? I could read about it in the paper. Nico grabs her waist, pulls her onto the dance floor, and does a playful twirl. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 28. NICO Cheer up, partner. I'm gonna make you famous. 94 EXT. WHOLESALE MEAT AREA - DAY * Track spurs, greasy streets, parked fork lifts. 94A EXT. ROOF - DAY * Lieutenant Strozah surveys the street traffic. * 95 NICO, JACKSON AND LUKICH The two men, dressed as meat processors in hard hats and bloody white coats, rake cattle guts under the eave of a packing plant. Jackson, dressed like a USDA Inspector and * carrying a clipboard, inspects a few hanging carcasses. JACKSON You missed a few spots, boys. LUKICH I'm takin' it home t'a make kilbasa, boss. Luke casts an impatient glance across the street to a lot with four parked meat trucks. We glimpse two "truckers" keeping low in the shadows of one cab. Down the block a seemingly empty pickup truck is parked in an alley. LUKICH This ain't a bust -- it's a convention. NICO Don't you like company, Luke? (sarcastic) We got all the scouts here -- Drug Enforcement Agency, the Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms -- WALKIE-TALKIE (V.O.) Keep this channel clear, Toscani. We realize Nico, Jackson and Lukich are wired, with mikes out of sight under their coats. Nico glances to the pick- up, near to which three men can be spotted in the alley. Apparently one of them is the walkie-talkie voice. NICO (into mike) This is our channel, dickhead. And our collar. ANOTHER WALKIE-TALKIE (V.O.) That's enough, all of you! Keep this channel clear. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 28A. 96 ANGLE ON MEAT PLANT - DAY Nothing happening. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 29. 97 ANOTHER ANGLE Dead as hell. 98 NICO, LUKICH AND JACKSON Bored, pissed off, tired. Suddenly: 99 BATTERED VAN WITH TWO MEN emerges from a corner, two blocks down. It starts slowly this way. 1ST WALKIE-TALKIE (V.O.) All right. Everyone get their heads outa their ass. The meat truck men duck down out of sight, the pickup men back into the shadows. Nico and Lukich keep raking cow guts. The van passes slowly, checking out the area. JACKSON (sarcastic) '... And so I quit the police department... got myself a steady job -- ' The van accelerates slightly, turns a corner, vanishes. Silence. LUKICH * They spotted me. I'm too good- looking to be a meat slopper. * 1ST WALKIE-TALKIE (V.O.) Will you hot dogs shut up? The van returns. On a cross street. Heading behind the packing plant. NICO * (to Lukich) * You're too ugly. Now a second car appears. The Lincoln. Behind it is an ancient station wagon. Both vehicles take a different cross street, but both heading behind the packing plant. NICO (into hidden mike) Here we go, boys and girls -- (to Jackson) You stay put. * As soon as the two vehicles pass out of sight, Nico and Lukich ditch their rakes, dart into the packing plant. The meat truck men START their TRUCK. 30. The pickup men board their vehicle -- Jackson follows Nico and Luke -- but at a safe distance. 100 INT. PACKING PLANT - DAY Nico and Lukich sprint in a crouch past the blood runoffs, meat cutting tables -- 101 NICO'S POV - RUNNING THROUGH the windows at the rear of the plant, we see the station wagon and the van, pulling up swiftly beside one another, men getting out -- 102 INT. PLANT Nico and Lukich draw their guns, running full-tilt. NICO (into hidden miki) It's going down now. Move! 103 EXT. REAR OF PACKING PLANT - DAY The station wagon men heave their rear door open, the van men start to open their side door. The Lincoln is stopped at a distance. Suddenly -- 104 NICO AND LUKICH burst from the rear door of the packing plant, guns drawn. LUKICH Police! 105 QUICK CUTS - VAN AND STATION WAGON MEN grab for their weapons -- 106 COPS IN MEAT TRUCK AND PICKUP come highballing around both sides of the packing plant -- 107 VAN AND STATION WAGON MEN OPEN FIRE. There is confusion and mayhem; it's not clear who's a cop and who's a criminal. 108 NICO AND LUKICH dive for cover, RETURNING FIRE. The DEA men in one truck also OPEN UP. One of the van men is hit between the eyes. MACHINE GUN FIRE rakes the DEA truck; it spins out of control; flips. Lukich SHOOTS the machine-gunner. LUKICH (shouts; points) Nico! The Lincoln! 31. 109 LINCOLN starts to PEEL OUT. We glimpse Chi Chi in the driver's seat, Salvano on the passenger side. 110 NICO steps in front of the accelerating Lincoln, raises his .45. 111 INT. LINCOLN - DAY Salvano and Chi Chi dive below the dash and continue forward. Salvano, in the passenger seat, raises his GUN; FIRES blindly -- trying to hit Nico. 112 EXT. LINCOLN - DAY Nico UNLOADS his .45 into the windshield and the firewall. The Lincoln keeps coming down the narrow alley. 113 NICO brazenly steps up onto the hood and dives, grabbing onto the roof. 114 INT. LINCOLN - DAY Salvano can't believe it. He screams something in Spanish. He FIRES again, this time through the roof. 115 EXT. LINCOLN - ROOF - DAY Bullet holes appear. Nico narrowly misses being hit. 116 ANOTHER ANGLE - LINCOLN Nico reaches over the side of the car and SMASHES the pas- senger WINDOW with his fist. 117 CLOSEUP - NICO'S HAND Salvano's face is bashed. Nico's huge hand grabs Salvano's throat; he won't let go. 118 CLOSEUP - NICO He hangs on with one hand. 119 CLOSEUP - SALVANO Nico's fingers now dig into Salvano's larynx; he may never talk again. He's gagging. Salvano now points the gun at Chi Chi. Chi Chi makes the decision to stop the car in order to save his boss. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 32. 120 NICO leaps off the roof pulling Salvano past the broken glass, out of the window. 121 SEVERAL POLICE VEHICLES * SCREECH into the lot. Officers pour out, guns drawn, surrounding the Lincoln and the other vehicles. Jackson joins them, weapon in hand. 122 NICO drags Salvano by the neck across the lot to the van, slamming the drug dealer up against the van's side. Lukich, Jackson and Strozah are there, with the DEA cops, * all covering the other men. NICO (to Salvano) How many kilos you got in there, Skivuzo? Salvano couldn't answer if he wanted to. The other cops look at Nico with awe. Lukich whips the van door open, yanks a tarp off the cargo. 123 INT. VAN The engine block sits in a wooden shipping frame, wrapped with industrial plastic. Nico climbs into the van, rips the plastic sheeting off, grabs the wood slats of the shipping frame, tears them off. In the background, ambulances are arriving to care for the wounded cops and criminals. 124 CLOSEUP - ENGINE BLOCK From the cylinder heads emerges a full load, not of drugs, but of plastique tubes labeled U.S. ARMY C-4 HIGH EXPLOSIVE. 125 LUKICH, JACKSON AND OTHER COPS react with surprise and shock. 126 NICO rips open one of tubes and smells it. 127 CLOSE - NICO Confused; frustrated. NICO What kinda fuckin' high is this? CUT TO: ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 33. 128 INT. FBI OFFICE - NIGHT OPENING ON SALVANO, in a chair, looking bruised and swollen, and wearing an expression of fuming indignation. SALVANO -- I'll tell you what this cop is. He's a fucking menace! 129 TWO FBI AGENTS (NEELEY AND HALLORAN) * face Salvano, Chi Chi and the lawyer Abandano (apparently representing Salvano and Chi Chi). Neeley is on the phone. * Pictures of Reagan and Meese are prominent on the wall. SALVANO You see what he did to me?! AGENT HALLORAN Your problem is being handled right now, Mr. Salv -- SALVANO Yeah? Well, it shoulda been handled twelve hours ago. I don't know who's running this outfit, but somebody better get his goddamn wires straight! AGENT NEELEY * (into phone) -- yes, sir... yes, sir, I understand -- SALVANO That maniac should be wearing a number, not a badge. Salvano knows what the call is about. He straightens the tie beneath his bruised neck, assuming the attitude of a respectable citizen who has been unjustly wronged. AGENT NEELEY * (into phone) -- count on it, sir. Right. You'll have our full cooperation. Neeley hangs up. Glances dubiously to Halloran. Then turns * grimly to Salvano, Chi Chi and the lawyer Abandano. AGENT NEELEY * You're free to go. 130 OMITTED 131 INT. FEDERAL BUILDING - LOBBY - NIGHT * The hoods and their lawyer smugly walk past a cleaning woman. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 33A. 132 INT. PRECINCT CAPTAIN'S OFFICE - MORNING OPENING ON Agent Neeley's face. Composed, clean-cut, but * intense, wearing a light-colored business suit. PAN TO Agent Halloran -- the same upright, clean-shaven bureau look. The two men are seated to one side of LIEUTENANT FRED STROZAH. 133 NICO, JACKSON, LUKICH AND DEA AND ATF MEN sit and stand in various postures in front of the Lieutenant's desk. LIEUTENANT STROZAH (to Nico, DEA & AIF) -- This is no reflection on the work you officers have done. I feel, and the whole department feels, extremely proud of your initiative and gallantry. That "spare me the horseshit" look on Nico's face. He's fuming. Strozah sees Nico's bitter expression. It's on the others' faces too. LIEUTENANT STROZAH As all of you are well aware, possession of these explosives is a federal offense and under jurisdiction of the F.B.I. Nico's eyes meet Lieutenant Strozah's. There's respect between the two, but it's plainly under a helluva strain. NICO Sir. With all respect to our brothers in the Bureau -- (biting sarcasm; turns to Neeley) * -- That's no answer. It's no answer to why one of the biggest dealers in the city is out on the street now, free as a bird! Agent Neeley stiffens. * LIEUTENANT STROZAH Keep it in your pants, Nico. These men have a job to do, just like us. Nico stifles his outrage. The other cops exchange glances -- upset and angry. Agent Neeley clears his throat. * AGENT NEELEY * Lieutenant, I think these officers are entitled to a fuller explanation. (MORE) ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 34. AGENT NEELEY (CONT'D) They've risked their lives. I understand one man is in the hospital. He speaks to the officers. AGENT NEELEY * What I'm about to say doesn't leave this room. Is that clear? Assent from everyone. AGENT NEELEY * Mr. Salvano has been working for some time in cooperation with certain federal agencies. 134 CLOSE - NICO'S FACE Stunned and furious at this royal fuck-up. AGENT NEELEY (O.S.) * I'm not at liberty to divulge the nature of Mr. Salvano's involvement -- I just learned of its existence myself a few hours ago. But one thing I can tell you -- 135 BACK TO AGENT NEELEY * AGENT NEELEY * Mr. Salvano's role is crucial to an extremely sensitive ongoing investigation. Any further surveillance, harassment, or unauthorized operations against this individual are forbidden. I must order you gentlemen -- (looking straight at Nico) -- with all respect for your work and your courage, to stand down. Lukich shakes his head; Nico is devastated. Jackson takes it all in. CUT TO: 136 INT. POLICE SQUAD ROOM - MORNING OPENING CLOSE ON a desk drawer being opened. Aside from rounds of ammo, notes and an aging eggplant parmigiana sandwich, there are half a dozen hand-labeled audio- cassettes and a small collection of miniaturized bugging devices. Jackson and Lukich watch Nico take out the notes, hand them to Lieutenant Strozah. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 35. LIEUTENANT STROZAH The tapes too. NICO (mocking) That's my Lawrence Welk collection! LIEUTENANT STROZAH I want everything you got on this one. Reluctantly, Nico hands over the tapes. The Lieutenant eyes the bugs and wires. LIEUTENANT STROZAH I know you don't give a shit about yourself, Toscani. (a glance to Jax) But you're gonna put Jackson's ass in a sling, too, with these illegal wires. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 35A. * 136A OTHER SIDE OF SQUAD ROOM Agent Halloran edges up to Jackson, who's grabbing coffee on the far side of the squad room, and watching from there as Nico gives Strozah more of a hard time. AGENT HALLORAN What's the story on your partner, Jackson? Did he learn this style or was he born with a brick up his ass? Jackson checks Halloran out. He's black too and, despite herself, there's a certain rapport. JACKSON He has ethics. Unlike certain others on this case. Halloran watches the illegal bugs and tapes come out of Nico's drawer. AGENT HALLORAN His 'ethics' are gonna cost him his badge and his gun. This "white" talk gives Jackson a pain. She slips into her jive mode. JACKSON You don't wanna catch him without no gun. Halloran's look asks why not? JACKSON 'Cause what he do with his hands... make bullet holes look pretty. Across the room, Nico turns over the tapes. AGENT HALLORAN He bad? JACKSON Bad bad. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 36. 137 INT. PRECINCT HOUSE - STAIRWAY - DAY Nico and Jackson come down the stairs. Jackson has had ample excitement for her last week on the force. JACKSON Is that enough? Can we do something normal now -- like eat lunch? NICO Anything you say, Jax. How about Salvano's? JACKSON Let it be, Nico. 138 EXT. PRECINCT HOUSE - DAY Nico and Jackson's car pulls out into traffic. 139 INT. UNMARKED CAR - PARKED (ALLEY BEHIND SALVANO'S) Jackson and Nico are eating some fast good. Nico reaches to his jacket pocket; takes out a cassette. JACKSON What... you kept his tape, too? Nico already has it in the PLAYER. We hear FRAGMENTS of the telephone tap from the body shop in Spanish and English. Jackson looks frustrated. Nico listens care- fully to what appears to be the taped PHONE CONVERSATION. NICO Poetry, ain't it? 140 EXT. REAR SALVANO'S RESTAURANT - DAY (POV FROM CAR) The pimp (busboy) comes out and dumps a load of garbage. 141 INT. UNMARKED CAR - DAY Nico and Jackson case the restaurant from down the alley. 142 EXT. REAR SALVANO'S - NICO'S POV - DAY From the restaurant door, Salvano and Chi Chi emerge. They get into a black Cadillac and pull out. * NICO (O.S.) And now for some dessert. 143 SERIES OF SHOTS As Nico's car tails Salvano's through various streets. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 37. 144 EXT. OAK STREET Salvano comes out of a fancy flower shop with a bimbo on his arm. He kisses her goodbye and puts her in a cab. NICO (O.S.) And that must be Mrs. Sal. So nice to see married couples still in love. 144A NICO AND JACKSON are hidden, waiting. 144B CHI CHI emerges from a dry cleaner's with a suit on a hanger. * 145 EXT. ST. ELIZABETH'S PARISH CHURCH - DAY Salvano's Caddy pulls up outside the same church where we * saw Nico's son get baptized. Salvano and Chi Chi get out, look both ways up and down the street. Salvano, holding * flowers, makes eye contact with a car down the block. * 146 EXT. STREET UP BLOCK FROM CHURCH - DAY Nico's car backs out of sight around the corner. 147 SIDEWALK IN FRONT OF CHURCH Salvano and Chi Chi, seeing nothing, enter the church. 148 INT. CHURCH - DAY A smattering of older women and men praying. Salvano and Chi Chi stop at the head of the aisle, genuflect to the altar, move in, take seats toward the front. 149 BACK OF CHURCH Nico and Jackson slip in the front door, glide silently into the shadows at the rear of the church. JACKSON This is your mother's church, isn't it? NICO Yeah. But I bet she's never seen these boys in the choir. 150 NICO'S POV Salvano's head is bowed, but Chi Chi is looking around quite carefully. Nico and Jackson fade into the shadows behind the huge pillars. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 37A. 151 SALVANO AND CHI CHI After a few moments, the pair rises. They cross them- selves, start out for the front door. As they walk, they continue to look for something. 152 INT. CHURCH - DAY * Nico and Jackson emerge into a courtyard which reveals a day care center and a rectory. They head toward the front of the building. Jackson, planning on picking up their tail on Salvano, is stoped by Nico. He wants to stay and look around. 38. FATHER GENARRO (O.S.) Nicola! That can't be you in church without the family! Nico turns to see Father Genarro, perspiring in a baggy sweatshirt, a handball glove on his hand. The courtyard alongside the church is marked off as an athletic area. NICO Father Genarro. The priest seizes Nico's hand warmly, smiles at Jackson. FATHER GENARRO This must be your partner in crime. (shakes her hand) I'm Father Genarro. I saw you at the baptismal party. (with a wink to Nico) What

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with Lucy. Jackson, standing in the doorway, has seen all this. 64 INT. UNMARKED CAR - MOVING - DAY Nico at the wheel has just pulled away from the bakery. Jackson, in the passenger seat, studies her partner for a few moments, shaking her head at the contradictions in this man. Educated, classy, an elegant dresser -- yet underneath an out-and-out wild man. JACKSON I don't get you, Toscani. (beat) What the hell are you doing being a shitheel cop? With your background? For a long moment Nico says nothing. Then, quietly, look- ing straight ahead: NICO When I was overseas, I saw some things. Things that eat your guts out. Things that stay in front of your eyes like they were burned in and branded. He turns to Jackson. NICO You can walk away from them, Jax. You can quit, but you know it's still going on. You try something anyway -- (smiles a moment) -- I know I'm not going to change the world. I can't stop the tonnage coming in, I can't fight the boys behind the desks pushing their buttons -- ANGLE INCLUDING MEAN STREETS OUTSIDE NICO But maybe here, huh? (indicates street) Maybe in my own city, my own neighborhood, on my own block -- maybe here I can do something. He turns a corner. NICO That's why I'm a shitheel cop. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 20A. * 64A INT. POLICE STATION - DAY Behind the desk, a few detectives man the phones. A Latin attorney, ABANDANO, is at the counter. COP (O.S.) You can see your client. As soon as she's through eating her dinner. 65 INT. POLICE LOCKUP - "CAGE" AND HALLWAY - EVENING Hookers, female addicts, etc. in the downtown "cage." Nico has the girl in the red dress and lizard shoes (CARLA DECARLO) out in the hallway adjacent to the lock- up. Nico is Mr. Charm, offering her a heart-shaped box of chocolates. NICO Carla... Carla -- I just want the name of your boyfriend -- CARLA I got 200 boyfriends. The hooker, Carla DeCarlo, slaps the box away, cursing in Spanish. 21. CARLA Pinchi cabron, cabeza colon! Some of the chocolates tumble onto the lockup floor, the detainees snap them up, start munching. The girl con- tinues to spit curses at Nico, gesturing with her hands with Latin flamboyance. Nico grabs her by the elbow, as a jailer opens the lockup door. More curses are being flung at Nico from various females in the cage. Nico heaves Carla in among them. Carla flops down on a bench next to a tall black hooker. MOVE IN ON the black hooker. It's Nico's partner, Jackson, dolled up like a street- walker, playing her undercover role to the hilt. JACKSON (to Nico) Why can't you sons-a-bitches ever treat someone with a little respect? NICO (walking away) Take it easy, sister. JACKSON I ain't your goddamn sister. We ain't got the same mother, motherfucka. Carla fires one final parting salvo of obscenities, then sags back among the women. Carla starts to cry. Jackson comforts her; Carla responds, lets herself be comforted. CUT TO: 66 EXT. DOWNTOWN - FINANCIAL DISTRICT - DAY Jackson, back in her normal daytime wear, exits a building. She gets into Nico's car. 67 INT. CAR - DAY Jackson checks her makeup in the rearview mirror. Nico sits behind the wheel. The two are on some kind of stakeout. JACKSON The lawyer's name is Abandano. He's on the third floor. I got a look at him. I couldn't get how he's connected, but according to Carla, he's a lousy lay. NICO Maybe we can bust him for that. Jackson spots something, gestures subtly out window -- ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 22. 68 EXT. DOWNTOWN BUILDING - DAY A short, slick-looking Latin man in a business suit emerges from the building. JACKSON That's our stud. Nico and Jackson leave their car and follow him on foot. 69 EXT. FINANCIAL DISTRICT - BANK - DAY ABANDANO meets a striking-looking middle-aged woman in front of a stately financial institution. They go in. Jackson remains out on the street, while Nico follows the couple in. 70 LATER Jackson has been waiting, sipping some coffee. Nico emerges from the bank, signaling to his partner to follow him. Abandano and the woman exit from the bank's revol- ving doors and immediately jump into a cab. Nico and Jackson look at each other and step in front of another cab. Nico opens the cab door, flips his badge open, then asks the occupant to leave. Jackson gets in the front seat next to the protesting cabbie. 71 EXT. FEDERAL BUILDING - DAY Abandano and the woman are crossing the plaza as Nico and Jackson run up the block. Near the entrance to the Federal * Building, a small but vocal group of protestors are * gathered, carrying signs and chanting slogans. The frus- * trated cabbie watches them in the background. 72 PLAZA Jackson and Nico watch Abandano and the woman pass the * crowd of demonstrators and enter the building. Jackson acts * indifferent, almost frustrated; Nico keenly senses something. CUT TO: 73 INT. EXPENSIVE RESTAURANT ("BOGOTA") - DAY * The main dining room. No customers, just busboys readying tables for the evening's business. We notice one of the * busboys is the "pimp" Nico found with Lucy. * 74 BOOTH NEAR BACK HALLWAY The owner's table. Stacks of dining checks, a cashbox and calculator, full ashtrays, wine glasses. BAUTISTA SALVANO, a heavyset, swarthy Venezuelan dressed in a tux with the collar open, glowers across the table at a mus- cular, scar-faced Latin busboy -- the kind who looks like he does more for his boss than clean up the tables. The busboy (NARDO) is nervous, apologetic -- ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 23. SALVANO (pissed off) -- I brought you in for your muscles, Nardo, not your mouth. NARDO (scared) I'm sorry, boss. SALVANO Your English is getting good... You're showing it off. Showing it off on the street -- NARDO I keep quiet. I never talk no more -- Salvano glowers at Nardo like he's about to punch him. Instead he reaches over, playfully chokes the busboy -- then releases him, as if all is forgiven. SALVANO Make yourself useful. (indicates empty wine bottle on table) Get downstairs, bring me one of these. (as Nardo stands, starts for back hallway) Then get back to work. 75 INT. RESTAURANT BASEMENT STOREROOM - LATE AFTERNOON Nardo enters at the top of the stairs, radiating relief. He trots down into the empty basement, toward a floor-to- ceiling wine rack. NARDO (to himself) I thought I was dead, man. (whistles with relief) I thought I was fucking dead. He crosses to the wine rack. It's dark, hard to see. He searches for the bottle. Suddenly: a METALLIC sound behind him. Nardo turns -- CHI CHI TESTAMENTE, a wiry, pock-faced Latino, stands in the shadows (it is clear he has been waiting there, hiding) -- holding a small silencer automatic. CHI CHI You were right, cabron. * ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 24. One SHOT between the eyes and Nardo CRASHES backward into the WINE RACK, eyes wide with shock and bewilderment. Chi Chi SHOOTS him AGAIN; Nardo drops like a stone. Coolly, professionally, Chi Chi pumps FOUR more SHOTS into the prone busboy's head. Chi Chi ejects the clip into his palm, unscrews the silencer, holsters the gun. Salvano appears at the top of the stairs. Two busboys are behind him. One of them is the young pimp. The busboys hurry * down, the pimp -- scared shitless but playing it macho-cool. * Salvano comes down the stairs. Chi Chi stands over his work. SALVANO (to busboys) Clean up this mess. CHI CHI * Who knows who else is talking -- * SALVANO * He was a young fool. * 76 BACK IN UPSTAIRS DINING ROOM Salvano and Chi Chi emerge from the basement steps and walk toward their booth. CHI CHI We're crazy waiting for this bullshit 'shipment.' Let me waste the other fucker now. Salvano puts a hand on Chi Chi's shoulder. SALVANO Be patient. This will be done the way it was planned. CUT TO: 77 EXT. BODY AND FENDER SHOP - NIGHT Rusting cyclone fences surround a mud-lot repair yard in a dingy industrial section. Young Lation and black workers finish up for the night; through the dirty, security-barred office window we can see Chi Chi talking on the phone. The lawyer, Abandano, is also there. 78 EXT. ALLEY - REAR OF SHOP - NIGHT Nico finishes connecting a small transmitter which has been hastily wired to the entering phone line. 79 INT. UNMARKED CAR - NIGHT Nico and Jackson in the shadows down the street from the body shop. Nico wears earphones, a small tape recorder on the seat beside him. Jackson does not look happy. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 25. JACKSON Toscani, you're going to have me doing time. NICO Lighten up, Jax. No one's bringing this into court. JACKSON Except against us. NICO I don't give a shit how we do it. I just wanna get there. Jackson gives Nico a dirty look, but stifles her protest. JACKSON I thought you said you were gonna protect me. Cover my butt. Be my guardian angel -- Nico hears something through the earphones. Gestures for silence -- 80 ANGLE THROUGH OFFICE WINDOW Chi Chi listens with increased intensity to something on the phone. He starts writing it down -- 81 BACK TO NICO In unmarked car. He's writing it down too. NICO I got the shipment. * JACKSON What? What's he saying? NICO (scribbling furiously) '... Engine block has cleared customs. Serial number VA-748. Pick up Tuesday, 3 May as authorized.' 82 EXT. BODY SHOP - NIGHT Chi Chi emerges from the office, tucking a scrap of paper into his pocket. Abandano follows. They get into a late-model Lincoln which pulls out onto the street. * 83 EXT. STREET - NIGHT Nico and Jackson's car follows at a discreet distance. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 26. NICO (V.O.) Unit Ten Tango X-ray. I need a vehicle registration I.D. POLICE RADIO (V.O.) Go ahead, please. NICO (V.O.) '86 Lincoln. Illinois 354 Dog '67. * 84 INT. UNMARKED CAR - MOVING - NIGHT Jackson picks up Nico's pad to take down the response. After a moment: POLICE RADIO (V.O.) Vehicle registration follows. Leaseholder: Ramon Testamente, registered alien. Nation of origin: Venezuela. Do you wish criminal record search? NICO (into mike) I want to know when he wipes his * behind. * 85 SERIES OF SHOTS As Nico and Jackson tail the Lincoln out of the industrial zone into a fancier, non-Latin neighborhood. On the sidewalks we glimpse theatergoers, fashionable white couples out on the town. 86 LINCOLN Pulls up to a valet park outside a ton-y restaurant. A sign says: "BOGOTA." * 87 INT. UNMARKED CAR - MOVING Nico and Jackson exchange a glance. JACKSON Salvano? NICO Jackpot. 88 EXT. RESTAURANT - NIGHT Chi Chi and Abandano get out of their car, a valet takes it, Chi Chi enters the restaurant. 89 INT. SALVANO'S RESTAURANT - NIGHT Nico and Jackson enter the main dining room, which we recognize from the scene with Nardo the busboy. 27. The place is packed with fashionable people of all races. A band plays salsa; couples dance. Nico and Jackson pass easily as a hip "uptown" couple. A pretty Latin HOSTESS approaches them. HOSTESS Two for dinner? NICO Two for drinks. They elbow up to the packed bar, standing. Nico squints toward the rear dining room. 90 NICO'S POV - DOWN BAR Looking past numerous patrons, we see Chi Chi whisper something to a waiter and take a seat at a rear table (the same "owner's table" where Salvano sat before.) The waiter hurries off into a back hallway. 91 NICO AND JACKSON - AT BAR Jackson moves to the salsa beat. A BARMAID approaches. JACKSON Gimme something stiff. I need it. BARMAID Who doesn't? Nico's eyes never leave Chi Chi. 92 REAR DINING ROOM From the back hallway Salvano emerges -- in his tux, looking prosperous. He sits down beside Chi Chi and Abandano. A waitress brings two drinks. After a few words, Chi Chi removes the scrap of paper from his pocket, hands it to Salvano. NICO (O.S.) You'll have your engine block next Tuesday, boss. 93 BACK TO NICO AND JACKSON As the Barmaid brings their drinks. Jackson sees her peaceful week to retirement flying out the window. JACKSON Why couldn't it be a week from Tuesday? I could read about it in the paper. Nico grabs her waist, pulls her onto the dance floor, and does a playful twirl. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 28. NICO Cheer up, partner. I'm gonna make you famous. 94 EXT. WHOLESALE MEAT AREA - DAY * Track spurs, greasy streets, parked fork lifts. 94A EXT. ROOF - DAY * Lieutenant Strozah surveys the street traffic. * 95 NICO, JACKSON AND LUKICH The two men, dressed as meat processors in hard hats and bloody white coats, rake cattle guts under the eave of a packing plant. Jackson, dressed like a USDA Inspector and * carrying a clipboard, inspects a few hanging carcasses. JACKSON You missed a few spots, boys. LUKICH I'm takin' it home t'a make kilbasa, boss. Luke casts an impatient glance across the street to a lot with four parked meat trucks. We glimpse two "truckers" keeping low in the shadows of one cab. Down the block a seemingly empty pickup truck is parked in an alley. LUKICH This ain't a bust -- it's a convention. NICO Don't you like company, Luke? (sarcastic) We got all the scouts here -- Drug Enforcement Agency, the Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms -- WALKIE-TALKIE (V.O.) Keep this channel clear, Toscani. We realize Nico, Jackson and Lukich are wired, with mikes out of sight under their coats. Nico glances to the pick- up, near to which three men can be spotted in the alley. Apparently one of them is the walkie-talkie voice. NICO (into mike) This is our channel, dickhead. And our collar. ANOTHER WALKIE-TALKIE (V.O.) That's enough, all of you! Keep this channel clear. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 28A. 96 ANGLE ON MEAT PLANT - DAY Nothing happening. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 29. 97 ANOTHER ANGLE Dead as hell. 98 NICO, LUKICH AND JACKSON Bored, pissed off, tired. Suddenly: 99 BATTERED VAN WITH TWO MEN emerges from a corner, two blocks down. It starts slowly this way. 1ST WALKIE-TALKIE (V.O.) All right. Everyone get their heads outa their ass. The meat truck men duck down out of sight, the pickup men back into the shadows. Nico and Lukich keep raking cow guts. The van passes slowly, checking out the area. JACKSON (sarcastic) '... And so I quit the police department... got myself a steady job -- ' The van accelerates slightly, turns a corner, vanishes. Silence. LUKICH * They spotted me. I'm too good- looking to be a meat slopper. * 1ST WALKIE-TALKIE (V.O.) Will you hot dogs shut up? The van returns. On a cross street. Heading behind the packing plant. NICO * (to Lukich) * You're too ugly. Now a second car appears. The Lincoln. Behind it is an ancient station wagon. Both vehicles take a different cross street, but both heading behind the packing plant. NICO (into hidden mike) Here we go, boys and girls -- (to Jackson) You stay put. * As soon as the two vehicles pass out of sight, Nico and Lukich ditch their rakes, dart into the packing plant. The meat truck men START their TRUCK. 30. The pickup men board their vehicle -- Jackson follows Nico and Luke -- but at a safe distance. 100 INT. PACKING PLANT - DAY Nico and Lukich sprint in a crouch past the blood runoffs, meat cutting tables -- 101 NICO'S POV - RUNNING THROUGH the windows at the rear of the plant, we see the station wagon and the van, pulling up swiftly beside one another, men getting out -- 102 INT. PLANT Nico and Lukich draw their guns, running full-tilt. NICO (into hidden miki) It's going down now. Move! 103 EXT. REAR OF PACKING PLANT - DAY The station wagon men heave their rear door open, the van men start to open their side door. The Lincoln is stopped at a distance. Suddenly -- 104 NICO AND LUKICH burst from the rear door of the packing plant, guns drawn. LUKICH Police! 105 QUICK CUTS - VAN AND STATION WAGON MEN grab for their weapons -- 106 COPS IN MEAT TRUCK AND PICKUP come highballing around both sides of the packing plant -- 107 VAN AND STATION WAGON MEN OPEN FIRE. There is confusion and mayhem; it's not clear who's a cop and who's a criminal. 108 NICO AND LUKICH dive for cover, RETURNING FIRE. The DEA men in one truck also OPEN UP. One of the van men is hit between the eyes. MACHINE GUN FIRE rakes the DEA truck; it spins out of control; flips. Lukich SHOOTS the machine-gunner. LUKICH (shouts; points) Nico! The Lincoln! 31. 109 LINCOLN starts to PEEL OUT. We glimpse Chi Chi in the driver's seat, Salvano on the passenger side. 110 NICO steps in front of the accelerating Lincoln, raises his .45. 111 INT. LINCOLN - DAY Salvano and Chi Chi dive below the dash and continue forward. Salvano, in the passenger seat, raises his GUN; FIRES blindly -- trying to hit Nico. 112 EXT. LINCOLN - DAY Nico UNLOADS his .45 into the windshield and the firewall. The Lincoln keeps coming down the narrow alley. 113 NICO brazenly steps up onto the hood and dives, grabbing onto the roof. 114 INT. LINCOLN - DAY Salvano can't believe it. He screams something in Spanish. He FIRES again, this time through the roof. 115 EXT. LINCOLN - ROOF - DAY Bullet holes appear. Nico narrowly misses being hit. 116 ANOTHER ANGLE - LINCOLN Nico reaches over the side of the car and SMASHES the pas- senger WINDOW with his fist. 117 CLOSEUP - NICO'S HAND Salvano's face is bashed. Nico's huge hand grabs Salvano's throat; he won't let go. 118 CLOSEUP - NICO He hangs on with one hand. 119 CLOSEUP - SALVANO Nico's fingers now dig into Salvano's larynx; he may never talk again. He's gagging. Salvano now points the gun at Chi Chi. Chi Chi makes the decision to stop the car in order to save his boss. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 32. 120 NICO leaps off the roof pulling Salvano past the broken glass, out of the window. 121 SEVERAL POLICE VEHICLES * SCREECH into the lot. Officers pour out, guns drawn, surrounding the Lincoln and the other vehicles. Jackson joins them, weapon in hand. 122 NICO drags Salvano by the neck across the lot to the van, slamming the drug dealer up against the van's side. Lukich, Jackson and Strozah are there, with the DEA cops, * all covering the other men. NICO (to Salvano) How many kilos you got in there, Skivuzo? Salvano couldn't answer if he wanted to. The other cops look at Nico with awe. Lukich whips the van door open, yanks a tarp off the cargo. 123 INT. VAN The engine block sits in a wooden shipping frame, wrapped with industrial plastic. Nico climbs into the van, rips the plastic sheeting off, grabs the wood slats of the shipping frame, tears them off. In the background, ambulances are arriving to care for the wounded cops and criminals. 124 CLOSEUP - ENGINE BLOCK From the cylinder heads emerges a full load, not of drugs, but of plastique tubes labeled U.S. ARMY C-4 HIGH EXPLOSIVE. 125 LUKICH, JACKSON AND OTHER COPS react with surprise and shock. 126 NICO rips open one of tubes and smells it. 127 CLOSE - NICO Confused; frustrated. NICO What kinda fuckin' high is this? CUT TO: ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 33. 128 INT. FBI OFFICE - NIGHT OPENING ON SALVANO, in a chair, looking bruised and swollen, and wearing an expression of fuming indignation. SALVANO -- I'll tell you what this cop is. He's a fucking menace! 129 TWO FBI AGENTS (NEELEY AND HALLORAN) * face Salvano, Chi Chi and the lawyer Abandano (apparently representing Salvano and Chi Chi). Neeley is on the phone. * Pictures of Reagan and Meese are prominent on the wall. SALVANO You see what he did to me?! AGENT HALLORAN Your problem is being handled right now, Mr. Salv -- SALVANO Yeah? Well, it shoulda been handled twelve hours ago. I don't know who's running this outfit, but somebody better get his goddamn wires straight! AGENT NEELEY * (into phone) -- yes, sir... yes, sir, I understand -- SALVANO That maniac should be wearing a number, not a badge. Salvano knows what the call is about. He straightens the tie beneath his bruised neck, assuming the attitude of a respectable citizen who has been unjustly wronged. AGENT NEELEY * (into phone) -- count on it, sir. Right. You'll have our full cooperation. Neeley hangs up. Glances dubiously to Halloran. Then turns * grimly to Salvano, Chi Chi and the lawyer Abandano. AGENT NEELEY * You're free to go. 130 OMITTED 131 INT. FEDERAL BUILDING - LOBBY - NIGHT * The hoods and their lawyer smugly walk past a cleaning woman. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 33A. 132 INT. PRECINCT CAPTAIN'S OFFICE - MORNING OPENING ON Agent Neeley's face. Composed, clean-cut, but * intense, wearing a light-colored business suit. PAN TO Agent Halloran -- the same upright, clean-shaven bureau look. The two men are seated to one side of LIEUTENANT FRED STROZAH. 133 NICO, JACKSON, LUKICH AND DEA AND ATF MEN sit and stand in various postures in front of the Lieutenant's desk. LIEUTENANT STROZAH (to Nico, DEA & AIF) -- This is no reflection on the work you officers have done. I feel, and the whole department feels, extremely proud of your initiative and gallantry. That "spare me the horseshit" look on Nico's face. He's fuming. Strozah sees Nico's bitter expression. It's on the others' faces too. LIEUTENANT STROZAH As all of you are well aware, possession of these explosives is a federal offense and under jurisdiction of the F.B.I. Nico's eyes meet Lieutenant Strozah's. There's respect between the two, but it's plainly under a helluva strain. NICO Sir. With all respect to our brothers in the Bureau -- (biting sarcasm; turns to Neeley) * -- That's no answer. It's no answer to why one of the biggest dealers in the city is out on the street now, free as a bird! Agent Neeley stiffens. * LIEUTENANT STROZAH Keep it in your pants, Nico. These men have a job to do, just like us. Nico stifles his outrage. The other cops exchange glances -- upset and angry. Agent Neeley clears his throat. * AGENT NEELEY * Lieutenant, I think these officers are entitled to a fuller explanation. (MORE) ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 34. AGENT NEELEY (CONT'D) They've risked their lives. I understand one man is in the hospital. He speaks to the officers. AGENT NEELEY * What I'm about to say doesn't leave this room. Is that clear? Assent from everyone. AGENT NEELEY * Mr. Salvano has been working for some time in cooperation with certain federal agencies. 134 CLOSE - NICO'S FACE Stunned and furious at this royal fuck-up. AGENT NEELEY (O.S.) * I'm not at liberty to divulge the nature of Mr. Salvano's involvement -- I just learned of its existence myself a few hours ago. But one thing I can tell you -- 135 BACK TO AGENT NEELEY * AGENT NEELEY * Mr. Salvano's role is crucial to an extremely sensitive ongoing investigation. Any further surveillance, harassment, or unauthorized operations against this individual are forbidden. I must order you gentlemen -- (looking straight at Nico) -- with all respect for your work and your courage, to stand down. Lukich shakes his head; Nico is devastated. Jackson takes it all in. CUT TO: 136 INT. POLICE SQUAD ROOM - MORNING OPENING CLOSE ON a desk drawer being opened. Aside from rounds of ammo, notes and an aging eggplant parmigiana sandwich, there are half a dozen hand-labeled audio- cassettes and a small collection of miniaturized bugging devices. Jackson and Lukich watch Nico take out the notes, hand them to Lieutenant Strozah. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 35. LIEUTENANT STROZAH The tapes too. NICO (mocking) That's my Lawrence Welk collection! LIEUTENANT STROZAH I want everything you got on this one. Reluctantly, Nico hands over the tapes. The Lieutenant eyes the bugs and wires. LIEUTENANT STROZAH I know you don't give a shit about yourself, Toscani. (a glance to Jax) But you're gonna put Jackson's ass in a sling, too, with these illegal wires. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 35A. * 136A OTHER SIDE OF SQUAD ROOM Agent Halloran edges up to Jackson, who's grabbing coffee on the far side of the squad room, and watching from there as Nico gives Strozah more of a hard time. AGENT HALLORAN What's the story on your partner, Jackson? Did he learn this style or was he born with a brick up his ass? Jackson checks Halloran out. He's black too and, despite herself, there's a certain rapport. JACKSON He has ethics. Unlike certain others on this case. Halloran watches the illegal bugs and tapes come out of Nico's drawer. AGENT HALLORAN His 'ethics' are gonna cost him his badge and his gun. This "white" talk gives Jackson a pain. She slips into her jive mode. JACKSON You don't wanna catch him without no gun. Halloran's look asks why not? JACKSON 'Cause what he do with his hands... make bullet holes look pretty. Across the room, Nico turns over the tapes. AGENT HALLORAN He bad? JACKSON Bad bad. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 36. 137 INT. PRECINCT HOUSE - STAIRWAY - DAY Nico and Jackson come down the stairs. Jackson has had ample excitement for her last week on the force. JACKSON Is that enough? Can we do something normal now -- like eat lunch? NICO Anything you say, Jax. How about Salvano's? JACKSON Let it be, Nico. 138 EXT. PRECINCT HOUSE - DAY Nico and Jackson's car pulls out into traffic. 139 INT. UNMARKED CAR - PARKED (ALLEY BEHIND SALVANO'S) Jackson and Nico are eating some fast good. Nico reaches to his jacket pocket; takes out a cassette. JACKSON What... you kept his tape, too? Nico already has it in the PLAYER. We hear FRAGMENTS of the telephone tap from the body shop in Spanish and English. Jackson looks frustrated. Nico listens care- fully to what appears to be the taped PHONE CONVERSATION. NICO Poetry, ain't it? 140 EXT. REAR SALVANO'S RESTAURANT - DAY (POV FROM CAR) The pimp (busboy) comes out and dumps a load of garbage. 141 INT. UNMARKED CAR - DAY Nico and Jackson case the restaurant from down the alley. 142 EXT. REAR SALVANO'S - NICO'S POV - DAY From the restaurant door, Salvano and Chi Chi emerge. They get into a black Cadillac and pull out. * NICO (O.S.) And now for some dessert. 143 SERIES OF SHOTS As Nico's car tails Salvano's through various streets. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 37. 144 EXT. OAK STREET Salvano comes out of a fancy flower shop with a bimbo on his arm. He kisses her goodbye and puts her in a cab. NICO (O.S.) And that must be Mrs. Sal. So nice to see married couples still in love. 144A NICO AND JACKSON are hidden, waiting. 144B CHI CHI emerges from a dry cleaner's with a suit on a hanger. * 145 EXT. ST. ELIZABETH'S PARISH CHURCH - DAY Salvano's Caddy pulls up outside the same church where we * saw Nico's son get baptized. Salvano and Chi Chi get out, look both ways up and down the street. Salvano, holding * flowers, makes eye contact with a car down the block. * 146 EXT. STREET UP BLOCK FROM CHURCH - DAY Nico's car backs out of sight around the corner. 147 SIDEWALK IN FRONT OF CHURCH Salvano and Chi Chi, seeing nothing, enter the church. 148 INT. CHURCH - DAY A smattering of older women and men praying. Salvano and Chi Chi stop at the head of the aisle, genuflect to the altar, move in, take seats toward the front. 149 BACK OF CHURCH Nico and Jackson slip in the front door, glide silently into the shadows at the rear of the church. JACKSON This is your mother's church, isn't it? NICO Yeah. But I bet she's never seen these boys in the choir. 150 NICO'S POV Salvano's head is bowed, but Chi Chi is looking around quite carefully. Nico and Jackson fade into the shadows behind the huge pillars. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 37A. 151 SALVANO AND CHI CHI After a few moments, the pair rises. They cross them- selves, start out for the front door. As they walk, they continue to look for something. 152 INT. CHURCH - DAY * Nico and Jackson emerge into a courtyard which reveals a day care center and a rectory. They head toward the front of the building. Jackson, planning on picking up their tail on Salvano, is stoped by Nico. He wants to stay and look around. 38. FATHER GENARRO (O.S.) Nicola! That can't be you in church without the family! Nico turns to see Father Genarro, perspiring in a baggy sweatshirt, a handball glove on his hand. The courtyard alongside the church is marked off as an athletic area. NICO Father Genarro. The priest seizes Nico's hand warmly, smiles at Jackson. FATHER GENARRO This must be your partner in crime. (shakes her hand) I'm Father Genarro. I saw you at the baptismal party. (with a wink to Nico) What

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How many times the word 'addicts' appears in the text?

with Lucy. Jackson, standing in the doorway, has seen all this. 64 INT. UNMARKED CAR - MOVING - DAY Nico at the wheel has just pulled away from the bakery. Jackson, in the passenger seat, studies her partner for a few moments, shaking her head at the contradictions in this man. Educated, classy, an elegant dresser -- yet underneath an out-and-out wild man. JACKSON I don't get you, Toscani. (beat) What the hell are you doing being a shitheel cop? With your background? For a long moment Nico says nothing. Then, quietly, look- ing straight ahead: NICO When I was overseas, I saw some things. Things that eat your guts out. Things that stay in front of your eyes like they were burned in and branded. He turns to Jackson. NICO You can walk away from them, Jax. You can quit, but you know it's still going on. You try something anyway -- (smiles a moment) -- I know I'm not going to change the world. I can't stop the tonnage coming in, I can't fight the boys behind the desks pushing their buttons -- ANGLE INCLUDING MEAN STREETS OUTSIDE NICO But maybe here, huh? (indicates street) Maybe in my own city, my own neighborhood, on my own block -- maybe here I can do something. He turns a corner. NICO That's why I'm a shitheel cop. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 20A. * 64A INT. POLICE STATION - DAY Behind the desk, a few detectives man the phones. A Latin attorney, ABANDANO, is at the counter. COP (O.S.) You can see your client. As soon as she's through eating her dinner. 65 INT. POLICE LOCKUP - "CAGE" AND HALLWAY - EVENING Hookers, female addicts, etc. in the downtown "cage." Nico has the girl in the red dress and lizard shoes (CARLA DECARLO) out in the hallway adjacent to the lock- up. Nico is Mr. Charm, offering her a heart-shaped box of chocolates. NICO Carla... Carla -- I just want the name of your boyfriend -- CARLA I got 200 boyfriends. The hooker, Carla DeCarlo, slaps the box away, cursing in Spanish. 21. CARLA Pinchi cabron, cabeza colon! Some of the chocolates tumble onto the lockup floor, the detainees snap them up, start munching. The girl con- tinues to spit curses at Nico, gesturing with her hands with Latin flamboyance. Nico grabs her by the elbow, as a jailer opens the lockup door. More curses are being flung at Nico from various females in the cage. Nico heaves Carla in among them. Carla flops down on a bench next to a tall black hooker. MOVE IN ON the black hooker. It's Nico's partner, Jackson, dolled up like a street- walker, playing her undercover role to the hilt. JACKSON (to Nico) Why can't you sons-a-bitches ever treat someone with a little respect? NICO (walking away) Take it easy, sister. JACKSON I ain't your goddamn sister. We ain't got the same mother, motherfucka. Carla fires one final parting salvo of obscenities, then sags back among the women. Carla starts to cry. Jackson comforts her; Carla responds, lets herself be comforted. CUT TO: 66 EXT. DOWNTOWN - FINANCIAL DISTRICT - DAY Jackson, back in her normal daytime wear, exits a building. She gets into Nico's car. 67 INT. CAR - DAY Jackson checks her makeup in the rearview mirror. Nico sits behind the wheel. The two are on some kind of stakeout. JACKSON The lawyer's name is Abandano. He's on the third floor. I got a look at him. I couldn't get how he's connected, but according to Carla, he's a lousy lay. NICO Maybe we can bust him for that. Jackson spots something, gestures subtly out window -- ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 22. 68 EXT. DOWNTOWN BUILDING - DAY A short, slick-looking Latin man in a business suit emerges from the building. JACKSON That's our stud. Nico and Jackson leave their car and follow him on foot. 69 EXT. FINANCIAL DISTRICT - BANK - DAY ABANDANO meets a striking-looking middle-aged woman in front of a stately financial institution. They go in. Jackson remains out on the street, while Nico follows the couple in. 70 LATER Jackson has been waiting, sipping some coffee. Nico emerges from the bank, signaling to his partner to follow him. Abandano and the woman exit from the bank's revol- ving doors and immediately jump into a cab. Nico and Jackson look at each other and step in front of another cab. Nico opens the cab door, flips his badge open, then asks the occupant to leave. Jackson gets in the front seat next to the protesting cabbie. 71 EXT. FEDERAL BUILDING - DAY Abandano and the woman are crossing the plaza as Nico and Jackson run up the block. Near the entrance to the Federal * Building, a small but vocal group of protestors are * gathered, carrying signs and chanting slogans. The frus- * trated cabbie watches them in the background. 72 PLAZA Jackson and Nico watch Abandano and the woman pass the * crowd of demonstrators and enter the building. Jackson acts * indifferent, almost frustrated; Nico keenly senses something. CUT TO: 73 INT. EXPENSIVE RESTAURANT ("BOGOTA") - DAY * The main dining room. No customers, just busboys readying tables for the evening's business. We notice one of the * busboys is the "pimp" Nico found with Lucy. * 74 BOOTH NEAR BACK HALLWAY The owner's table. Stacks of dining checks, a cashbox and calculator, full ashtrays, wine glasses. BAUTISTA SALVANO, a heavyset, swarthy Venezuelan dressed in a tux with the collar open, glowers across the table at a mus- cular, scar-faced Latin busboy -- the kind who looks like he does more for his boss than clean up the tables. The busboy (NARDO) is nervous, apologetic -- ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 23. SALVANO (pissed off) -- I brought you in for your muscles, Nardo, not your mouth. NARDO (scared) I'm sorry, boss. SALVANO Your English is getting good... You're showing it off. Showing it off on the street -- NARDO I keep quiet. I never talk no more -- Salvano glowers at Nardo like he's about to punch him. Instead he reaches over, playfully chokes the busboy -- then releases him, as if all is forgiven. SALVANO Make yourself useful. (indicates empty wine bottle on table) Get downstairs, bring me one of these. (as Nardo stands, starts for back hallway) Then get back to work. 75 INT. RESTAURANT BASEMENT STOREROOM - LATE AFTERNOON Nardo enters at the top of the stairs, radiating relief. He trots down into the empty basement, toward a floor-to- ceiling wine rack. NARDO (to himself) I thought I was dead, man. (whistles with relief) I thought I was fucking dead. He crosses to the wine rack. It's dark, hard to see. He searches for the bottle. Suddenly: a METALLIC sound behind him. Nardo turns -- CHI CHI TESTAMENTE, a wiry, pock-faced Latino, stands in the shadows (it is clear he has been waiting there, hiding) -- holding a small silencer automatic. CHI CHI You were right, cabron. * ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 24. One SHOT between the eyes and Nardo CRASHES backward into the WINE RACK, eyes wide with shock and bewilderment. Chi Chi SHOOTS him AGAIN; Nardo drops like a stone. Coolly, professionally, Chi Chi pumps FOUR more SHOTS into the prone busboy's head. Chi Chi ejects the clip into his palm, unscrews the silencer, holsters the gun. Salvano appears at the top of the stairs. Two busboys are behind him. One of them is the young pimp. The busboys hurry * down, the pimp -- scared shitless but playing it macho-cool. * Salvano comes down the stairs. Chi Chi stands over his work. SALVANO (to busboys) Clean up this mess. CHI CHI * Who knows who else is talking -- * SALVANO * He was a young fool. * 76 BACK IN UPSTAIRS DINING ROOM Salvano and Chi Chi emerge from the basement steps and walk toward their booth. CHI CHI We're crazy waiting for this bullshit 'shipment.' Let me waste the other fucker now. Salvano puts a hand on Chi Chi's shoulder. SALVANO Be patient. This will be done the way it was planned. CUT TO: 77 EXT. BODY AND FENDER SHOP - NIGHT Rusting cyclone fences surround a mud-lot repair yard in a dingy industrial section. Young Lation and black workers finish up for the night; through the dirty, security-barred office window we can see Chi Chi talking on the phone. The lawyer, Abandano, is also there. 78 EXT. ALLEY - REAR OF SHOP - NIGHT Nico finishes connecting a small transmitter which has been hastily wired to the entering phone line. 79 INT. UNMARKED CAR - NIGHT Nico and Jackson in the shadows down the street from the body shop. Nico wears earphones, a small tape recorder on the seat beside him. Jackson does not look happy. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 25. JACKSON Toscani, you're going to have me doing time. NICO Lighten up, Jax. No one's bringing this into court. JACKSON Except against us. NICO I don't give a shit how we do it. I just wanna get there. Jackson gives Nico a dirty look, but stifles her protest. JACKSON I thought you said you were gonna protect me. Cover my butt. Be my guardian angel -- Nico hears something through the earphones. Gestures for silence -- 80 ANGLE THROUGH OFFICE WINDOW Chi Chi listens with increased intensity to something on the phone. He starts writing it down -- 81 BACK TO NICO In unmarked car. He's writing it down too. NICO I got the shipment. * JACKSON What? What's he saying? NICO (scribbling furiously) '... Engine block has cleared customs. Serial number VA-748. Pick up Tuesday, 3 May as authorized.' 82 EXT. BODY SHOP - NIGHT Chi Chi emerges from the office, tucking a scrap of paper into his pocket. Abandano follows. They get into a late-model Lincoln which pulls out onto the street. * 83 EXT. STREET - NIGHT Nico and Jackson's car follows at a discreet distance. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 26. NICO (V.O.) Unit Ten Tango X-ray. I need a vehicle registration I.D. POLICE RADIO (V.O.) Go ahead, please. NICO (V.O.) '86 Lincoln. Illinois 354 Dog '67. * 84 INT. UNMARKED CAR - MOVING - NIGHT Jackson picks up Nico's pad to take down the response. After a moment: POLICE RADIO (V.O.) Vehicle registration follows. Leaseholder: Ramon Testamente, registered alien. Nation of origin: Venezuela. Do you wish criminal record search? NICO (into mike) I want to know when he wipes his * behind. * 85 SERIES OF SHOTS As Nico and Jackson tail the Lincoln out of the industrial zone into a fancier, non-Latin neighborhood. On the sidewalks we glimpse theatergoers, fashionable white couples out on the town. 86 LINCOLN Pulls up to a valet park outside a ton-y restaurant. A sign says: "BOGOTA." * 87 INT. UNMARKED CAR - MOVING Nico and Jackson exchange a glance. JACKSON Salvano? NICO Jackpot. 88 EXT. RESTAURANT - NIGHT Chi Chi and Abandano get out of their car, a valet takes it, Chi Chi enters the restaurant. 89 INT. SALVANO'S RESTAURANT - NIGHT Nico and Jackson enter the main dining room, which we recognize from the scene with Nardo the busboy. 27. The place is packed with fashionable people of all races. A band plays salsa; couples dance. Nico and Jackson pass easily as a hip "uptown" couple. A pretty Latin HOSTESS approaches them. HOSTESS Two for dinner? NICO Two for drinks. They elbow up to the packed bar, standing. Nico squints toward the rear dining room. 90 NICO'S POV - DOWN BAR Looking past numerous patrons, we see Chi Chi whisper something to a waiter and take a seat at a rear table (the same "owner's table" where Salvano sat before.) The waiter hurries off into a back hallway. 91 NICO AND JACKSON - AT BAR Jackson moves to the salsa beat. A BARMAID approaches. JACKSON Gimme something stiff. I need it. BARMAID Who doesn't? Nico's eyes never leave Chi Chi. 92 REAR DINING ROOM From the back hallway Salvano emerges -- in his tux, looking prosperous. He sits down beside Chi Chi and Abandano. A waitress brings two drinks. After a few words, Chi Chi removes the scrap of paper from his pocket, hands it to Salvano. NICO (O.S.) You'll have your engine block next Tuesday, boss. 93 BACK TO NICO AND JACKSON As the Barmaid brings their drinks. Jackson sees her peaceful week to retirement flying out the window. JACKSON Why couldn't it be a week from Tuesday? I could read about it in the paper. Nico grabs her waist, pulls her onto the dance floor, and does a playful twirl. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 28. NICO Cheer up, partner. I'm gonna make you famous. 94 EXT. WHOLESALE MEAT AREA - DAY * Track spurs, greasy streets, parked fork lifts. 94A EXT. ROOF - DAY * Lieutenant Strozah surveys the street traffic. * 95 NICO, JACKSON AND LUKICH The two men, dressed as meat processors in hard hats and bloody white coats, rake cattle guts under the eave of a packing plant. Jackson, dressed like a USDA Inspector and * carrying a clipboard, inspects a few hanging carcasses. JACKSON You missed a few spots, boys. LUKICH I'm takin' it home t'a make kilbasa, boss. Luke casts an impatient glance across the street to a lot with four parked meat trucks. We glimpse two "truckers" keeping low in the shadows of one cab. Down the block a seemingly empty pickup truck is parked in an alley. LUKICH This ain't a bust -- it's a convention. NICO Don't you like company, Luke? (sarcastic) We got all the scouts here -- Drug Enforcement Agency, the Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms -- WALKIE-TALKIE (V.O.) Keep this channel clear, Toscani. We realize Nico, Jackson and Lukich are wired, with mikes out of sight under their coats. Nico glances to the pick- up, near to which three men can be spotted in the alley. Apparently one of them is the walkie-talkie voice. NICO (into mike) This is our channel, dickhead. And our collar. ANOTHER WALKIE-TALKIE (V.O.) That's enough, all of you! Keep this channel clear. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 28A. 96 ANGLE ON MEAT PLANT - DAY Nothing happening. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 29. 97 ANOTHER ANGLE Dead as hell. 98 NICO, LUKICH AND JACKSON Bored, pissed off, tired. Suddenly: 99 BATTERED VAN WITH TWO MEN emerges from a corner, two blocks down. It starts slowly this way. 1ST WALKIE-TALKIE (V.O.) All right. Everyone get their heads outa their ass. The meat truck men duck down out of sight, the pickup men back into the shadows. Nico and Lukich keep raking cow guts. The van passes slowly, checking out the area. JACKSON (sarcastic) '... And so I quit the police department... got myself a steady job -- ' The van accelerates slightly, turns a corner, vanishes. Silence. LUKICH * They spotted me. I'm too good- looking to be a meat slopper. * 1ST WALKIE-TALKIE (V.O.) Will you hot dogs shut up? The van returns. On a cross street. Heading behind the packing plant. NICO * (to Lukich) * You're too ugly. Now a second car appears. The Lincoln. Behind it is an ancient station wagon. Both vehicles take a different cross street, but both heading behind the packing plant. NICO (into hidden mike) Here we go, boys and girls -- (to Jackson) You stay put. * As soon as the two vehicles pass out of sight, Nico and Lukich ditch their rakes, dart into the packing plant. The meat truck men START their TRUCK. 30. The pickup men board their vehicle -- Jackson follows Nico and Luke -- but at a safe distance. 100 INT. PACKING PLANT - DAY Nico and Lukich sprint in a crouch past the blood runoffs, meat cutting tables -- 101 NICO'S POV - RUNNING THROUGH the windows at the rear of the plant, we see the station wagon and the van, pulling up swiftly beside one another, men getting out -- 102 INT. PLANT Nico and Lukich draw their guns, running full-tilt. NICO (into hidden miki) It's going down now. Move! 103 EXT. REAR OF PACKING PLANT - DAY The station wagon men heave their rear door open, the van men start to open their side door. The Lincoln is stopped at a distance. Suddenly -- 104 NICO AND LUKICH burst from the rear door of the packing plant, guns drawn. LUKICH Police! 105 QUICK CUTS - VAN AND STATION WAGON MEN grab for their weapons -- 106 COPS IN MEAT TRUCK AND PICKUP come highballing around both sides of the packing plant -- 107 VAN AND STATION WAGON MEN OPEN FIRE. There is confusion and mayhem; it's not clear who's a cop and who's a criminal. 108 NICO AND LUKICH dive for cover, RETURNING FIRE. The DEA men in one truck also OPEN UP. One of the van men is hit between the eyes. MACHINE GUN FIRE rakes the DEA truck; it spins out of control; flips. Lukich SHOOTS the machine-gunner. LUKICH (shouts; points) Nico! The Lincoln! 31. 109 LINCOLN starts to PEEL OUT. We glimpse Chi Chi in the driver's seat, Salvano on the passenger side. 110 NICO steps in front of the accelerating Lincoln, raises his .45. 111 INT. LINCOLN - DAY Salvano and Chi Chi dive below the dash and continue forward. Salvano, in the passenger seat, raises his GUN; FIRES blindly -- trying to hit Nico. 112 EXT. LINCOLN - DAY Nico UNLOADS his .45 into the windshield and the firewall. The Lincoln keeps coming down the narrow alley. 113 NICO brazenly steps up onto the hood and dives, grabbing onto the roof. 114 INT. LINCOLN - DAY Salvano can't believe it. He screams something in Spanish. He FIRES again, this time through the roof. 115 EXT. LINCOLN - ROOF - DAY Bullet holes appear. Nico narrowly misses being hit. 116 ANOTHER ANGLE - LINCOLN Nico reaches over the side of the car and SMASHES the pas- senger WINDOW with his fist. 117 CLOSEUP - NICO'S HAND Salvano's face is bashed. Nico's huge hand grabs Salvano's throat; he won't let go. 118 CLOSEUP - NICO He hangs on with one hand. 119 CLOSEUP - SALVANO Nico's fingers now dig into Salvano's larynx; he may never talk again. He's gagging. Salvano now points the gun at Chi Chi. Chi Chi makes the decision to stop the car in order to save his boss. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 32. 120 NICO leaps off the roof pulling Salvano past the broken glass, out of the window. 121 SEVERAL POLICE VEHICLES * SCREECH into the lot. Officers pour out, guns drawn, surrounding the Lincoln and the other vehicles. Jackson joins them, weapon in hand. 122 NICO drags Salvano by the neck across the lot to the van, slamming the drug dealer up against the van's side. Lukich, Jackson and Strozah are there, with the DEA cops, * all covering the other men. NICO (to Salvano) How many kilos you got in there, Skivuzo? Salvano couldn't answer if he wanted to. The other cops look at Nico with awe. Lukich whips the van door open, yanks a tarp off the cargo. 123 INT. VAN The engine block sits in a wooden shipping frame, wrapped with industrial plastic. Nico climbs into the van, rips the plastic sheeting off, grabs the wood slats of the shipping frame, tears them off. In the background, ambulances are arriving to care for the wounded cops and criminals. 124 CLOSEUP - ENGINE BLOCK From the cylinder heads emerges a full load, not of drugs, but of plastique tubes labeled U.S. ARMY C-4 HIGH EXPLOSIVE. 125 LUKICH, JACKSON AND OTHER COPS react with surprise and shock. 126 NICO rips open one of tubes and smells it. 127 CLOSE - NICO Confused; frustrated. NICO What kinda fuckin' high is this? CUT TO: ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 33. 128 INT. FBI OFFICE - NIGHT OPENING ON SALVANO, in a chair, looking bruised and swollen, and wearing an expression of fuming indignation. SALVANO -- I'll tell you what this cop is. He's a fucking menace! 129 TWO FBI AGENTS (NEELEY AND HALLORAN) * face Salvano, Chi Chi and the lawyer Abandano (apparently representing Salvano and Chi Chi). Neeley is on the phone. * Pictures of Reagan and Meese are prominent on the wall. SALVANO You see what he did to me?! AGENT HALLORAN Your problem is being handled right now, Mr. Salv -- SALVANO Yeah? Well, it shoulda been handled twelve hours ago. I don't know who's running this outfit, but somebody better get his goddamn wires straight! AGENT NEELEY * (into phone) -- yes, sir... yes, sir, I understand -- SALVANO That maniac should be wearing a number, not a badge. Salvano knows what the call is about. He straightens the tie beneath his bruised neck, assuming the attitude of a respectable citizen who has been unjustly wronged. AGENT NEELEY * (into phone) -- count on it, sir. Right. You'll have our full cooperation. Neeley hangs up. Glances dubiously to Halloran. Then turns * grimly to Salvano, Chi Chi and the lawyer Abandano. AGENT NEELEY * You're free to go. 130 OMITTED 131 INT. FEDERAL BUILDING - LOBBY - NIGHT * The hoods and their lawyer smugly walk past a cleaning woman. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 33A. 132 INT. PRECINCT CAPTAIN'S OFFICE - MORNING OPENING ON Agent Neeley's face. Composed, clean-cut, but * intense, wearing a light-colored business suit. PAN TO Agent Halloran -- the same upright, clean-shaven bureau look. The two men are seated to one side of LIEUTENANT FRED STROZAH. 133 NICO, JACKSON, LUKICH AND DEA AND ATF MEN sit and stand in various postures in front of the Lieutenant's desk. LIEUTENANT STROZAH (to Nico, DEA & AIF) -- This is no reflection on the work you officers have done. I feel, and the whole department feels, extremely proud of your initiative and gallantry. That "spare me the horseshit" look on Nico's face. He's fuming. Strozah sees Nico's bitter expression. It's on the others' faces too. LIEUTENANT STROZAH As all of you are well aware, possession of these explosives is a federal offense and under jurisdiction of the F.B.I. Nico's eyes meet Lieutenant Strozah's. There's respect between the two, but it's plainly under a helluva strain. NICO Sir. With all respect to our brothers in the Bureau -- (biting sarcasm; turns to Neeley) * -- That's no answer. It's no answer to why one of the biggest dealers in the city is out on the street now, free as a bird! Agent Neeley stiffens. * LIEUTENANT STROZAH Keep it in your pants, Nico. These men have a job to do, just like us. Nico stifles his outrage. The other cops exchange glances -- upset and angry. Agent Neeley clears his throat. * AGENT NEELEY * Lieutenant, I think these officers are entitled to a fuller explanation. (MORE) ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 34. AGENT NEELEY (CONT'D) They've risked their lives. I understand one man is in the hospital. He speaks to the officers. AGENT NEELEY * What I'm about to say doesn't leave this room. Is that clear? Assent from everyone. AGENT NEELEY * Mr. Salvano has been working for some time in cooperation with certain federal agencies. 134 CLOSE - NICO'S FACE Stunned and furious at this royal fuck-up. AGENT NEELEY (O.S.) * I'm not at liberty to divulge the nature of Mr. Salvano's involvement -- I just learned of its existence myself a few hours ago. But one thing I can tell you -- 135 BACK TO AGENT NEELEY * AGENT NEELEY * Mr. Salvano's role is crucial to an extremely sensitive ongoing investigation. Any further surveillance, harassment, or unauthorized operations against this individual are forbidden. I must order you gentlemen -- (looking straight at Nico) -- with all respect for your work and your courage, to stand down. Lukich shakes his head; Nico is devastated. Jackson takes it all in. CUT TO: 136 INT. POLICE SQUAD ROOM - MORNING OPENING CLOSE ON a desk drawer being opened. Aside from rounds of ammo, notes and an aging eggplant parmigiana sandwich, there are half a dozen hand-labeled audio- cassettes and a small collection of miniaturized bugging devices. Jackson and Lukich watch Nico take out the notes, hand them to Lieutenant Strozah. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 35. LIEUTENANT STROZAH The tapes too. NICO (mocking) That's my Lawrence Welk collection! LIEUTENANT STROZAH I want everything you got on this one. Reluctantly, Nico hands over the tapes. The Lieutenant eyes the bugs and wires. LIEUTENANT STROZAH I know you don't give a shit about yourself, Toscani. (a glance to Jax) But you're gonna put Jackson's ass in a sling, too, with these illegal wires. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 35A. * 136A OTHER SIDE OF SQUAD ROOM Agent Halloran edges up to Jackson, who's grabbing coffee on the far side of the squad room, and watching from there as Nico gives Strozah more of a hard time. AGENT HALLORAN What's the story on your partner, Jackson? Did he learn this style or was he born with a brick up his ass? Jackson checks Halloran out. He's black too and, despite herself, there's a certain rapport. JACKSON He has ethics. Unlike certain others on this case. Halloran watches the illegal bugs and tapes come out of Nico's drawer. AGENT HALLORAN His 'ethics' are gonna cost him his badge and his gun. This "white" talk gives Jackson a pain. She slips into her jive mode. JACKSON You don't wanna catch him without no gun. Halloran's look asks why not? JACKSON 'Cause what he do with his hands... make bullet holes look pretty. Across the room, Nico turns over the tapes. AGENT HALLORAN He bad? JACKSON Bad bad. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 36. 137 INT. PRECINCT HOUSE - STAIRWAY - DAY Nico and Jackson come down the stairs. Jackson has had ample excitement for her last week on the force. JACKSON Is that enough? Can we do something normal now -- like eat lunch? NICO Anything you say, Jax. How about Salvano's? JACKSON Let it be, Nico. 138 EXT. PRECINCT HOUSE - DAY Nico and Jackson's car pulls out into traffic. 139 INT. UNMARKED CAR - PARKED (ALLEY BEHIND SALVANO'S) Jackson and Nico are eating some fast good. Nico reaches to his jacket pocket; takes out a cassette. JACKSON What... you kept his tape, too? Nico already has it in the PLAYER. We hear FRAGMENTS of the telephone tap from the body shop in Spanish and English. Jackson looks frustrated. Nico listens care- fully to what appears to be the taped PHONE CONVERSATION. NICO Poetry, ain't it? 140 EXT. REAR SALVANO'S RESTAURANT - DAY (POV FROM CAR) The pimp (busboy) comes out and dumps a load of garbage. 141 INT. UNMARKED CAR - DAY Nico and Jackson case the restaurant from down the alley. 142 EXT. REAR SALVANO'S - NICO'S POV - DAY From the restaurant door, Salvano and Chi Chi emerge. They get into a black Cadillac and pull out. * NICO (O.S.) And now for some dessert. 143 SERIES OF SHOTS As Nico's car tails Salvano's through various streets. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 37. 144 EXT. OAK STREET Salvano comes out of a fancy flower shop with a bimbo on his arm. He kisses her goodbye and puts her in a cab. NICO (O.S.) And that must be Mrs. Sal. So nice to see married couples still in love. 144A NICO AND JACKSON are hidden, waiting. 144B CHI CHI emerges from a dry cleaner's with a suit on a hanger. * 145 EXT. ST. ELIZABETH'S PARISH CHURCH - DAY Salvano's Caddy pulls up outside the same church where we * saw Nico's son get baptized. Salvano and Chi Chi get out, look both ways up and down the street. Salvano, holding * flowers, makes eye contact with a car down the block. * 146 EXT. STREET UP BLOCK FROM CHURCH - DAY Nico's car backs out of sight around the corner. 147 SIDEWALK IN FRONT OF CHURCH Salvano and Chi Chi, seeing nothing, enter the church. 148 INT. CHURCH - DAY A smattering of older women and men praying. Salvano and Chi Chi stop at the head of the aisle, genuflect to the altar, move in, take seats toward the front. 149 BACK OF CHURCH Nico and Jackson slip in the front door, glide silently into the shadows at the rear of the church. JACKSON This is your mother's church, isn't it? NICO Yeah. But I bet she's never seen these boys in the choir. 150 NICO'S POV Salvano's head is bowed, but Chi Chi is looking around quite carefully. Nico and Jackson fade into the shadows behind the huge pillars. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 37A. 151 SALVANO AND CHI CHI After a few moments, the pair rises. They cross them- selves, start out for the front door. As they walk, they continue to look for something. 152 INT. CHURCH - DAY * Nico and Jackson emerge into a courtyard which reveals a day care center and a rectory. They head toward the front of the building. Jackson, planning on picking up their tail on Salvano, is stoped by Nico. He wants to stay and look around. 38. FATHER GENARRO (O.S.) Nicola! That can't be you in church without the family! Nico turns to see Father Genarro, perspiring in a baggy sweatshirt, a handball glove on his hand. The courtyard alongside the church is marked off as an athletic area. NICO Father Genarro. The priest seizes Nico's hand warmly, smiles at Jackson. FATHER GENARRO This must be your partner in crime. (shakes her hand) I'm Father Genarro. I saw you at the baptismal party. (with a wink to Nico) What

financial

How many times the word 'financial' appears in the text?

with Lucy. Jackson, standing in the doorway, has seen all this. 64 INT. UNMARKED CAR - MOVING - DAY Nico at the wheel has just pulled away from the bakery. Jackson, in the passenger seat, studies her partner for a few moments, shaking her head at the contradictions in this man. Educated, classy, an elegant dresser -- yet underneath an out-and-out wild man. JACKSON I don't get you, Toscani. (beat) What the hell are you doing being a shitheel cop? With your background? For a long moment Nico says nothing. Then, quietly, look- ing straight ahead: NICO When I was overseas, I saw some things. Things that eat your guts out. Things that stay in front of your eyes like they were burned in and branded. He turns to Jackson. NICO You can walk away from them, Jax. You can quit, but you know it's still going on. You try something anyway -- (smiles a moment) -- I know I'm not going to change the world. I can't stop the tonnage coming in, I can't fight the boys behind the desks pushing their buttons -- ANGLE INCLUDING MEAN STREETS OUTSIDE NICO But maybe here, huh? (indicates street) Maybe in my own city, my own neighborhood, on my own block -- maybe here I can do something. He turns a corner. NICO That's why I'm a shitheel cop. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 20A. * 64A INT. POLICE STATION - DAY Behind the desk, a few detectives man the phones. A Latin attorney, ABANDANO, is at the counter. COP (O.S.) You can see your client. As soon as she's through eating her dinner. 65 INT. POLICE LOCKUP - "CAGE" AND HALLWAY - EVENING Hookers, female addicts, etc. in the downtown "cage." Nico has the girl in the red dress and lizard shoes (CARLA DECARLO) out in the hallway adjacent to the lock- up. Nico is Mr. Charm, offering her a heart-shaped box of chocolates. NICO Carla... Carla -- I just want the name of your boyfriend -- CARLA I got 200 boyfriends. The hooker, Carla DeCarlo, slaps the box away, cursing in Spanish. 21. CARLA Pinchi cabron, cabeza colon! Some of the chocolates tumble onto the lockup floor, the detainees snap them up, start munching. The girl con- tinues to spit curses at Nico, gesturing with her hands with Latin flamboyance. Nico grabs her by the elbow, as a jailer opens the lockup door. More curses are being flung at Nico from various females in the cage. Nico heaves Carla in among them. Carla flops down on a bench next to a tall black hooker. MOVE IN ON the black hooker. It's Nico's partner, Jackson, dolled up like a street- walker, playing her undercover role to the hilt. JACKSON (to Nico) Why can't you sons-a-bitches ever treat someone with a little respect? NICO (walking away) Take it easy, sister. JACKSON I ain't your goddamn sister. We ain't got the same mother, motherfucka. Carla fires one final parting salvo of obscenities, then sags back among the women. Carla starts to cry. Jackson comforts her; Carla responds, lets herself be comforted. CUT TO: 66 EXT. DOWNTOWN - FINANCIAL DISTRICT - DAY Jackson, back in her normal daytime wear, exits a building. She gets into Nico's car. 67 INT. CAR - DAY Jackson checks her makeup in the rearview mirror. Nico sits behind the wheel. The two are on some kind of stakeout. JACKSON The lawyer's name is Abandano. He's on the third floor. I got a look at him. I couldn't get how he's connected, but according to Carla, he's a lousy lay. NICO Maybe we can bust him for that. Jackson spots something, gestures subtly out window -- ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 22. 68 EXT. DOWNTOWN BUILDING - DAY A short, slick-looking Latin man in a business suit emerges from the building. JACKSON That's our stud. Nico and Jackson leave their car and follow him on foot. 69 EXT. FINANCIAL DISTRICT - BANK - DAY ABANDANO meets a striking-looking middle-aged woman in front of a stately financial institution. They go in. Jackson remains out on the street, while Nico follows the couple in. 70 LATER Jackson has been waiting, sipping some coffee. Nico emerges from the bank, signaling to his partner to follow him. Abandano and the woman exit from the bank's revol- ving doors and immediately jump into a cab. Nico and Jackson look at each other and step in front of another cab. Nico opens the cab door, flips his badge open, then asks the occupant to leave. Jackson gets in the front seat next to the protesting cabbie. 71 EXT. FEDERAL BUILDING - DAY Abandano and the woman are crossing the plaza as Nico and Jackson run up the block. Near the entrance to the Federal * Building, a small but vocal group of protestors are * gathered, carrying signs and chanting slogans. The frus- * trated cabbie watches them in the background. 72 PLAZA Jackson and Nico watch Abandano and the woman pass the * crowd of demonstrators and enter the building. Jackson acts * indifferent, almost frustrated; Nico keenly senses something. CUT TO: 73 INT. EXPENSIVE RESTAURANT ("BOGOTA") - DAY * The main dining room. No customers, just busboys readying tables for the evening's business. We notice one of the * busboys is the "pimp" Nico found with Lucy. * 74 BOOTH NEAR BACK HALLWAY The owner's table. Stacks of dining checks, a cashbox and calculator, full ashtrays, wine glasses. BAUTISTA SALVANO, a heavyset, swarthy Venezuelan dressed in a tux with the collar open, glowers across the table at a mus- cular, scar-faced Latin busboy -- the kind who looks like he does more for his boss than clean up the tables. The busboy (NARDO) is nervous, apologetic -- ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 23. SALVANO (pissed off) -- I brought you in for your muscles, Nardo, not your mouth. NARDO (scared) I'm sorry, boss. SALVANO Your English is getting good... You're showing it off. Showing it off on the street -- NARDO I keep quiet. I never talk no more -- Salvano glowers at Nardo like he's about to punch him. Instead he reaches over, playfully chokes the busboy -- then releases him, as if all is forgiven. SALVANO Make yourself useful. (indicates empty wine bottle on table) Get downstairs, bring me one of these. (as Nardo stands, starts for back hallway) Then get back to work. 75 INT. RESTAURANT BASEMENT STOREROOM - LATE AFTERNOON Nardo enters at the top of the stairs, radiating relief. He trots down into the empty basement, toward a floor-to- ceiling wine rack. NARDO (to himself) I thought I was dead, man. (whistles with relief) I thought I was fucking dead. He crosses to the wine rack. It's dark, hard to see. He searches for the bottle. Suddenly: a METALLIC sound behind him. Nardo turns -- CHI CHI TESTAMENTE, a wiry, pock-faced Latino, stands in the shadows (it is clear he has been waiting there, hiding) -- holding a small silencer automatic. CHI CHI You were right, cabron. * ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 24. One SHOT between the eyes and Nardo CRASHES backward into the WINE RACK, eyes wide with shock and bewilderment. Chi Chi SHOOTS him AGAIN; Nardo drops like a stone. Coolly, professionally, Chi Chi pumps FOUR more SHOTS into the prone busboy's head. Chi Chi ejects the clip into his palm, unscrews the silencer, holsters the gun. Salvano appears at the top of the stairs. Two busboys are behind him. One of them is the young pimp. The busboys hurry * down, the pimp -- scared shitless but playing it macho-cool. * Salvano comes down the stairs. Chi Chi stands over his work. SALVANO (to busboys) Clean up this mess. CHI CHI * Who knows who else is talking -- * SALVANO * He was a young fool. * 76 BACK IN UPSTAIRS DINING ROOM Salvano and Chi Chi emerge from the basement steps and walk toward their booth. CHI CHI We're crazy waiting for this bullshit 'shipment.' Let me waste the other fucker now. Salvano puts a hand on Chi Chi's shoulder. SALVANO Be patient. This will be done the way it was planned. CUT TO: 77 EXT. BODY AND FENDER SHOP - NIGHT Rusting cyclone fences surround a mud-lot repair yard in a dingy industrial section. Young Lation and black workers finish up for the night; through the dirty, security-barred office window we can see Chi Chi talking on the phone. The lawyer, Abandano, is also there. 78 EXT. ALLEY - REAR OF SHOP - NIGHT Nico finishes connecting a small transmitter which has been hastily wired to the entering phone line. 79 INT. UNMARKED CAR - NIGHT Nico and Jackson in the shadows down the street from the body shop. Nico wears earphones, a small tape recorder on the seat beside him. Jackson does not look happy. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 25. JACKSON Toscani, you're going to have me doing time. NICO Lighten up, Jax. No one's bringing this into court. JACKSON Except against us. NICO I don't give a shit how we do it. I just wanna get there. Jackson gives Nico a dirty look, but stifles her protest. JACKSON I thought you said you were gonna protect me. Cover my butt. Be my guardian angel -- Nico hears something through the earphones. Gestures for silence -- 80 ANGLE THROUGH OFFICE WINDOW Chi Chi listens with increased intensity to something on the phone. He starts writing it down -- 81 BACK TO NICO In unmarked car. He's writing it down too. NICO I got the shipment. * JACKSON What? What's he saying? NICO (scribbling furiously) '... Engine block has cleared customs. Serial number VA-748. Pick up Tuesday, 3 May as authorized.' 82 EXT. BODY SHOP - NIGHT Chi Chi emerges from the office, tucking a scrap of paper into his pocket. Abandano follows. They get into a late-model Lincoln which pulls out onto the street. * 83 EXT. STREET - NIGHT Nico and Jackson's car follows at a discreet distance. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 26. NICO (V.O.) Unit Ten Tango X-ray. I need a vehicle registration I.D. POLICE RADIO (V.O.) Go ahead, please. NICO (V.O.) '86 Lincoln. Illinois 354 Dog '67. * 84 INT. UNMARKED CAR - MOVING - NIGHT Jackson picks up Nico's pad to take down the response. After a moment: POLICE RADIO (V.O.) Vehicle registration follows. Leaseholder: Ramon Testamente, registered alien. Nation of origin: Venezuela. Do you wish criminal record search? NICO (into mike) I want to know when he wipes his * behind. * 85 SERIES OF SHOTS As Nico and Jackson tail the Lincoln out of the industrial zone into a fancier, non-Latin neighborhood. On the sidewalks we glimpse theatergoers, fashionable white couples out on the town. 86 LINCOLN Pulls up to a valet park outside a ton-y restaurant. A sign says: "BOGOTA." * 87 INT. UNMARKED CAR - MOVING Nico and Jackson exchange a glance. JACKSON Salvano? NICO Jackpot. 88 EXT. RESTAURANT - NIGHT Chi Chi and Abandano get out of their car, a valet takes it, Chi Chi enters the restaurant. 89 INT. SALVANO'S RESTAURANT - NIGHT Nico and Jackson enter the main dining room, which we recognize from the scene with Nardo the busboy. 27. The place is packed with fashionable people of all races. A band plays salsa; couples dance. Nico and Jackson pass easily as a hip "uptown" couple. A pretty Latin HOSTESS approaches them. HOSTESS Two for dinner? NICO Two for drinks. They elbow up to the packed bar, standing. Nico squints toward the rear dining room. 90 NICO'S POV - DOWN BAR Looking past numerous patrons, we see Chi Chi whisper something to a waiter and take a seat at a rear table (the same "owner's table" where Salvano sat before.) The waiter hurries off into a back hallway. 91 NICO AND JACKSON - AT BAR Jackson moves to the salsa beat. A BARMAID approaches. JACKSON Gimme something stiff. I need it. BARMAID Who doesn't? Nico's eyes never leave Chi Chi. 92 REAR DINING ROOM From the back hallway Salvano emerges -- in his tux, looking prosperous. He sits down beside Chi Chi and Abandano. A waitress brings two drinks. After a few words, Chi Chi removes the scrap of paper from his pocket, hands it to Salvano. NICO (O.S.) You'll have your engine block next Tuesday, boss. 93 BACK TO NICO AND JACKSON As the Barmaid brings their drinks. Jackson sees her peaceful week to retirement flying out the window. JACKSON Why couldn't it be a week from Tuesday? I could read about it in the paper. Nico grabs her waist, pulls her onto the dance floor, and does a playful twirl. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 28. NICO Cheer up, partner. I'm gonna make you famous. 94 EXT. WHOLESALE MEAT AREA - DAY * Track spurs, greasy streets, parked fork lifts. 94A EXT. ROOF - DAY * Lieutenant Strozah surveys the street traffic. * 95 NICO, JACKSON AND LUKICH The two men, dressed as meat processors in hard hats and bloody white coats, rake cattle guts under the eave of a packing plant. Jackson, dressed like a USDA Inspector and * carrying a clipboard, inspects a few hanging carcasses. JACKSON You missed a few spots, boys. LUKICH I'm takin' it home t'a make kilbasa, boss. Luke casts an impatient glance across the street to a lot with four parked meat trucks. We glimpse two "truckers" keeping low in the shadows of one cab. Down the block a seemingly empty pickup truck is parked in an alley. LUKICH This ain't a bust -- it's a convention. NICO Don't you like company, Luke? (sarcastic) We got all the scouts here -- Drug Enforcement Agency, the Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms -- WALKIE-TALKIE (V.O.) Keep this channel clear, Toscani. We realize Nico, Jackson and Lukich are wired, with mikes out of sight under their coats. Nico glances to the pick- up, near to which three men can be spotted in the alley. Apparently one of them is the walkie-talkie voice. NICO (into mike) This is our channel, dickhead. And our collar. ANOTHER WALKIE-TALKIE (V.O.) That's enough, all of you! Keep this channel clear. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 28A. 96 ANGLE ON MEAT PLANT - DAY Nothing happening. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 29. 97 ANOTHER ANGLE Dead as hell. 98 NICO, LUKICH AND JACKSON Bored, pissed off, tired. Suddenly: 99 BATTERED VAN WITH TWO MEN emerges from a corner, two blocks down. It starts slowly this way. 1ST WALKIE-TALKIE (V.O.) All right. Everyone get their heads outa their ass. The meat truck men duck down out of sight, the pickup men back into the shadows. Nico and Lukich keep raking cow guts. The van passes slowly, checking out the area. JACKSON (sarcastic) '... And so I quit the police department... got myself a steady job -- ' The van accelerates slightly, turns a corner, vanishes. Silence. LUKICH * They spotted me. I'm too good- looking to be a meat slopper. * 1ST WALKIE-TALKIE (V.O.) Will you hot dogs shut up? The van returns. On a cross street. Heading behind the packing plant. NICO * (to Lukich) * You're too ugly. Now a second car appears. The Lincoln. Behind it is an ancient station wagon. Both vehicles take a different cross street, but both heading behind the packing plant. NICO (into hidden mike) Here we go, boys and girls -- (to Jackson) You stay put. * As soon as the two vehicles pass out of sight, Nico and Lukich ditch their rakes, dart into the packing plant. The meat truck men START their TRUCK. 30. The pickup men board their vehicle -- Jackson follows Nico and Luke -- but at a safe distance. 100 INT. PACKING PLANT - DAY Nico and Lukich sprint in a crouch past the blood runoffs, meat cutting tables -- 101 NICO'S POV - RUNNING THROUGH the windows at the rear of the plant, we see the station wagon and the van, pulling up swiftly beside one another, men getting out -- 102 INT. PLANT Nico and Lukich draw their guns, running full-tilt. NICO (into hidden miki) It's going down now. Move! 103 EXT. REAR OF PACKING PLANT - DAY The station wagon men heave their rear door open, the van men start to open their side door. The Lincoln is stopped at a distance. Suddenly -- 104 NICO AND LUKICH burst from the rear door of the packing plant, guns drawn. LUKICH Police! 105 QUICK CUTS - VAN AND STATION WAGON MEN grab for their weapons -- 106 COPS IN MEAT TRUCK AND PICKUP come highballing around both sides of the packing plant -- 107 VAN AND STATION WAGON MEN OPEN FIRE. There is confusion and mayhem; it's not clear who's a cop and who's a criminal. 108 NICO AND LUKICH dive for cover, RETURNING FIRE. The DEA men in one truck also OPEN UP. One of the van men is hit between the eyes. MACHINE GUN FIRE rakes the DEA truck; it spins out of control; flips. Lukich SHOOTS the machine-gunner. LUKICH (shouts; points) Nico! The Lincoln! 31. 109 LINCOLN starts to PEEL OUT. We glimpse Chi Chi in the driver's seat, Salvano on the passenger side. 110 NICO steps in front of the accelerating Lincoln, raises his .45. 111 INT. LINCOLN - DAY Salvano and Chi Chi dive below the dash and continue forward. Salvano, in the passenger seat, raises his GUN; FIRES blindly -- trying to hit Nico. 112 EXT. LINCOLN - DAY Nico UNLOADS his .45 into the windshield and the firewall. The Lincoln keeps coming down the narrow alley. 113 NICO brazenly steps up onto the hood and dives, grabbing onto the roof. 114 INT. LINCOLN - DAY Salvano can't believe it. He screams something in Spanish. He FIRES again, this time through the roof. 115 EXT. LINCOLN - ROOF - DAY Bullet holes appear. Nico narrowly misses being hit. 116 ANOTHER ANGLE - LINCOLN Nico reaches over the side of the car and SMASHES the pas- senger WINDOW with his fist. 117 CLOSEUP - NICO'S HAND Salvano's face is bashed. Nico's huge hand grabs Salvano's throat; he won't let go. 118 CLOSEUP - NICO He hangs on with one hand. 119 CLOSEUP - SALVANO Nico's fingers now dig into Salvano's larynx; he may never talk again. He's gagging. Salvano now points the gun at Chi Chi. Chi Chi makes the decision to stop the car in order to save his boss. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 32. 120 NICO leaps off the roof pulling Salvano past the broken glass, out of the window. 121 SEVERAL POLICE VEHICLES * SCREECH into the lot. Officers pour out, guns drawn, surrounding the Lincoln and the other vehicles. Jackson joins them, weapon in hand. 122 NICO drags Salvano by the neck across the lot to the van, slamming the drug dealer up against the van's side. Lukich, Jackson and Strozah are there, with the DEA cops, * all covering the other men. NICO (to Salvano) How many kilos you got in there, Skivuzo? Salvano couldn't answer if he wanted to. The other cops look at Nico with awe. Lukich whips the van door open, yanks a tarp off the cargo. 123 INT. VAN The engine block sits in a wooden shipping frame, wrapped with industrial plastic. Nico climbs into the van, rips the plastic sheeting off, grabs the wood slats of the shipping frame, tears them off. In the background, ambulances are arriving to care for the wounded cops and criminals. 124 CLOSEUP - ENGINE BLOCK From the cylinder heads emerges a full load, not of drugs, but of plastique tubes labeled U.S. ARMY C-4 HIGH EXPLOSIVE. 125 LUKICH, JACKSON AND OTHER COPS react with surprise and shock. 126 NICO rips open one of tubes and smells it. 127 CLOSE - NICO Confused; frustrated. NICO What kinda fuckin' high is this? CUT TO: ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 33. 128 INT. FBI OFFICE - NIGHT OPENING ON SALVANO, in a chair, looking bruised and swollen, and wearing an expression of fuming indignation. SALVANO -- I'll tell you what this cop is. He's a fucking menace! 129 TWO FBI AGENTS (NEELEY AND HALLORAN) * face Salvano, Chi Chi and the lawyer Abandano (apparently representing Salvano and Chi Chi). Neeley is on the phone. * Pictures of Reagan and Meese are prominent on the wall. SALVANO You see what he did to me?! AGENT HALLORAN Your problem is being handled right now, Mr. Salv -- SALVANO Yeah? Well, it shoulda been handled twelve hours ago. I don't know who's running this outfit, but somebody better get his goddamn wires straight! AGENT NEELEY * (into phone) -- yes, sir... yes, sir, I understand -- SALVANO That maniac should be wearing a number, not a badge. Salvano knows what the call is about. He straightens the tie beneath his bruised neck, assuming the attitude of a respectable citizen who has been unjustly wronged. AGENT NEELEY * (into phone) -- count on it, sir. Right. You'll have our full cooperation. Neeley hangs up. Glances dubiously to Halloran. Then turns * grimly to Salvano, Chi Chi and the lawyer Abandano. AGENT NEELEY * You're free to go. 130 OMITTED 131 INT. FEDERAL BUILDING - LOBBY - NIGHT * The hoods and their lawyer smugly walk past a cleaning woman. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 33A. 132 INT. PRECINCT CAPTAIN'S OFFICE - MORNING OPENING ON Agent Neeley's face. Composed, clean-cut, but * intense, wearing a light-colored business suit. PAN TO Agent Halloran -- the same upright, clean-shaven bureau look. The two men are seated to one side of LIEUTENANT FRED STROZAH. 133 NICO, JACKSON, LUKICH AND DEA AND ATF MEN sit and stand in various postures in front of the Lieutenant's desk. LIEUTENANT STROZAH (to Nico, DEA & AIF) -- This is no reflection on the work you officers have done. I feel, and the whole department feels, extremely proud of your initiative and gallantry. That "spare me the horseshit" look on Nico's face. He's fuming. Strozah sees Nico's bitter expression. It's on the others' faces too. LIEUTENANT STROZAH As all of you are well aware, possession of these explosives is a federal offense and under jurisdiction of the F.B.I. Nico's eyes meet Lieutenant Strozah's. There's respect between the two, but it's plainly under a helluva strain. NICO Sir. With all respect to our brothers in the Bureau -- (biting sarcasm; turns to Neeley) * -- That's no answer. It's no answer to why one of the biggest dealers in the city is out on the street now, free as a bird! Agent Neeley stiffens. * LIEUTENANT STROZAH Keep it in your pants, Nico. These men have a job to do, just like us. Nico stifles his outrage. The other cops exchange glances -- upset and angry. Agent Neeley clears his throat. * AGENT NEELEY * Lieutenant, I think these officers are entitled to a fuller explanation. (MORE) ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 34. AGENT NEELEY (CONT'D) They've risked their lives. I understand one man is in the hospital. He speaks to the officers. AGENT NEELEY * What I'm about to say doesn't leave this room. Is that clear? Assent from everyone. AGENT NEELEY * Mr. Salvano has been working for some time in cooperation with certain federal agencies. 134 CLOSE - NICO'S FACE Stunned and furious at this royal fuck-up. AGENT NEELEY (O.S.) * I'm not at liberty to divulge the nature of Mr. Salvano's involvement -- I just learned of its existence myself a few hours ago. But one thing I can tell you -- 135 BACK TO AGENT NEELEY * AGENT NEELEY * Mr. Salvano's role is crucial to an extremely sensitive ongoing investigation. Any further surveillance, harassment, or unauthorized operations against this individual are forbidden. I must order you gentlemen -- (looking straight at Nico) -- with all respect for your work and your courage, to stand down. Lukich shakes his head; Nico is devastated. Jackson takes it all in. CUT TO: 136 INT. POLICE SQUAD ROOM - MORNING OPENING CLOSE ON a desk drawer being opened. Aside from rounds of ammo, notes and an aging eggplant parmigiana sandwich, there are half a dozen hand-labeled audio- cassettes and a small collection of miniaturized bugging devices. Jackson and Lukich watch Nico take out the notes, hand them to Lieutenant Strozah. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 35. LIEUTENANT STROZAH The tapes too. NICO (mocking) That's my Lawrence Welk collection! LIEUTENANT STROZAH I want everything you got on this one. Reluctantly, Nico hands over the tapes. The Lieutenant eyes the bugs and wires. LIEUTENANT STROZAH I know you don't give a shit about yourself, Toscani. (a glance to Jax) But you're gonna put Jackson's ass in a sling, too, with these illegal wires. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 35A. * 136A OTHER SIDE OF SQUAD ROOM Agent Halloran edges up to Jackson, who's grabbing coffee on the far side of the squad room, and watching from there as Nico gives Strozah more of a hard time. AGENT HALLORAN What's the story on your partner, Jackson? Did he learn this style or was he born with a brick up his ass? Jackson checks Halloran out. He's black too and, despite herself, there's a certain rapport. JACKSON He has ethics. Unlike certain others on this case. Halloran watches the illegal bugs and tapes come out of Nico's drawer. AGENT HALLORAN His 'ethics' are gonna cost him his badge and his gun. This "white" talk gives Jackson a pain. She slips into her jive mode. JACKSON You don't wanna catch him without no gun. Halloran's look asks why not? JACKSON 'Cause what he do with his hands... make bullet holes look pretty. Across the room, Nico turns over the tapes. AGENT HALLORAN He bad? JACKSON Bad bad. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 36. 137 INT. PRECINCT HOUSE - STAIRWAY - DAY Nico and Jackson come down the stairs. Jackson has had ample excitement for her last week on the force. JACKSON Is that enough? Can we do something normal now -- like eat lunch? NICO Anything you say, Jax. How about Salvano's? JACKSON Let it be, Nico. 138 EXT. PRECINCT HOUSE - DAY Nico and Jackson's car pulls out into traffic. 139 INT. UNMARKED CAR - PARKED (ALLEY BEHIND SALVANO'S) Jackson and Nico are eating some fast good. Nico reaches to his jacket pocket; takes out a cassette. JACKSON What... you kept his tape, too? Nico already has it in the PLAYER. We hear FRAGMENTS of the telephone tap from the body shop in Spanish and English. Jackson looks frustrated. Nico listens care- fully to what appears to be the taped PHONE CONVERSATION. NICO Poetry, ain't it? 140 EXT. REAR SALVANO'S RESTAURANT - DAY (POV FROM CAR) The pimp (busboy) comes out and dumps a load of garbage. 141 INT. UNMARKED CAR - DAY Nico and Jackson case the restaurant from down the alley. 142 EXT. REAR SALVANO'S - NICO'S POV - DAY From the restaurant door, Salvano and Chi Chi emerge. They get into a black Cadillac and pull out. * NICO (O.S.) And now for some dessert. 143 SERIES OF SHOTS As Nico's car tails Salvano's through various streets. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 37. 144 EXT. OAK STREET Salvano comes out of a fancy flower shop with a bimbo on his arm. He kisses her goodbye and puts her in a cab. NICO (O.S.) And that must be Mrs. Sal. So nice to see married couples still in love. 144A NICO AND JACKSON are hidden, waiting. 144B CHI CHI emerges from a dry cleaner's with a suit on a hanger. * 145 EXT. ST. ELIZABETH'S PARISH CHURCH - DAY Salvano's Caddy pulls up outside the same church where we * saw Nico's son get baptized. Salvano and Chi Chi get out, look both ways up and down the street. Salvano, holding * flowers, makes eye contact with a car down the block. * 146 EXT. STREET UP BLOCK FROM CHURCH - DAY Nico's car backs out of sight around the corner. 147 SIDEWALK IN FRONT OF CHURCH Salvano and Chi Chi, seeing nothing, enter the church. 148 INT. CHURCH - DAY A smattering of older women and men praying. Salvano and Chi Chi stop at the head of the aisle, genuflect to the altar, move in, take seats toward the front. 149 BACK OF CHURCH Nico and Jackson slip in the front door, glide silently into the shadows at the rear of the church. JACKSON This is your mother's church, isn't it? NICO Yeah. But I bet she's never seen these boys in the choir. 150 NICO'S POV Salvano's head is bowed, but Chi Chi is looking around quite carefully. Nico and Jackson fade into the shadows behind the huge pillars. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 37A. 151 SALVANO AND CHI CHI After a few moments, the pair rises. They cross them- selves, start out for the front door. As they walk, they continue to look for something. 152 INT. CHURCH - DAY * Nico and Jackson emerge into a courtyard which reveals a day care center and a rectory. They head toward the front of the building. Jackson, planning on picking up their tail on Salvano, is stoped by Nico. He wants to stay and look around. 38. FATHER GENARRO (O.S.) Nicola! That can't be you in church without the family! Nico turns to see Father Genarro, perspiring in a baggy sweatshirt, a handball glove on his hand. The courtyard alongside the church is marked off as an athletic area. NICO Father Genarro. The priest seizes Nico's hand warmly, smiles at Jackson. FATHER GENARRO This must be your partner in crime. (shakes her hand) I'm Father Genarro. I saw you at the baptismal party. (with a wink to Nico) What

rearview

How many times the word 'rearview' appears in the text?

with Lucy. Jackson, standing in the doorway, has seen all this. 64 INT. UNMARKED CAR - MOVING - DAY Nico at the wheel has just pulled away from the bakery. Jackson, in the passenger seat, studies her partner for a few moments, shaking her head at the contradictions in this man. Educated, classy, an elegant dresser -- yet underneath an out-and-out wild man. JACKSON I don't get you, Toscani. (beat) What the hell are you doing being a shitheel cop? With your background? For a long moment Nico says nothing. Then, quietly, look- ing straight ahead: NICO When I was overseas, I saw some things. Things that eat your guts out. Things that stay in front of your eyes like they were burned in and branded. He turns to Jackson. NICO You can walk away from them, Jax. You can quit, but you know it's still going on. You try something anyway -- (smiles a moment) -- I know I'm not going to change the world. I can't stop the tonnage coming in, I can't fight the boys behind the desks pushing their buttons -- ANGLE INCLUDING MEAN STREETS OUTSIDE NICO But maybe here, huh? (indicates street) Maybe in my own city, my own neighborhood, on my own block -- maybe here I can do something. He turns a corner. NICO That's why I'm a shitheel cop. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 20A. * 64A INT. POLICE STATION - DAY Behind the desk, a few detectives man the phones. A Latin attorney, ABANDANO, is at the counter. COP (O.S.) You can see your client. As soon as she's through eating her dinner. 65 INT. POLICE LOCKUP - "CAGE" AND HALLWAY - EVENING Hookers, female addicts, etc. in the downtown "cage." Nico has the girl in the red dress and lizard shoes (CARLA DECARLO) out in the hallway adjacent to the lock- up. Nico is Mr. Charm, offering her a heart-shaped box of chocolates. NICO Carla... Carla -- I just want the name of your boyfriend -- CARLA I got 200 boyfriends. The hooker, Carla DeCarlo, slaps the box away, cursing in Spanish. 21. CARLA Pinchi cabron, cabeza colon! Some of the chocolates tumble onto the lockup floor, the detainees snap them up, start munching. The girl con- tinues to spit curses at Nico, gesturing with her hands with Latin flamboyance. Nico grabs her by the elbow, as a jailer opens the lockup door. More curses are being flung at Nico from various females in the cage. Nico heaves Carla in among them. Carla flops down on a bench next to a tall black hooker. MOVE IN ON the black hooker. It's Nico's partner, Jackson, dolled up like a street- walker, playing her undercover role to the hilt. JACKSON (to Nico) Why can't you sons-a-bitches ever treat someone with a little respect? NICO (walking away) Take it easy, sister. JACKSON I ain't your goddamn sister. We ain't got the same mother, motherfucka. Carla fires one final parting salvo of obscenities, then sags back among the women. Carla starts to cry. Jackson comforts her; Carla responds, lets herself be comforted. CUT TO: 66 EXT. DOWNTOWN - FINANCIAL DISTRICT - DAY Jackson, back in her normal daytime wear, exits a building. She gets into Nico's car. 67 INT. CAR - DAY Jackson checks her makeup in the rearview mirror. Nico sits behind the wheel. The two are on some kind of stakeout. JACKSON The lawyer's name is Abandano. He's on the third floor. I got a look at him. I couldn't get how he's connected, but according to Carla, he's a lousy lay. NICO Maybe we can bust him for that. Jackson spots something, gestures subtly out window -- ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 22. 68 EXT. DOWNTOWN BUILDING - DAY A short, slick-looking Latin man in a business suit emerges from the building. JACKSON That's our stud. Nico and Jackson leave their car and follow him on foot. 69 EXT. FINANCIAL DISTRICT - BANK - DAY ABANDANO meets a striking-looking middle-aged woman in front of a stately financial institution. They go in. Jackson remains out on the street, while Nico follows the couple in. 70 LATER Jackson has been waiting, sipping some coffee. Nico emerges from the bank, signaling to his partner to follow him. Abandano and the woman exit from the bank's revol- ving doors and immediately jump into a cab. Nico and Jackson look at each other and step in front of another cab. Nico opens the cab door, flips his badge open, then asks the occupant to leave. Jackson gets in the front seat next to the protesting cabbie. 71 EXT. FEDERAL BUILDING - DAY Abandano and the woman are crossing the plaza as Nico and Jackson run up the block. Near the entrance to the Federal * Building, a small but vocal group of protestors are * gathered, carrying signs and chanting slogans. The frus- * trated cabbie watches them in the background. 72 PLAZA Jackson and Nico watch Abandano and the woman pass the * crowd of demonstrators and enter the building. Jackson acts * indifferent, almost frustrated; Nico keenly senses something. CUT TO: 73 INT. EXPENSIVE RESTAURANT ("BOGOTA") - DAY * The main dining room. No customers, just busboys readying tables for the evening's business. We notice one of the * busboys is the "pimp" Nico found with Lucy. * 74 BOOTH NEAR BACK HALLWAY The owner's table. Stacks of dining checks, a cashbox and calculator, full ashtrays, wine glasses. BAUTISTA SALVANO, a heavyset, swarthy Venezuelan dressed in a tux with the collar open, glowers across the table at a mus- cular, scar-faced Latin busboy -- the kind who looks like he does more for his boss than clean up the tables. The busboy (NARDO) is nervous, apologetic -- ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 23. SALVANO (pissed off) -- I brought you in for your muscles, Nardo, not your mouth. NARDO (scared) I'm sorry, boss. SALVANO Your English is getting good... You're showing it off. Showing it off on the street -- NARDO I keep quiet. I never talk no more -- Salvano glowers at Nardo like he's about to punch him. Instead he reaches over, playfully chokes the busboy -- then releases him, as if all is forgiven. SALVANO Make yourself useful. (indicates empty wine bottle on table) Get downstairs, bring me one of these. (as Nardo stands, starts for back hallway) Then get back to work. 75 INT. RESTAURANT BASEMENT STOREROOM - LATE AFTERNOON Nardo enters at the top of the stairs, radiating relief. He trots down into the empty basement, toward a floor-to- ceiling wine rack. NARDO (to himself) I thought I was dead, man. (whistles with relief) I thought I was fucking dead. He crosses to the wine rack. It's dark, hard to see. He searches for the bottle. Suddenly: a METALLIC sound behind him. Nardo turns -- CHI CHI TESTAMENTE, a wiry, pock-faced Latino, stands in the shadows (it is clear he has been waiting there, hiding) -- holding a small silencer automatic. CHI CHI You were right, cabron. * ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 24. One SHOT between the eyes and Nardo CRASHES backward into the WINE RACK, eyes wide with shock and bewilderment. Chi Chi SHOOTS him AGAIN; Nardo drops like a stone. Coolly, professionally, Chi Chi pumps FOUR more SHOTS into the prone busboy's head. Chi Chi ejects the clip into his palm, unscrews the silencer, holsters the gun. Salvano appears at the top of the stairs. Two busboys are behind him. One of them is the young pimp. The busboys hurry * down, the pimp -- scared shitless but playing it macho-cool. * Salvano comes down the stairs. Chi Chi stands over his work. SALVANO (to busboys) Clean up this mess. CHI CHI * Who knows who else is talking -- * SALVANO * He was a young fool. * 76 BACK IN UPSTAIRS DINING ROOM Salvano and Chi Chi emerge from the basement steps and walk toward their booth. CHI CHI We're crazy waiting for this bullshit 'shipment.' Let me waste the other fucker now. Salvano puts a hand on Chi Chi's shoulder. SALVANO Be patient. This will be done the way it was planned. CUT TO: 77 EXT. BODY AND FENDER SHOP - NIGHT Rusting cyclone fences surround a mud-lot repair yard in a dingy industrial section. Young Lation and black workers finish up for the night; through the dirty, security-barred office window we can see Chi Chi talking on the phone. The lawyer, Abandano, is also there. 78 EXT. ALLEY - REAR OF SHOP - NIGHT Nico finishes connecting a small transmitter which has been hastily wired to the entering phone line. 79 INT. UNMARKED CAR - NIGHT Nico and Jackson in the shadows down the street from the body shop. Nico wears earphones, a small tape recorder on the seat beside him. Jackson does not look happy. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 25. JACKSON Toscani, you're going to have me doing time. NICO Lighten up, Jax. No one's bringing this into court. JACKSON Except against us. NICO I don't give a shit how we do it. I just wanna get there. Jackson gives Nico a dirty look, but stifles her protest. JACKSON I thought you said you were gonna protect me. Cover my butt. Be my guardian angel -- Nico hears something through the earphones. Gestures for silence -- 80 ANGLE THROUGH OFFICE WINDOW Chi Chi listens with increased intensity to something on the phone. He starts writing it down -- 81 BACK TO NICO In unmarked car. He's writing it down too. NICO I got the shipment. * JACKSON What? What's he saying? NICO (scribbling furiously) '... Engine block has cleared customs. Serial number VA-748. Pick up Tuesday, 3 May as authorized.' 82 EXT. BODY SHOP - NIGHT Chi Chi emerges from the office, tucking a scrap of paper into his pocket. Abandano follows. They get into a late-model Lincoln which pulls out onto the street. * 83 EXT. STREET - NIGHT Nico and Jackson's car follows at a discreet distance. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 26. NICO (V.O.) Unit Ten Tango X-ray. I need a vehicle registration I.D. POLICE RADIO (V.O.) Go ahead, please. NICO (V.O.) '86 Lincoln. Illinois 354 Dog '67. * 84 INT. UNMARKED CAR - MOVING - NIGHT Jackson picks up Nico's pad to take down the response. After a moment: POLICE RADIO (V.O.) Vehicle registration follows. Leaseholder: Ramon Testamente, registered alien. Nation of origin: Venezuela. Do you wish criminal record search? NICO (into mike) I want to know when he wipes his * behind. * 85 SERIES OF SHOTS As Nico and Jackson tail the Lincoln out of the industrial zone into a fancier, non-Latin neighborhood. On the sidewalks we glimpse theatergoers, fashionable white couples out on the town. 86 LINCOLN Pulls up to a valet park outside a ton-y restaurant. A sign says: "BOGOTA." * 87 INT. UNMARKED CAR - MOVING Nico and Jackson exchange a glance. JACKSON Salvano? NICO Jackpot. 88 EXT. RESTAURANT - NIGHT Chi Chi and Abandano get out of their car, a valet takes it, Chi Chi enters the restaurant. 89 INT. SALVANO'S RESTAURANT - NIGHT Nico and Jackson enter the main dining room, which we recognize from the scene with Nardo the busboy. 27. The place is packed with fashionable people of all races. A band plays salsa; couples dance. Nico and Jackson pass easily as a hip "uptown" couple. A pretty Latin HOSTESS approaches them. HOSTESS Two for dinner? NICO Two for drinks. They elbow up to the packed bar, standing. Nico squints toward the rear dining room. 90 NICO'S POV - DOWN BAR Looking past numerous patrons, we see Chi Chi whisper something to a waiter and take a seat at a rear table (the same "owner's table" where Salvano sat before.) The waiter hurries off into a back hallway. 91 NICO AND JACKSON - AT BAR Jackson moves to the salsa beat. A BARMAID approaches. JACKSON Gimme something stiff. I need it. BARMAID Who doesn't? Nico's eyes never leave Chi Chi. 92 REAR DINING ROOM From the back hallway Salvano emerges -- in his tux, looking prosperous. He sits down beside Chi Chi and Abandano. A waitress brings two drinks. After a few words, Chi Chi removes the scrap of paper from his pocket, hands it to Salvano. NICO (O.S.) You'll have your engine block next Tuesday, boss. 93 BACK TO NICO AND JACKSON As the Barmaid brings their drinks. Jackson sees her peaceful week to retirement flying out the window. JACKSON Why couldn't it be a week from Tuesday? I could read about it in the paper. Nico grabs her waist, pulls her onto the dance floor, and does a playful twirl. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 28. NICO Cheer up, partner. I'm gonna make you famous. 94 EXT. WHOLESALE MEAT AREA - DAY * Track spurs, greasy streets, parked fork lifts. 94A EXT. ROOF - DAY * Lieutenant Strozah surveys the street traffic. * 95 NICO, JACKSON AND LUKICH The two men, dressed as meat processors in hard hats and bloody white coats, rake cattle guts under the eave of a packing plant. Jackson, dressed like a USDA Inspector and * carrying a clipboard, inspects a few hanging carcasses. JACKSON You missed a few spots, boys. LUKICH I'm takin' it home t'a make kilbasa, boss. Luke casts an impatient glance across the street to a lot with four parked meat trucks. We glimpse two "truckers" keeping low in the shadows of one cab. Down the block a seemingly empty pickup truck is parked in an alley. LUKICH This ain't a bust -- it's a convention. NICO Don't you like company, Luke? (sarcastic) We got all the scouts here -- Drug Enforcement Agency, the Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms -- WALKIE-TALKIE (V.O.) Keep this channel clear, Toscani. We realize Nico, Jackson and Lukich are wired, with mikes out of sight under their coats. Nico glances to the pick- up, near to which three men can be spotted in the alley. Apparently one of them is the walkie-talkie voice. NICO (into mike) This is our channel, dickhead. And our collar. ANOTHER WALKIE-TALKIE (V.O.) That's enough, all of you! Keep this channel clear. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 28A. 96 ANGLE ON MEAT PLANT - DAY Nothing happening. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 29. 97 ANOTHER ANGLE Dead as hell. 98 NICO, LUKICH AND JACKSON Bored, pissed off, tired. Suddenly: 99 BATTERED VAN WITH TWO MEN emerges from a corner, two blocks down. It starts slowly this way. 1ST WALKIE-TALKIE (V.O.) All right. Everyone get their heads outa their ass. The meat truck men duck down out of sight, the pickup men back into the shadows. Nico and Lukich keep raking cow guts. The van passes slowly, checking out the area. JACKSON (sarcastic) '... And so I quit the police department... got myself a steady job -- ' The van accelerates slightly, turns a corner, vanishes. Silence. LUKICH * They spotted me. I'm too good- looking to be a meat slopper. * 1ST WALKIE-TALKIE (V.O.) Will you hot dogs shut up? The van returns. On a cross street. Heading behind the packing plant. NICO * (to Lukich) * You're too ugly. Now a second car appears. The Lincoln. Behind it is an ancient station wagon. Both vehicles take a different cross street, but both heading behind the packing plant. NICO (into hidden mike) Here we go, boys and girls -- (to Jackson) You stay put. * As soon as the two vehicles pass out of sight, Nico and Lukich ditch their rakes, dart into the packing plant. The meat truck men START their TRUCK. 30. The pickup men board their vehicle -- Jackson follows Nico and Luke -- but at a safe distance. 100 INT. PACKING PLANT - DAY Nico and Lukich sprint in a crouch past the blood runoffs, meat cutting tables -- 101 NICO'S POV - RUNNING THROUGH the windows at the rear of the plant, we see the station wagon and the van, pulling up swiftly beside one another, men getting out -- 102 INT. PLANT Nico and Lukich draw their guns, running full-tilt. NICO (into hidden miki) It's going down now. Move! 103 EXT. REAR OF PACKING PLANT - DAY The station wagon men heave their rear door open, the van men start to open their side door. The Lincoln is stopped at a distance. Suddenly -- 104 NICO AND LUKICH burst from the rear door of the packing plant, guns drawn. LUKICH Police! 105 QUICK CUTS - VAN AND STATION WAGON MEN grab for their weapons -- 106 COPS IN MEAT TRUCK AND PICKUP come highballing around both sides of the packing plant -- 107 VAN AND STATION WAGON MEN OPEN FIRE. There is confusion and mayhem; it's not clear who's a cop and who's a criminal. 108 NICO AND LUKICH dive for cover, RETURNING FIRE. The DEA men in one truck also OPEN UP. One of the van men is hit between the eyes. MACHINE GUN FIRE rakes the DEA truck; it spins out of control; flips. Lukich SHOOTS the machine-gunner. LUKICH (shouts; points) Nico! The Lincoln! 31. 109 LINCOLN starts to PEEL OUT. We glimpse Chi Chi in the driver's seat, Salvano on the passenger side. 110 NICO steps in front of the accelerating Lincoln, raises his .45. 111 INT. LINCOLN - DAY Salvano and Chi Chi dive below the dash and continue forward. Salvano, in the passenger seat, raises his GUN; FIRES blindly -- trying to hit Nico. 112 EXT. LINCOLN - DAY Nico UNLOADS his .45 into the windshield and the firewall. The Lincoln keeps coming down the narrow alley. 113 NICO brazenly steps up onto the hood and dives, grabbing onto the roof. 114 INT. LINCOLN - DAY Salvano can't believe it. He screams something in Spanish. He FIRES again, this time through the roof. 115 EXT. LINCOLN - ROOF - DAY Bullet holes appear. Nico narrowly misses being hit. 116 ANOTHER ANGLE - LINCOLN Nico reaches over the side of the car and SMASHES the pas- senger WINDOW with his fist. 117 CLOSEUP - NICO'S HAND Salvano's face is bashed. Nico's huge hand grabs Salvano's throat; he won't let go. 118 CLOSEUP - NICO He hangs on with one hand. 119 CLOSEUP - SALVANO Nico's fingers now dig into Salvano's larynx; he may never talk again. He's gagging. Salvano now points the gun at Chi Chi. Chi Chi makes the decision to stop the car in order to save his boss. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 32. 120 NICO leaps off the roof pulling Salvano past the broken glass, out of the window. 121 SEVERAL POLICE VEHICLES * SCREECH into the lot. Officers pour out, guns drawn, surrounding the Lincoln and the other vehicles. Jackson joins them, weapon in hand. 122 NICO drags Salvano by the neck across the lot to the van, slamming the drug dealer up against the van's side. Lukich, Jackson and Strozah are there, with the DEA cops, * all covering the other men. NICO (to Salvano) How many kilos you got in there, Skivuzo? Salvano couldn't answer if he wanted to. The other cops look at Nico with awe. Lukich whips the van door open, yanks a tarp off the cargo. 123 INT. VAN The engine block sits in a wooden shipping frame, wrapped with industrial plastic. Nico climbs into the van, rips the plastic sheeting off, grabs the wood slats of the shipping frame, tears them off. In the background, ambulances are arriving to care for the wounded cops and criminals. 124 CLOSEUP - ENGINE BLOCK From the cylinder heads emerges a full load, not of drugs, but of plastique tubes labeled U.S. ARMY C-4 HIGH EXPLOSIVE. 125 LUKICH, JACKSON AND OTHER COPS react with surprise and shock. 126 NICO rips open one of tubes and smells it. 127 CLOSE - NICO Confused; frustrated. NICO What kinda fuckin' high is this? CUT TO: ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 33. 128 INT. FBI OFFICE - NIGHT OPENING ON SALVANO, in a chair, looking bruised and swollen, and wearing an expression of fuming indignation. SALVANO -- I'll tell you what this cop is. He's a fucking menace! 129 TWO FBI AGENTS (NEELEY AND HALLORAN) * face Salvano, Chi Chi and the lawyer Abandano (apparently representing Salvano and Chi Chi). Neeley is on the phone. * Pictures of Reagan and Meese are prominent on the wall. SALVANO You see what he did to me?! AGENT HALLORAN Your problem is being handled right now, Mr. Salv -- SALVANO Yeah? Well, it shoulda been handled twelve hours ago. I don't know who's running this outfit, but somebody better get his goddamn wires straight! AGENT NEELEY * (into phone) -- yes, sir... yes, sir, I understand -- SALVANO That maniac should be wearing a number, not a badge. Salvano knows what the call is about. He straightens the tie beneath his bruised neck, assuming the attitude of a respectable citizen who has been unjustly wronged. AGENT NEELEY * (into phone) -- count on it, sir. Right. You'll have our full cooperation. Neeley hangs up. Glances dubiously to Halloran. Then turns * grimly to Salvano, Chi Chi and the lawyer Abandano. AGENT NEELEY * You're free to go. 130 OMITTED 131 INT. FEDERAL BUILDING - LOBBY - NIGHT * The hoods and their lawyer smugly walk past a cleaning woman. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 33A. 132 INT. PRECINCT CAPTAIN'S OFFICE - MORNING OPENING ON Agent Neeley's face. Composed, clean-cut, but * intense, wearing a light-colored business suit. PAN TO Agent Halloran -- the same upright, clean-shaven bureau look. The two men are seated to one side of LIEUTENANT FRED STROZAH. 133 NICO, JACKSON, LUKICH AND DEA AND ATF MEN sit and stand in various postures in front of the Lieutenant's desk. LIEUTENANT STROZAH (to Nico, DEA & AIF) -- This is no reflection on the work you officers have done. I feel, and the whole department feels, extremely proud of your initiative and gallantry. That "spare me the horseshit" look on Nico's face. He's fuming. Strozah sees Nico's bitter expression. It's on the others' faces too. LIEUTENANT STROZAH As all of you are well aware, possession of these explosives is a federal offense and under jurisdiction of the F.B.I. Nico's eyes meet Lieutenant Strozah's. There's respect between the two, but it's plainly under a helluva strain. NICO Sir. With all respect to our brothers in the Bureau -- (biting sarcasm; turns to Neeley) * -- That's no answer. It's no answer to why one of the biggest dealers in the city is out on the street now, free as a bird! Agent Neeley stiffens. * LIEUTENANT STROZAH Keep it in your pants, Nico. These men have a job to do, just like us. Nico stifles his outrage. The other cops exchange glances -- upset and angry. Agent Neeley clears his throat. * AGENT NEELEY * Lieutenant, I think these officers are entitled to a fuller explanation. (MORE) ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 34. AGENT NEELEY (CONT'D) They've risked their lives. I understand one man is in the hospital. He speaks to the officers. AGENT NEELEY * What I'm about to say doesn't leave this room. Is that clear? Assent from everyone. AGENT NEELEY * Mr. Salvano has been working for some time in cooperation with certain federal agencies. 134 CLOSE - NICO'S FACE Stunned and furious at this royal fuck-up. AGENT NEELEY (O.S.) * I'm not at liberty to divulge the nature of Mr. Salvano's involvement -- I just learned of its existence myself a few hours ago. But one thing I can tell you -- 135 BACK TO AGENT NEELEY * AGENT NEELEY * Mr. Salvano's role is crucial to an extremely sensitive ongoing investigation. Any further surveillance, harassment, or unauthorized operations against this individual are forbidden. I must order you gentlemen -- (looking straight at Nico) -- with all respect for your work and your courage, to stand down. Lukich shakes his head; Nico is devastated. Jackson takes it all in. CUT TO: 136 INT. POLICE SQUAD ROOM - MORNING OPENING CLOSE ON a desk drawer being opened. Aside from rounds of ammo, notes and an aging eggplant parmigiana sandwich, there are half a dozen hand-labeled audio- cassettes and a small collection of miniaturized bugging devices. Jackson and Lukich watch Nico take out the notes, hand them to Lieutenant Strozah. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 35. LIEUTENANT STROZAH The tapes too. NICO (mocking) That's my Lawrence Welk collection! LIEUTENANT STROZAH I want everything you got on this one. Reluctantly, Nico hands over the tapes. The Lieutenant eyes the bugs and wires. LIEUTENANT STROZAH I know you don't give a shit about yourself, Toscani. (a glance to Jax) But you're gonna put Jackson's ass in a sling, too, with these illegal wires. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 35A. * 136A OTHER SIDE OF SQUAD ROOM Agent Halloran edges up to Jackson, who's grabbing coffee on the far side of the squad room, and watching from there as Nico gives Strozah more of a hard time. AGENT HALLORAN What's the story on your partner, Jackson? Did he learn this style or was he born with a brick up his ass? Jackson checks Halloran out. He's black too and, despite herself, there's a certain rapport. JACKSON He has ethics. Unlike certain others on this case. Halloran watches the illegal bugs and tapes come out of Nico's drawer. AGENT HALLORAN His 'ethics' are gonna cost him his badge and his gun. This "white" talk gives Jackson a pain. She slips into her jive mode. JACKSON You don't wanna catch him without no gun. Halloran's look asks why not? JACKSON 'Cause what he do with his hands... make bullet holes look pretty. Across the room, Nico turns over the tapes. AGENT HALLORAN He bad? JACKSON Bad bad. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 36. 137 INT. PRECINCT HOUSE - STAIRWAY - DAY Nico and Jackson come down the stairs. Jackson has had ample excitement for her last week on the force. JACKSON Is that enough? Can we do something normal now -- like eat lunch? NICO Anything you say, Jax. How about Salvano's? JACKSON Let it be, Nico. 138 EXT. PRECINCT HOUSE - DAY Nico and Jackson's car pulls out into traffic. 139 INT. UNMARKED CAR - PARKED (ALLEY BEHIND SALVANO'S) Jackson and Nico are eating some fast good. Nico reaches to his jacket pocket; takes out a cassette. JACKSON What... you kept his tape, too? Nico already has it in the PLAYER. We hear FRAGMENTS of the telephone tap from the body shop in Spanish and English. Jackson looks frustrated. Nico listens care- fully to what appears to be the taped PHONE CONVERSATION. NICO Poetry, ain't it? 140 EXT. REAR SALVANO'S RESTAURANT - DAY (POV FROM CAR) The pimp (busboy) comes out and dumps a load of garbage. 141 INT. UNMARKED CAR - DAY Nico and Jackson case the restaurant from down the alley. 142 EXT. REAR SALVANO'S - NICO'S POV - DAY From the restaurant door, Salvano and Chi Chi emerge. They get into a black Cadillac and pull out. * NICO (O.S.) And now for some dessert. 143 SERIES OF SHOTS As Nico's car tails Salvano's through various streets. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 37. 144 EXT. OAK STREET Salvano comes out of a fancy flower shop with a bimbo on his arm. He kisses her goodbye and puts her in a cab. NICO (O.S.) And that must be Mrs. Sal. So nice to see married couples still in love. 144A NICO AND JACKSON are hidden, waiting. 144B CHI CHI emerges from a dry cleaner's with a suit on a hanger. * 145 EXT. ST. ELIZABETH'S PARISH CHURCH - DAY Salvano's Caddy pulls up outside the same church where we * saw Nico's son get baptized. Salvano and Chi Chi get out, look both ways up and down the street. Salvano, holding * flowers, makes eye contact with a car down the block. * 146 EXT. STREET UP BLOCK FROM CHURCH - DAY Nico's car backs out of sight around the corner. 147 SIDEWALK IN FRONT OF CHURCH Salvano and Chi Chi, seeing nothing, enter the church. 148 INT. CHURCH - DAY A smattering of older women and men praying. Salvano and Chi Chi stop at the head of the aisle, genuflect to the altar, move in, take seats toward the front. 149 BACK OF CHURCH Nico and Jackson slip in the front door, glide silently into the shadows at the rear of the church. JACKSON This is your mother's church, isn't it? NICO Yeah. But I bet she's never seen these boys in the choir. 150 NICO'S POV Salvano's head is bowed, but Chi Chi is looking around quite carefully. Nico and Jackson fade into the shadows behind the huge pillars. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 37A. 151 SALVANO AND CHI CHI After a few moments, the pair rises. They cross them- selves, start out for the front door. As they walk, they continue to look for something. 152 INT. CHURCH - DAY * Nico and Jackson emerge into a courtyard which reveals a day care center and a rectory. They head toward the front of the building. Jackson, planning on picking up their tail on Salvano, is stoped by Nico. He wants to stay and look around. 38. FATHER GENARRO (O.S.) Nicola! That can't be you in church without the family! Nico turns to see Father Genarro, perspiring in a baggy sweatshirt, a handball glove on his hand. The courtyard alongside the church is marked off as an athletic area. NICO Father Genarro. The priest seizes Nico's hand warmly, smiles at Jackson. FATHER GENARRO This must be your partner in crime. (shakes her hand) I'm Father Genarro. I saw you at the baptismal party. (with a wink to Nico) What

downtown

How many times the word 'downtown' appears in the text?

with Lucy. Jackson, standing in the doorway, has seen all this. 64 INT. UNMARKED CAR - MOVING - DAY Nico at the wheel has just pulled away from the bakery. Jackson, in the passenger seat, studies her partner for a few moments, shaking her head at the contradictions in this man. Educated, classy, an elegant dresser -- yet underneath an out-and-out wild man. JACKSON I don't get you, Toscani. (beat) What the hell are you doing being a shitheel cop? With your background? For a long moment Nico says nothing. Then, quietly, look- ing straight ahead: NICO When I was overseas, I saw some things. Things that eat your guts out. Things that stay in front of your eyes like they were burned in and branded. He turns to Jackson. NICO You can walk away from them, Jax. You can quit, but you know it's still going on. You try something anyway -- (smiles a moment) -- I know I'm not going to change the world. I can't stop the tonnage coming in, I can't fight the boys behind the desks pushing their buttons -- ANGLE INCLUDING MEAN STREETS OUTSIDE NICO But maybe here, huh? (indicates street) Maybe in my own city, my own neighborhood, on my own block -- maybe here I can do something. He turns a corner. NICO That's why I'm a shitheel cop. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 20A. * 64A INT. POLICE STATION - DAY Behind the desk, a few detectives man the phones. A Latin attorney, ABANDANO, is at the counter. COP (O.S.) You can see your client. As soon as she's through eating her dinner. 65 INT. POLICE LOCKUP - "CAGE" AND HALLWAY - EVENING Hookers, female addicts, etc. in the downtown "cage." Nico has the girl in the red dress and lizard shoes (CARLA DECARLO) out in the hallway adjacent to the lock- up. Nico is Mr. Charm, offering her a heart-shaped box of chocolates. NICO Carla... Carla -- I just want the name of your boyfriend -- CARLA I got 200 boyfriends. The hooker, Carla DeCarlo, slaps the box away, cursing in Spanish. 21. CARLA Pinchi cabron, cabeza colon! Some of the chocolates tumble onto the lockup floor, the detainees snap them up, start munching. The girl con- tinues to spit curses at Nico, gesturing with her hands with Latin flamboyance. Nico grabs her by the elbow, as a jailer opens the lockup door. More curses are being flung at Nico from various females in the cage. Nico heaves Carla in among them. Carla flops down on a bench next to a tall black hooker. MOVE IN ON the black hooker. It's Nico's partner, Jackson, dolled up like a street- walker, playing her undercover role to the hilt. JACKSON (to Nico) Why can't you sons-a-bitches ever treat someone with a little respect? NICO (walking away) Take it easy, sister. JACKSON I ain't your goddamn sister. We ain't got the same mother, motherfucka. Carla fires one final parting salvo of obscenities, then sags back among the women. Carla starts to cry. Jackson comforts her; Carla responds, lets herself be comforted. CUT TO: 66 EXT. DOWNTOWN - FINANCIAL DISTRICT - DAY Jackson, back in her normal daytime wear, exits a building. She gets into Nico's car. 67 INT. CAR - DAY Jackson checks her makeup in the rearview mirror. Nico sits behind the wheel. The two are on some kind of stakeout. JACKSON The lawyer's name is Abandano. He's on the third floor. I got a look at him. I couldn't get how he's connected, but according to Carla, he's a lousy lay. NICO Maybe we can bust him for that. Jackson spots something, gestures subtly out window -- ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 22. 68 EXT. DOWNTOWN BUILDING - DAY A short, slick-looking Latin man in a business suit emerges from the building. JACKSON That's our stud. Nico and Jackson leave their car and follow him on foot. 69 EXT. FINANCIAL DISTRICT - BANK - DAY ABANDANO meets a striking-looking middle-aged woman in front of a stately financial institution. They go in. Jackson remains out on the street, while Nico follows the couple in. 70 LATER Jackson has been waiting, sipping some coffee. Nico emerges from the bank, signaling to his partner to follow him. Abandano and the woman exit from the bank's revol- ving doors and immediately jump into a cab. Nico and Jackson look at each other and step in front of another cab. Nico opens the cab door, flips his badge open, then asks the occupant to leave. Jackson gets in the front seat next to the protesting cabbie. 71 EXT. FEDERAL BUILDING - DAY Abandano and the woman are crossing the plaza as Nico and Jackson run up the block. Near the entrance to the Federal * Building, a small but vocal group of protestors are * gathered, carrying signs and chanting slogans. The frus- * trated cabbie watches them in the background. 72 PLAZA Jackson and Nico watch Abandano and the woman pass the * crowd of demonstrators and enter the building. Jackson acts * indifferent, almost frustrated; Nico keenly senses something. CUT TO: 73 INT. EXPENSIVE RESTAURANT ("BOGOTA") - DAY * The main dining room. No customers, just busboys readying tables for the evening's business. We notice one of the * busboys is the "pimp" Nico found with Lucy. * 74 BOOTH NEAR BACK HALLWAY The owner's table. Stacks of dining checks, a cashbox and calculator, full ashtrays, wine glasses. BAUTISTA SALVANO, a heavyset, swarthy Venezuelan dressed in a tux with the collar open, glowers across the table at a mus- cular, scar-faced Latin busboy -- the kind who looks like he does more for his boss than clean up the tables. The busboy (NARDO) is nervous, apologetic -- ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 23. SALVANO (pissed off) -- I brought you in for your muscles, Nardo, not your mouth. NARDO (scared) I'm sorry, boss. SALVANO Your English is getting good... You're showing it off. Showing it off on the street -- NARDO I keep quiet. I never talk no more -- Salvano glowers at Nardo like he's about to punch him. Instead he reaches over, playfully chokes the busboy -- then releases him, as if all is forgiven. SALVANO Make yourself useful. (indicates empty wine bottle on table) Get downstairs, bring me one of these. (as Nardo stands, starts for back hallway) Then get back to work. 75 INT. RESTAURANT BASEMENT STOREROOM - LATE AFTERNOON Nardo enters at the top of the stairs, radiating relief. He trots down into the empty basement, toward a floor-to- ceiling wine rack. NARDO (to himself) I thought I was dead, man. (whistles with relief) I thought I was fucking dead. He crosses to the wine rack. It's dark, hard to see. He searches for the bottle. Suddenly: a METALLIC sound behind him. Nardo turns -- CHI CHI TESTAMENTE, a wiry, pock-faced Latino, stands in the shadows (it is clear he has been waiting there, hiding) -- holding a small silencer automatic. CHI CHI You were right, cabron. * ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 24. One SHOT between the eyes and Nardo CRASHES backward into the WINE RACK, eyes wide with shock and bewilderment. Chi Chi SHOOTS him AGAIN; Nardo drops like a stone. Coolly, professionally, Chi Chi pumps FOUR more SHOTS into the prone busboy's head. Chi Chi ejects the clip into his palm, unscrews the silencer, holsters the gun. Salvano appears at the top of the stairs. Two busboys are behind him. One of them is the young pimp. The busboys hurry * down, the pimp -- scared shitless but playing it macho-cool. * Salvano comes down the stairs. Chi Chi stands over his work. SALVANO (to busboys) Clean up this mess. CHI CHI * Who knows who else is talking -- * SALVANO * He was a young fool. * 76 BACK IN UPSTAIRS DINING ROOM Salvano and Chi Chi emerge from the basement steps and walk toward their booth. CHI CHI We're crazy waiting for this bullshit 'shipment.' Let me waste the other fucker now. Salvano puts a hand on Chi Chi's shoulder. SALVANO Be patient. This will be done the way it was planned. CUT TO: 77 EXT. BODY AND FENDER SHOP - NIGHT Rusting cyclone fences surround a mud-lot repair yard in a dingy industrial section. Young Lation and black workers finish up for the night; through the dirty, security-barred office window we can see Chi Chi talking on the phone. The lawyer, Abandano, is also there. 78 EXT. ALLEY - REAR OF SHOP - NIGHT Nico finishes connecting a small transmitter which has been hastily wired to the entering phone line. 79 INT. UNMARKED CAR - NIGHT Nico and Jackson in the shadows down the street from the body shop. Nico wears earphones, a small tape recorder on the seat beside him. Jackson does not look happy. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 25. JACKSON Toscani, you're going to have me doing time. NICO Lighten up, Jax. No one's bringing this into court. JACKSON Except against us. NICO I don't give a shit how we do it. I just wanna get there. Jackson gives Nico a dirty look, but stifles her protest. JACKSON I thought you said you were gonna protect me. Cover my butt. Be my guardian angel -- Nico hears something through the earphones. Gestures for silence -- 80 ANGLE THROUGH OFFICE WINDOW Chi Chi listens with increased intensity to something on the phone. He starts writing it down -- 81 BACK TO NICO In unmarked car. He's writing it down too. NICO I got the shipment. * JACKSON What? What's he saying? NICO (scribbling furiously) '... Engine block has cleared customs. Serial number VA-748. Pick up Tuesday, 3 May as authorized.' 82 EXT. BODY SHOP - NIGHT Chi Chi emerges from the office, tucking a scrap of paper into his pocket. Abandano follows. They get into a late-model Lincoln which pulls out onto the street. * 83 EXT. STREET - NIGHT Nico and Jackson's car follows at a discreet distance. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 26. NICO (V.O.) Unit Ten Tango X-ray. I need a vehicle registration I.D. POLICE RADIO (V.O.) Go ahead, please. NICO (V.O.) '86 Lincoln. Illinois 354 Dog '67. * 84 INT. UNMARKED CAR - MOVING - NIGHT Jackson picks up Nico's pad to take down the response. After a moment: POLICE RADIO (V.O.) Vehicle registration follows. Leaseholder: Ramon Testamente, registered alien. Nation of origin: Venezuela. Do you wish criminal record search? NICO (into mike) I want to know when he wipes his * behind. * 85 SERIES OF SHOTS As Nico and Jackson tail the Lincoln out of the industrial zone into a fancier, non-Latin neighborhood. On the sidewalks we glimpse theatergoers, fashionable white couples out on the town. 86 LINCOLN Pulls up to a valet park outside a ton-y restaurant. A sign says: "BOGOTA." * 87 INT. UNMARKED CAR - MOVING Nico and Jackson exchange a glance. JACKSON Salvano? NICO Jackpot. 88 EXT. RESTAURANT - NIGHT Chi Chi and Abandano get out of their car, a valet takes it, Chi Chi enters the restaurant. 89 INT. SALVANO'S RESTAURANT - NIGHT Nico and Jackson enter the main dining room, which we recognize from the scene with Nardo the busboy. 27. The place is packed with fashionable people of all races. A band plays salsa; couples dance. Nico and Jackson pass easily as a hip "uptown" couple. A pretty Latin HOSTESS approaches them. HOSTESS Two for dinner? NICO Two for drinks. They elbow up to the packed bar, standing. Nico squints toward the rear dining room. 90 NICO'S POV - DOWN BAR Looking past numerous patrons, we see Chi Chi whisper something to a waiter and take a seat at a rear table (the same "owner's table" where Salvano sat before.) The waiter hurries off into a back hallway. 91 NICO AND JACKSON - AT BAR Jackson moves to the salsa beat. A BARMAID approaches. JACKSON Gimme something stiff. I need it. BARMAID Who doesn't? Nico's eyes never leave Chi Chi. 92 REAR DINING ROOM From the back hallway Salvano emerges -- in his tux, looking prosperous. He sits down beside Chi Chi and Abandano. A waitress brings two drinks. After a few words, Chi Chi removes the scrap of paper from his pocket, hands it to Salvano. NICO (O.S.) You'll have your engine block next Tuesday, boss. 93 BACK TO NICO AND JACKSON As the Barmaid brings their drinks. Jackson sees her peaceful week to retirement flying out the window. JACKSON Why couldn't it be a week from Tuesday? I could read about it in the paper. Nico grabs her waist, pulls her onto the dance floor, and does a playful twirl. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 28. NICO Cheer up, partner. I'm gonna make you famous. 94 EXT. WHOLESALE MEAT AREA - DAY * Track spurs, greasy streets, parked fork lifts. 94A EXT. ROOF - DAY * Lieutenant Strozah surveys the street traffic. * 95 NICO, JACKSON AND LUKICH The two men, dressed as meat processors in hard hats and bloody white coats, rake cattle guts under the eave of a packing plant. Jackson, dressed like a USDA Inspector and * carrying a clipboard, inspects a few hanging carcasses. JACKSON You missed a few spots, boys. LUKICH I'm takin' it home t'a make kilbasa, boss. Luke casts an impatient glance across the street to a lot with four parked meat trucks. We glimpse two "truckers" keeping low in the shadows of one cab. Down the block a seemingly empty pickup truck is parked in an alley. LUKICH This ain't a bust -- it's a convention. NICO Don't you like company, Luke? (sarcastic) We got all the scouts here -- Drug Enforcement Agency, the Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms -- WALKIE-TALKIE (V.O.) Keep this channel clear, Toscani. We realize Nico, Jackson and Lukich are wired, with mikes out of sight under their coats. Nico glances to the pick- up, near to which three men can be spotted in the alley. Apparently one of them is the walkie-talkie voice. NICO (into mike) This is our channel, dickhead. And our collar. ANOTHER WALKIE-TALKIE (V.O.) That's enough, all of you! Keep this channel clear. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 28A. 96 ANGLE ON MEAT PLANT - DAY Nothing happening. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 29. 97 ANOTHER ANGLE Dead as hell. 98 NICO, LUKICH AND JACKSON Bored, pissed off, tired. Suddenly: 99 BATTERED VAN WITH TWO MEN emerges from a corner, two blocks down. It starts slowly this way. 1ST WALKIE-TALKIE (V.O.) All right. Everyone get their heads outa their ass. The meat truck men duck down out of sight, the pickup men back into the shadows. Nico and Lukich keep raking cow guts. The van passes slowly, checking out the area. JACKSON (sarcastic) '... And so I quit the police department... got myself a steady job -- ' The van accelerates slightly, turns a corner, vanishes. Silence. LUKICH * They spotted me. I'm too good- looking to be a meat slopper. * 1ST WALKIE-TALKIE (V.O.) Will you hot dogs shut up? The van returns. On a cross street. Heading behind the packing plant. NICO * (to Lukich) * You're too ugly. Now a second car appears. The Lincoln. Behind it is an ancient station wagon. Both vehicles take a different cross street, but both heading behind the packing plant. NICO (into hidden mike) Here we go, boys and girls -- (to Jackson) You stay put. * As soon as the two vehicles pass out of sight, Nico and Lukich ditch their rakes, dart into the packing plant. The meat truck men START their TRUCK. 30. The pickup men board their vehicle -- Jackson follows Nico and Luke -- but at a safe distance. 100 INT. PACKING PLANT - DAY Nico and Lukich sprint in a crouch past the blood runoffs, meat cutting tables -- 101 NICO'S POV - RUNNING THROUGH the windows at the rear of the plant, we see the station wagon and the van, pulling up swiftly beside one another, men getting out -- 102 INT. PLANT Nico and Lukich draw their guns, running full-tilt. NICO (into hidden miki) It's going down now. Move! 103 EXT. REAR OF PACKING PLANT - DAY The station wagon men heave their rear door open, the van men start to open their side door. The Lincoln is stopped at a distance. Suddenly -- 104 NICO AND LUKICH burst from the rear door of the packing plant, guns drawn. LUKICH Police! 105 QUICK CUTS - VAN AND STATION WAGON MEN grab for their weapons -- 106 COPS IN MEAT TRUCK AND PICKUP come highballing around both sides of the packing plant -- 107 VAN AND STATION WAGON MEN OPEN FIRE. There is confusion and mayhem; it's not clear who's a cop and who's a criminal. 108 NICO AND LUKICH dive for cover, RETURNING FIRE. The DEA men in one truck also OPEN UP. One of the van men is hit between the eyes. MACHINE GUN FIRE rakes the DEA truck; it spins out of control; flips. Lukich SHOOTS the machine-gunner. LUKICH (shouts; points) Nico! The Lincoln! 31. 109 LINCOLN starts to PEEL OUT. We glimpse Chi Chi in the driver's seat, Salvano on the passenger side. 110 NICO steps in front of the accelerating Lincoln, raises his .45. 111 INT. LINCOLN - DAY Salvano and Chi Chi dive below the dash and continue forward. Salvano, in the passenger seat, raises his GUN; FIRES blindly -- trying to hit Nico. 112 EXT. LINCOLN - DAY Nico UNLOADS his .45 into the windshield and the firewall. The Lincoln keeps coming down the narrow alley. 113 NICO brazenly steps up onto the hood and dives, grabbing onto the roof. 114 INT. LINCOLN - DAY Salvano can't believe it. He screams something in Spanish. He FIRES again, this time through the roof. 115 EXT. LINCOLN - ROOF - DAY Bullet holes appear. Nico narrowly misses being hit. 116 ANOTHER ANGLE - LINCOLN Nico reaches over the side of the car and SMASHES the pas- senger WINDOW with his fist. 117 CLOSEUP - NICO'S HAND Salvano's face is bashed. Nico's huge hand grabs Salvano's throat; he won't let go. 118 CLOSEUP - NICO He hangs on with one hand. 119 CLOSEUP - SALVANO Nico's fingers now dig into Salvano's larynx; he may never talk again. He's gagging. Salvano now points the gun at Chi Chi. Chi Chi makes the decision to stop the car in order to save his boss. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 32. 120 NICO leaps off the roof pulling Salvano past the broken glass, out of the window. 121 SEVERAL POLICE VEHICLES * SCREECH into the lot. Officers pour out, guns drawn, surrounding the Lincoln and the other vehicles. Jackson joins them, weapon in hand. 122 NICO drags Salvano by the neck across the lot to the van, slamming the drug dealer up against the van's side. Lukich, Jackson and Strozah are there, with the DEA cops, * all covering the other men. NICO (to Salvano) How many kilos you got in there, Skivuzo? Salvano couldn't answer if he wanted to. The other cops look at Nico with awe. Lukich whips the van door open, yanks a tarp off the cargo. 123 INT. VAN The engine block sits in a wooden shipping frame, wrapped with industrial plastic. Nico climbs into the van, rips the plastic sheeting off, grabs the wood slats of the shipping frame, tears them off. In the background, ambulances are arriving to care for the wounded cops and criminals. 124 CLOSEUP - ENGINE BLOCK From the cylinder heads emerges a full load, not of drugs, but of plastique tubes labeled U.S. ARMY C-4 HIGH EXPLOSIVE. 125 LUKICH, JACKSON AND OTHER COPS react with surprise and shock. 126 NICO rips open one of tubes and smells it. 127 CLOSE - NICO Confused; frustrated. NICO What kinda fuckin' high is this? CUT TO: ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 33. 128 INT. FBI OFFICE - NIGHT OPENING ON SALVANO, in a chair, looking bruised and swollen, and wearing an expression of fuming indignation. SALVANO -- I'll tell you what this cop is. He's a fucking menace! 129 TWO FBI AGENTS (NEELEY AND HALLORAN) * face Salvano, Chi Chi and the lawyer Abandano (apparently representing Salvano and Chi Chi). Neeley is on the phone. * Pictures of Reagan and Meese are prominent on the wall. SALVANO You see what he did to me?! AGENT HALLORAN Your problem is being handled right now, Mr. Salv -- SALVANO Yeah? Well, it shoulda been handled twelve hours ago. I don't know who's running this outfit, but somebody better get his goddamn wires straight! AGENT NEELEY * (into phone) -- yes, sir... yes, sir, I understand -- SALVANO That maniac should be wearing a number, not a badge. Salvano knows what the call is about. He straightens the tie beneath his bruised neck, assuming the attitude of a respectable citizen who has been unjustly wronged. AGENT NEELEY * (into phone) -- count on it, sir. Right. You'll have our full cooperation. Neeley hangs up. Glances dubiously to Halloran. Then turns * grimly to Salvano, Chi Chi and the lawyer Abandano. AGENT NEELEY * You're free to go. 130 OMITTED 131 INT. FEDERAL BUILDING - LOBBY - NIGHT * The hoods and their lawyer smugly walk past a cleaning woman. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 33A. 132 INT. PRECINCT CAPTAIN'S OFFICE - MORNING OPENING ON Agent Neeley's face. Composed, clean-cut, but * intense, wearing a light-colored business suit. PAN TO Agent Halloran -- the same upright, clean-shaven bureau look. The two men are seated to one side of LIEUTENANT FRED STROZAH. 133 NICO, JACKSON, LUKICH AND DEA AND ATF MEN sit and stand in various postures in front of the Lieutenant's desk. LIEUTENANT STROZAH (to Nico, DEA & AIF) -- This is no reflection on the work you officers have done. I feel, and the whole department feels, extremely proud of your initiative and gallantry. That "spare me the horseshit" look on Nico's face. He's fuming. Strozah sees Nico's bitter expression. It's on the others' faces too. LIEUTENANT STROZAH As all of you are well aware, possession of these explosives is a federal offense and under jurisdiction of the F.B.I. Nico's eyes meet Lieutenant Strozah's. There's respect between the two, but it's plainly under a helluva strain. NICO Sir. With all respect to our brothers in the Bureau -- (biting sarcasm; turns to Neeley) * -- That's no answer. It's no answer to why one of the biggest dealers in the city is out on the street now, free as a bird! Agent Neeley stiffens. * LIEUTENANT STROZAH Keep it in your pants, Nico. These men have a job to do, just like us. Nico stifles his outrage. The other cops exchange glances -- upset and angry. Agent Neeley clears his throat. * AGENT NEELEY * Lieutenant, I think these officers are entitled to a fuller explanation. (MORE) ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 34. AGENT NEELEY (CONT'D) They've risked their lives. I understand one man is in the hospital. He speaks to the officers. AGENT NEELEY * What I'm about to say doesn't leave this room. Is that clear? Assent from everyone. AGENT NEELEY * Mr. Salvano has been working for some time in cooperation with certain federal agencies. 134 CLOSE - NICO'S FACE Stunned and furious at this royal fuck-up. AGENT NEELEY (O.S.) * I'm not at liberty to divulge the nature of Mr. Salvano's involvement -- I just learned of its existence myself a few hours ago. But one thing I can tell you -- 135 BACK TO AGENT NEELEY * AGENT NEELEY * Mr. Salvano's role is crucial to an extremely sensitive ongoing investigation. Any further surveillance, harassment, or unauthorized operations against this individual are forbidden. I must order you gentlemen -- (looking straight at Nico) -- with all respect for your work and your courage, to stand down. Lukich shakes his head; Nico is devastated. Jackson takes it all in. CUT TO: 136 INT. POLICE SQUAD ROOM - MORNING OPENING CLOSE ON a desk drawer being opened. Aside from rounds of ammo, notes and an aging eggplant parmigiana sandwich, there are half a dozen hand-labeled audio- cassettes and a small collection of miniaturized bugging devices. Jackson and Lukich watch Nico take out the notes, hand them to Lieutenant Strozah. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 35. LIEUTENANT STROZAH The tapes too. NICO (mocking) That's my Lawrence Welk collection! LIEUTENANT STROZAH I want everything you got on this one. Reluctantly, Nico hands over the tapes. The Lieutenant eyes the bugs and wires. LIEUTENANT STROZAH I know you don't give a shit about yourself, Toscani. (a glance to Jax) But you're gonna put Jackson's ass in a sling, too, with these illegal wires. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 35A. * 136A OTHER SIDE OF SQUAD ROOM Agent Halloran edges up to Jackson, who's grabbing coffee on the far side of the squad room, and watching from there as Nico gives Strozah more of a hard time. AGENT HALLORAN What's the story on your partner, Jackson? Did he learn this style or was he born with a brick up his ass? Jackson checks Halloran out. He's black too and, despite herself, there's a certain rapport. JACKSON He has ethics. Unlike certain others on this case. Halloran watches the illegal bugs and tapes come out of Nico's drawer. AGENT HALLORAN His 'ethics' are gonna cost him his badge and his gun. This "white" talk gives Jackson a pain. She slips into her jive mode. JACKSON You don't wanna catch him without no gun. Halloran's look asks why not? JACKSON 'Cause what he do with his hands... make bullet holes look pretty. Across the room, Nico turns over the tapes. AGENT HALLORAN He bad? JACKSON Bad bad. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 36. 137 INT. PRECINCT HOUSE - STAIRWAY - DAY Nico and Jackson come down the stairs. Jackson has had ample excitement for her last week on the force. JACKSON Is that enough? Can we do something normal now -- like eat lunch? NICO Anything you say, Jax. How about Salvano's? JACKSON Let it be, Nico. 138 EXT. PRECINCT HOUSE - DAY Nico and Jackson's car pulls out into traffic. 139 INT. UNMARKED CAR - PARKED (ALLEY BEHIND SALVANO'S) Jackson and Nico are eating some fast good. Nico reaches to his jacket pocket; takes out a cassette. JACKSON What... you kept his tape, too? Nico already has it in the PLAYER. We hear FRAGMENTS of the telephone tap from the body shop in Spanish and English. Jackson looks frustrated. Nico listens care- fully to what appears to be the taped PHONE CONVERSATION. NICO Poetry, ain't it? 140 EXT. REAR SALVANO'S RESTAURANT - DAY (POV FROM CAR) The pimp (busboy) comes out and dumps a load of garbage. 141 INT. UNMARKED CAR - DAY Nico and Jackson case the restaurant from down the alley. 142 EXT. REAR SALVANO'S - NICO'S POV - DAY From the restaurant door, Salvano and Chi Chi emerge. They get into a black Cadillac and pull out. * NICO (O.S.) And now for some dessert. 143 SERIES OF SHOTS As Nico's car tails Salvano's through various streets. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 37. 144 EXT. OAK STREET Salvano comes out of a fancy flower shop with a bimbo on his arm. He kisses her goodbye and puts her in a cab. NICO (O.S.) And that must be Mrs. Sal. So nice to see married couples still in love. 144A NICO AND JACKSON are hidden, waiting. 144B CHI CHI emerges from a dry cleaner's with a suit on a hanger. * 145 EXT. ST. ELIZABETH'S PARISH CHURCH - DAY Salvano's Caddy pulls up outside the same church where we * saw Nico's son get baptized. Salvano and Chi Chi get out, look both ways up and down the street. Salvano, holding * flowers, makes eye contact with a car down the block. * 146 EXT. STREET UP BLOCK FROM CHURCH - DAY Nico's car backs out of sight around the corner. 147 SIDEWALK IN FRONT OF CHURCH Salvano and Chi Chi, seeing nothing, enter the church. 148 INT. CHURCH - DAY A smattering of older women and men praying. Salvano and Chi Chi stop at the head of the aisle, genuflect to the altar, move in, take seats toward the front. 149 BACK OF CHURCH Nico and Jackson slip in the front door, glide silently into the shadows at the rear of the church. JACKSON This is your mother's church, isn't it? NICO Yeah. But I bet she's never seen these boys in the choir. 150 NICO'S POV Salvano's head is bowed, but Chi Chi is looking around quite carefully. Nico and Jackson fade into the shadows behind the huge pillars. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 37A. 151 SALVANO AND CHI CHI After a few moments, the pair rises. They cross them- selves, start out for the front door. As they walk, they continue to look for something. 152 INT. CHURCH - DAY * Nico and Jackson emerge into a courtyard which reveals a day care center and a rectory. They head toward the front of the building. Jackson, planning on picking up their tail on Salvano, is stoped by Nico. He wants to stay and look around. 38. FATHER GENARRO (O.S.) Nicola! That can't be you in church without the family! Nico turns to see Father Genarro, perspiring in a baggy sweatshirt, a handball glove on his hand. The courtyard alongside the church is marked off as an athletic area. NICO Father Genarro. The priest seizes Nico's hand warmly, smiles at Jackson. FATHER GENARRO This must be your partner in crime. (shakes her hand) I'm Father Genarro. I saw you at the baptismal party. (with a wink to Nico) What

tender

How many times the word 'tender' appears in the text?

with Lucy. Jackson, standing in the doorway, has seen all this. 64 INT. UNMARKED CAR - MOVING - DAY Nico at the wheel has just pulled away from the bakery. Jackson, in the passenger seat, studies her partner for a few moments, shaking her head at the contradictions in this man. Educated, classy, an elegant dresser -- yet underneath an out-and-out wild man. JACKSON I don't get you, Toscani. (beat) What the hell are you doing being a shitheel cop? With your background? For a long moment Nico says nothing. Then, quietly, look- ing straight ahead: NICO When I was overseas, I saw some things. Things that eat your guts out. Things that stay in front of your eyes like they were burned in and branded. He turns to Jackson. NICO You can walk away from them, Jax. You can quit, but you know it's still going on. You try something anyway -- (smiles a moment) -- I know I'm not going to change the world. I can't stop the tonnage coming in, I can't fight the boys behind the desks pushing their buttons -- ANGLE INCLUDING MEAN STREETS OUTSIDE NICO But maybe here, huh? (indicates street) Maybe in my own city, my own neighborhood, on my own block -- maybe here I can do something. He turns a corner. NICO That's why I'm a shitheel cop. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 20A. * 64A INT. POLICE STATION - DAY Behind the desk, a few detectives man the phones. A Latin attorney, ABANDANO, is at the counter. COP (O.S.) You can see your client. As soon as she's through eating her dinner. 65 INT. POLICE LOCKUP - "CAGE" AND HALLWAY - EVENING Hookers, female addicts, etc. in the downtown "cage." Nico has the girl in the red dress and lizard shoes (CARLA DECARLO) out in the hallway adjacent to the lock- up. Nico is Mr. Charm, offering her a heart-shaped box of chocolates. NICO Carla... Carla -- I just want the name of your boyfriend -- CARLA I got 200 boyfriends. The hooker, Carla DeCarlo, slaps the box away, cursing in Spanish. 21. CARLA Pinchi cabron, cabeza colon! Some of the chocolates tumble onto the lockup floor, the detainees snap them up, start munching. The girl con- tinues to spit curses at Nico, gesturing with her hands with Latin flamboyance. Nico grabs her by the elbow, as a jailer opens the lockup door. More curses are being flung at Nico from various females in the cage. Nico heaves Carla in among them. Carla flops down on a bench next to a tall black hooker. MOVE IN ON the black hooker. It's Nico's partner, Jackson, dolled up like a street- walker, playing her undercover role to the hilt. JACKSON (to Nico) Why can't you sons-a-bitches ever treat someone with a little respect? NICO (walking away) Take it easy, sister. JACKSON I ain't your goddamn sister. We ain't got the same mother, motherfucka. Carla fires one final parting salvo of obscenities, then sags back among the women. Carla starts to cry. Jackson comforts her; Carla responds, lets herself be comforted. CUT TO: 66 EXT. DOWNTOWN - FINANCIAL DISTRICT - DAY Jackson, back in her normal daytime wear, exits a building. She gets into Nico's car. 67 INT. CAR - DAY Jackson checks her makeup in the rearview mirror. Nico sits behind the wheel. The two are on some kind of stakeout. JACKSON The lawyer's name is Abandano. He's on the third floor. I got a look at him. I couldn't get how he's connected, but according to Carla, he's a lousy lay. NICO Maybe we can bust him for that. Jackson spots something, gestures subtly out window -- ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 22. 68 EXT. DOWNTOWN BUILDING - DAY A short, slick-looking Latin man in a business suit emerges from the building. JACKSON That's our stud. Nico and Jackson leave their car and follow him on foot. 69 EXT. FINANCIAL DISTRICT - BANK - DAY ABANDANO meets a striking-looking middle-aged woman in front of a stately financial institution. They go in. Jackson remains out on the street, while Nico follows the couple in. 70 LATER Jackson has been waiting, sipping some coffee. Nico emerges from the bank, signaling to his partner to follow him. Abandano and the woman exit from the bank's revol- ving doors and immediately jump into a cab. Nico and Jackson look at each other and step in front of another cab. Nico opens the cab door, flips his badge open, then asks the occupant to leave. Jackson gets in the front seat next to the protesting cabbie. 71 EXT. FEDERAL BUILDING - DAY Abandano and the woman are crossing the plaza as Nico and Jackson run up the block. Near the entrance to the Federal * Building, a small but vocal group of protestors are * gathered, carrying signs and chanting slogans. The frus- * trated cabbie watches them in the background. 72 PLAZA Jackson and Nico watch Abandano and the woman pass the * crowd of demonstrators and enter the building. Jackson acts * indifferent, almost frustrated; Nico keenly senses something. CUT TO: 73 INT. EXPENSIVE RESTAURANT ("BOGOTA") - DAY * The main dining room. No customers, just busboys readying tables for the evening's business. We notice one of the * busboys is the "pimp" Nico found with Lucy. * 74 BOOTH NEAR BACK HALLWAY The owner's table. Stacks of dining checks, a cashbox and calculator, full ashtrays, wine glasses. BAUTISTA SALVANO, a heavyset, swarthy Venezuelan dressed in a tux with the collar open, glowers across the table at a mus- cular, scar-faced Latin busboy -- the kind who looks like he does more for his boss than clean up the tables. The busboy (NARDO) is nervous, apologetic -- ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 23. SALVANO (pissed off) -- I brought you in for your muscles, Nardo, not your mouth. NARDO (scared) I'm sorry, boss. SALVANO Your English is getting good... You're showing it off. Showing it off on the street -- NARDO I keep quiet. I never talk no more -- Salvano glowers at Nardo like he's about to punch him. Instead he reaches over, playfully chokes the busboy -- then releases him, as if all is forgiven. SALVANO Make yourself useful. (indicates empty wine bottle on table) Get downstairs, bring me one of these. (as Nardo stands, starts for back hallway) Then get back to work. 75 INT. RESTAURANT BASEMENT STOREROOM - LATE AFTERNOON Nardo enters at the top of the stairs, radiating relief. He trots down into the empty basement, toward a floor-to- ceiling wine rack. NARDO (to himself) I thought I was dead, man. (whistles with relief) I thought I was fucking dead. He crosses to the wine rack. It's dark, hard to see. He searches for the bottle. Suddenly: a METALLIC sound behind him. Nardo turns -- CHI CHI TESTAMENTE, a wiry, pock-faced Latino, stands in the shadows (it is clear he has been waiting there, hiding) -- holding a small silencer automatic. CHI CHI You were right, cabron. * ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 24. One SHOT between the eyes and Nardo CRASHES backward into the WINE RACK, eyes wide with shock and bewilderment. Chi Chi SHOOTS him AGAIN; Nardo drops like a stone. Coolly, professionally, Chi Chi pumps FOUR more SHOTS into the prone busboy's head. Chi Chi ejects the clip into his palm, unscrews the silencer, holsters the gun. Salvano appears at the top of the stairs. Two busboys are behind him. One of them is the young pimp. The busboys hurry * down, the pimp -- scared shitless but playing it macho-cool. * Salvano comes down the stairs. Chi Chi stands over his work. SALVANO (to busboys) Clean up this mess. CHI CHI * Who knows who else is talking -- * SALVANO * He was a young fool. * 76 BACK IN UPSTAIRS DINING ROOM Salvano and Chi Chi emerge from the basement steps and walk toward their booth. CHI CHI We're crazy waiting for this bullshit 'shipment.' Let me waste the other fucker now. Salvano puts a hand on Chi Chi's shoulder. SALVANO Be patient. This will be done the way it was planned. CUT TO: 77 EXT. BODY AND FENDER SHOP - NIGHT Rusting cyclone fences surround a mud-lot repair yard in a dingy industrial section. Young Lation and black workers finish up for the night; through the dirty, security-barred office window we can see Chi Chi talking on the phone. The lawyer, Abandano, is also there. 78 EXT. ALLEY - REAR OF SHOP - NIGHT Nico finishes connecting a small transmitter which has been hastily wired to the entering phone line. 79 INT. UNMARKED CAR - NIGHT Nico and Jackson in the shadows down the street from the body shop. Nico wears earphones, a small tape recorder on the seat beside him. Jackson does not look happy. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 25. JACKSON Toscani, you're going to have me doing time. NICO Lighten up, Jax. No one's bringing this into court. JACKSON Except against us. NICO I don't give a shit how we do it. I just wanna get there. Jackson gives Nico a dirty look, but stifles her protest. JACKSON I thought you said you were gonna protect me. Cover my butt. Be my guardian angel -- Nico hears something through the earphones. Gestures for silence -- 80 ANGLE THROUGH OFFICE WINDOW Chi Chi listens with increased intensity to something on the phone. He starts writing it down -- 81 BACK TO NICO In unmarked car. He's writing it down too. NICO I got the shipment. * JACKSON What? What's he saying? NICO (scribbling furiously) '... Engine block has cleared customs. Serial number VA-748. Pick up Tuesday, 3 May as authorized.' 82 EXT. BODY SHOP - NIGHT Chi Chi emerges from the office, tucking a scrap of paper into his pocket. Abandano follows. They get into a late-model Lincoln which pulls out onto the street. * 83 EXT. STREET - NIGHT Nico and Jackson's car follows at a discreet distance. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 26. NICO (V.O.) Unit Ten Tango X-ray. I need a vehicle registration I.D. POLICE RADIO (V.O.) Go ahead, please. NICO (V.O.) '86 Lincoln. Illinois 354 Dog '67. * 84 INT. UNMARKED CAR - MOVING - NIGHT Jackson picks up Nico's pad to take down the response. After a moment: POLICE RADIO (V.O.) Vehicle registration follows. Leaseholder: Ramon Testamente, registered alien. Nation of origin: Venezuela. Do you wish criminal record search? NICO (into mike) I want to know when he wipes his * behind. * 85 SERIES OF SHOTS As Nico and Jackson tail the Lincoln out of the industrial zone into a fancier, non-Latin neighborhood. On the sidewalks we glimpse theatergoers, fashionable white couples out on the town. 86 LINCOLN Pulls up to a valet park outside a ton-y restaurant. A sign says: "BOGOTA." * 87 INT. UNMARKED CAR - MOVING Nico and Jackson exchange a glance. JACKSON Salvano? NICO Jackpot. 88 EXT. RESTAURANT - NIGHT Chi Chi and Abandano get out of their car, a valet takes it, Chi Chi enters the restaurant. 89 INT. SALVANO'S RESTAURANT - NIGHT Nico and Jackson enter the main dining room, which we recognize from the scene with Nardo the busboy. 27. The place is packed with fashionable people of all races. A band plays salsa; couples dance. Nico and Jackson pass easily as a hip "uptown" couple. A pretty Latin HOSTESS approaches them. HOSTESS Two for dinner? NICO Two for drinks. They elbow up to the packed bar, standing. Nico squints toward the rear dining room. 90 NICO'S POV - DOWN BAR Looking past numerous patrons, we see Chi Chi whisper something to a waiter and take a seat at a rear table (the same "owner's table" where Salvano sat before.) The waiter hurries off into a back hallway. 91 NICO AND JACKSON - AT BAR Jackson moves to the salsa beat. A BARMAID approaches. JACKSON Gimme something stiff. I need it. BARMAID Who doesn't? Nico's eyes never leave Chi Chi. 92 REAR DINING ROOM From the back hallway Salvano emerges -- in his tux, looking prosperous. He sits down beside Chi Chi and Abandano. A waitress brings two drinks. After a few words, Chi Chi removes the scrap of paper from his pocket, hands it to Salvano. NICO (O.S.) You'll have your engine block next Tuesday, boss. 93 BACK TO NICO AND JACKSON As the Barmaid brings their drinks. Jackson sees her peaceful week to retirement flying out the window. JACKSON Why couldn't it be a week from Tuesday? I could read about it in the paper. Nico grabs her waist, pulls her onto the dance floor, and does a playful twirl. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 28. NICO Cheer up, partner. I'm gonna make you famous. 94 EXT. WHOLESALE MEAT AREA - DAY * Track spurs, greasy streets, parked fork lifts. 94A EXT. ROOF - DAY * Lieutenant Strozah surveys the street traffic. * 95 NICO, JACKSON AND LUKICH The two men, dressed as meat processors in hard hats and bloody white coats, rake cattle guts under the eave of a packing plant. Jackson, dressed like a USDA Inspector and * carrying a clipboard, inspects a few hanging carcasses. JACKSON You missed a few spots, boys. LUKICH I'm takin' it home t'a make kilbasa, boss. Luke casts an impatient glance across the street to a lot with four parked meat trucks. We glimpse two "truckers" keeping low in the shadows of one cab. Down the block a seemingly empty pickup truck is parked in an alley. LUKICH This ain't a bust -- it's a convention. NICO Don't you like company, Luke? (sarcastic) We got all the scouts here -- Drug Enforcement Agency, the Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms -- WALKIE-TALKIE (V.O.) Keep this channel clear, Toscani. We realize Nico, Jackson and Lukich are wired, with mikes out of sight under their coats. Nico glances to the pick- up, near to which three men can be spotted in the alley. Apparently one of them is the walkie-talkie voice. NICO (into mike) This is our channel, dickhead. And our collar. ANOTHER WALKIE-TALKIE (V.O.) That's enough, all of you! Keep this channel clear. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 28A. 96 ANGLE ON MEAT PLANT - DAY Nothing happening. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 29. 97 ANOTHER ANGLE Dead as hell. 98 NICO, LUKICH AND JACKSON Bored, pissed off, tired. Suddenly: 99 BATTERED VAN WITH TWO MEN emerges from a corner, two blocks down. It starts slowly this way. 1ST WALKIE-TALKIE (V.O.) All right. Everyone get their heads outa their ass. The meat truck men duck down out of sight, the pickup men back into the shadows. Nico and Lukich keep raking cow guts. The van passes slowly, checking out the area. JACKSON (sarcastic) '... And so I quit the police department... got myself a steady job -- ' The van accelerates slightly, turns a corner, vanishes. Silence. LUKICH * They spotted me. I'm too good- looking to be a meat slopper. * 1ST WALKIE-TALKIE (V.O.) Will you hot dogs shut up? The van returns. On a cross street. Heading behind the packing plant. NICO * (to Lukich) * You're too ugly. Now a second car appears. The Lincoln. Behind it is an ancient station wagon. Both vehicles take a different cross street, but both heading behind the packing plant. NICO (into hidden mike) Here we go, boys and girls -- (to Jackson) You stay put. * As soon as the two vehicles pass out of sight, Nico and Lukich ditch their rakes, dart into the packing plant. The meat truck men START their TRUCK. 30. The pickup men board their vehicle -- Jackson follows Nico and Luke -- but at a safe distance. 100 INT. PACKING PLANT - DAY Nico and Lukich sprint in a crouch past the blood runoffs, meat cutting tables -- 101 NICO'S POV - RUNNING THROUGH the windows at the rear of the plant, we see the station wagon and the van, pulling up swiftly beside one another, men getting out -- 102 INT. PLANT Nico and Lukich draw their guns, running full-tilt. NICO (into hidden miki) It's going down now. Move! 103 EXT. REAR OF PACKING PLANT - DAY The station wagon men heave their rear door open, the van men start to open their side door. The Lincoln is stopped at a distance. Suddenly -- 104 NICO AND LUKICH burst from the rear door of the packing plant, guns drawn. LUKICH Police! 105 QUICK CUTS - VAN AND STATION WAGON MEN grab for their weapons -- 106 COPS IN MEAT TRUCK AND PICKUP come highballing around both sides of the packing plant -- 107 VAN AND STATION WAGON MEN OPEN FIRE. There is confusion and mayhem; it's not clear who's a cop and who's a criminal. 108 NICO AND LUKICH dive for cover, RETURNING FIRE. The DEA men in one truck also OPEN UP. One of the van men is hit between the eyes. MACHINE GUN FIRE rakes the DEA truck; it spins out of control; flips. Lukich SHOOTS the machine-gunner. LUKICH (shouts; points) Nico! The Lincoln! 31. 109 LINCOLN starts to PEEL OUT. We glimpse Chi Chi in the driver's seat, Salvano on the passenger side. 110 NICO steps in front of the accelerating Lincoln, raises his .45. 111 INT. LINCOLN - DAY Salvano and Chi Chi dive below the dash and continue forward. Salvano, in the passenger seat, raises his GUN; FIRES blindly -- trying to hit Nico. 112 EXT. LINCOLN - DAY Nico UNLOADS his .45 into the windshield and the firewall. The Lincoln keeps coming down the narrow alley. 113 NICO brazenly steps up onto the hood and dives, grabbing onto the roof. 114 INT. LINCOLN - DAY Salvano can't believe it. He screams something in Spanish. He FIRES again, this time through the roof. 115 EXT. LINCOLN - ROOF - DAY Bullet holes appear. Nico narrowly misses being hit. 116 ANOTHER ANGLE - LINCOLN Nico reaches over the side of the car and SMASHES the pas- senger WINDOW with his fist. 117 CLOSEUP - NICO'S HAND Salvano's face is bashed. Nico's huge hand grabs Salvano's throat; he won't let go. 118 CLOSEUP - NICO He hangs on with one hand. 119 CLOSEUP - SALVANO Nico's fingers now dig into Salvano's larynx; he may never talk again. He's gagging. Salvano now points the gun at Chi Chi. Chi Chi makes the decision to stop the car in order to save his boss. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 32. 120 NICO leaps off the roof pulling Salvano past the broken glass, out of the window. 121 SEVERAL POLICE VEHICLES * SCREECH into the lot. Officers pour out, guns drawn, surrounding the Lincoln and the other vehicles. Jackson joins them, weapon in hand. 122 NICO drags Salvano by the neck across the lot to the van, slamming the drug dealer up against the van's side. Lukich, Jackson and Strozah are there, with the DEA cops, * all covering the other men. NICO (to Salvano) How many kilos you got in there, Skivuzo? Salvano couldn't answer if he wanted to. The other cops look at Nico with awe. Lukich whips the van door open, yanks a tarp off the cargo. 123 INT. VAN The engine block sits in a wooden shipping frame, wrapped with industrial plastic. Nico climbs into the van, rips the plastic sheeting off, grabs the wood slats of the shipping frame, tears them off. In the background, ambulances are arriving to care for the wounded cops and criminals. 124 CLOSEUP - ENGINE BLOCK From the cylinder heads emerges a full load, not of drugs, but of plastique tubes labeled U.S. ARMY C-4 HIGH EXPLOSIVE. 125 LUKICH, JACKSON AND OTHER COPS react with surprise and shock. 126 NICO rips open one of tubes and smells it. 127 CLOSE - NICO Confused; frustrated. NICO What kinda fuckin' high is this? CUT TO: ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 33. 128 INT. FBI OFFICE - NIGHT OPENING ON SALVANO, in a chair, looking bruised and swollen, and wearing an expression of fuming indignation. SALVANO -- I'll tell you what this cop is. He's a fucking menace! 129 TWO FBI AGENTS (NEELEY AND HALLORAN) * face Salvano, Chi Chi and the lawyer Abandano (apparently representing Salvano and Chi Chi). Neeley is on the phone. * Pictures of Reagan and Meese are prominent on the wall. SALVANO You see what he did to me?! AGENT HALLORAN Your problem is being handled right now, Mr. Salv -- SALVANO Yeah? Well, it shoulda been handled twelve hours ago. I don't know who's running this outfit, but somebody better get his goddamn wires straight! AGENT NEELEY * (into phone) -- yes, sir... yes, sir, I understand -- SALVANO That maniac should be wearing a number, not a badge. Salvano knows what the call is about. He straightens the tie beneath his bruised neck, assuming the attitude of a respectable citizen who has been unjustly wronged. AGENT NEELEY * (into phone) -- count on it, sir. Right. You'll have our full cooperation. Neeley hangs up. Glances dubiously to Halloran. Then turns * grimly to Salvano, Chi Chi and the lawyer Abandano. AGENT NEELEY * You're free to go. 130 OMITTED 131 INT. FEDERAL BUILDING - LOBBY - NIGHT * The hoods and their lawyer smugly walk past a cleaning woman. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 33A. 132 INT. PRECINCT CAPTAIN'S OFFICE - MORNING OPENING ON Agent Neeley's face. Composed, clean-cut, but * intense, wearing a light-colored business suit. PAN TO Agent Halloran -- the same upright, clean-shaven bureau look. The two men are seated to one side of LIEUTENANT FRED STROZAH. 133 NICO, JACKSON, LUKICH AND DEA AND ATF MEN sit and stand in various postures in front of the Lieutenant's desk. LIEUTENANT STROZAH (to Nico, DEA & AIF) -- This is no reflection on the work you officers have done. I feel, and the whole department feels, extremely proud of your initiative and gallantry. That "spare me the horseshit" look on Nico's face. He's fuming. Strozah sees Nico's bitter expression. It's on the others' faces too. LIEUTENANT STROZAH As all of you are well aware, possession of these explosives is a federal offense and under jurisdiction of the F.B.I. Nico's eyes meet Lieutenant Strozah's. There's respect between the two, but it's plainly under a helluva strain. NICO Sir. With all respect to our brothers in the Bureau -- (biting sarcasm; turns to Neeley) * -- That's no answer. It's no answer to why one of the biggest dealers in the city is out on the street now, free as a bird! Agent Neeley stiffens. * LIEUTENANT STROZAH Keep it in your pants, Nico. These men have a job to do, just like us. Nico stifles his outrage. The other cops exchange glances -- upset and angry. Agent Neeley clears his throat. * AGENT NEELEY * Lieutenant, I think these officers are entitled to a fuller explanation. (MORE) ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 34. AGENT NEELEY (CONT'D) They've risked their lives. I understand one man is in the hospital. He speaks to the officers. AGENT NEELEY * What I'm about to say doesn't leave this room. Is that clear? Assent from everyone. AGENT NEELEY * Mr. Salvano has been working for some time in cooperation with certain federal agencies. 134 CLOSE - NICO'S FACE Stunned and furious at this royal fuck-up. AGENT NEELEY (O.S.) * I'm not at liberty to divulge the nature of Mr. Salvano's involvement -- I just learned of its existence myself a few hours ago. But one thing I can tell you -- 135 BACK TO AGENT NEELEY * AGENT NEELEY * Mr. Salvano's role is crucial to an extremely sensitive ongoing investigation. Any further surveillance, harassment, or unauthorized operations against this individual are forbidden. I must order you gentlemen -- (looking straight at Nico) -- with all respect for your work and your courage, to stand down. Lukich shakes his head; Nico is devastated. Jackson takes it all in. CUT TO: 136 INT. POLICE SQUAD ROOM - MORNING OPENING CLOSE ON a desk drawer being opened. Aside from rounds of ammo, notes and an aging eggplant parmigiana sandwich, there are half a dozen hand-labeled audio- cassettes and a small collection of miniaturized bugging devices. Jackson and Lukich watch Nico take out the notes, hand them to Lieutenant Strozah. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 35. LIEUTENANT STROZAH The tapes too. NICO (mocking) That's my Lawrence Welk collection! LIEUTENANT STROZAH I want everything you got on this one. Reluctantly, Nico hands over the tapes. The Lieutenant eyes the bugs and wires. LIEUTENANT STROZAH I know you don't give a shit about yourself, Toscani. (a glance to Jax) But you're gonna put Jackson's ass in a sling, too, with these illegal wires. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 35A. * 136A OTHER SIDE OF SQUAD ROOM Agent Halloran edges up to Jackson, who's grabbing coffee on the far side of the squad room, and watching from there as Nico gives Strozah more of a hard time. AGENT HALLORAN What's the story on your partner, Jackson? Did he learn this style or was he born with a brick up his ass? Jackson checks Halloran out. He's black too and, despite herself, there's a certain rapport. JACKSON He has ethics. Unlike certain others on this case. Halloran watches the illegal bugs and tapes come out of Nico's drawer. AGENT HALLORAN His 'ethics' are gonna cost him his badge and his gun. This "white" talk gives Jackson a pain. She slips into her jive mode. JACKSON You don't wanna catch him without no gun. Halloran's look asks why not? JACKSON 'Cause what he do with his hands... make bullet holes look pretty. Across the room, Nico turns over the tapes. AGENT HALLORAN He bad? JACKSON Bad bad. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 36. 137 INT. PRECINCT HOUSE - STAIRWAY - DAY Nico and Jackson come down the stairs. Jackson has had ample excitement for her last week on the force. JACKSON Is that enough? Can we do something normal now -- like eat lunch? NICO Anything you say, Jax. How about Salvano's? JACKSON Let it be, Nico. 138 EXT. PRECINCT HOUSE - DAY Nico and Jackson's car pulls out into traffic. 139 INT. UNMARKED CAR - PARKED (ALLEY BEHIND SALVANO'S) Jackson and Nico are eating some fast good. Nico reaches to his jacket pocket; takes out a cassette. JACKSON What... you kept his tape, too? Nico already has it in the PLAYER. We hear FRAGMENTS of the telephone tap from the body shop in Spanish and English. Jackson looks frustrated. Nico listens care- fully to what appears to be the taped PHONE CONVERSATION. NICO Poetry, ain't it? 140 EXT. REAR SALVANO'S RESTAURANT - DAY (POV FROM CAR) The pimp (busboy) comes out and dumps a load of garbage. 141 INT. UNMARKED CAR - DAY Nico and Jackson case the restaurant from down the alley. 142 EXT. REAR SALVANO'S - NICO'S POV - DAY From the restaurant door, Salvano and Chi Chi emerge. They get into a black Cadillac and pull out. * NICO (O.S.) And now for some dessert. 143 SERIES OF SHOTS As Nico's car tails Salvano's through various streets. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 37. 144 EXT. OAK STREET Salvano comes out of a fancy flower shop with a bimbo on his arm. He kisses her goodbye and puts her in a cab. NICO (O.S.) And that must be Mrs. Sal. So nice to see married couples still in love. 144A NICO AND JACKSON are hidden, waiting. 144B CHI CHI emerges from a dry cleaner's with a suit on a hanger. * 145 EXT. ST. ELIZABETH'S PARISH CHURCH - DAY Salvano's Caddy pulls up outside the same church where we * saw Nico's son get baptized. Salvano and Chi Chi get out, look both ways up and down the street. Salvano, holding * flowers, makes eye contact with a car down the block. * 146 EXT. STREET UP BLOCK FROM CHURCH - DAY Nico's car backs out of sight around the corner. 147 SIDEWALK IN FRONT OF CHURCH Salvano and Chi Chi, seeing nothing, enter the church. 148 INT. CHURCH - DAY A smattering of older women and men praying. Salvano and Chi Chi stop at the head of the aisle, genuflect to the altar, move in, take seats toward the front. 149 BACK OF CHURCH Nico and Jackson slip in the front door, glide silently into the shadows at the rear of the church. JACKSON This is your mother's church, isn't it? NICO Yeah. But I bet she's never seen these boys in the choir. 150 NICO'S POV Salvano's head is bowed, but Chi Chi is looking around quite carefully. Nico and Jackson fade into the shadows behind the huge pillars. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 37A. 151 SALVANO AND CHI CHI After a few moments, the pair rises. They cross them- selves, start out for the front door. As they walk, they continue to look for something. 152 INT. CHURCH - DAY * Nico and Jackson emerge into a courtyard which reveals a day care center and a rectory. They head toward the front of the building. Jackson, planning on picking up their tail on Salvano, is stoped by Nico. He wants to stay and look around. 38. FATHER GENARRO (O.S.) Nicola! That can't be you in church without the family! Nico turns to see Father Genarro, perspiring in a baggy sweatshirt, a handball glove on his hand. The courtyard alongside the church is marked off as an athletic area. NICO Father Genarro. The priest seizes Nico's hand warmly, smiles at Jackson. FATHER GENARRO This must be your partner in crime. (shakes her hand) I'm Father Genarro. I saw you at the baptismal party. (with a wink to Nico) What

meets

How many times the word 'meets' appears in the text?

with Lucy. Jackson, standing in the doorway, has seen all this. 64 INT. UNMARKED CAR - MOVING - DAY Nico at the wheel has just pulled away from the bakery. Jackson, in the passenger seat, studies her partner for a few moments, shaking her head at the contradictions in this man. Educated, classy, an elegant dresser -- yet underneath an out-and-out wild man. JACKSON I don't get you, Toscani. (beat) What the hell are you doing being a shitheel cop? With your background? For a long moment Nico says nothing. Then, quietly, look- ing straight ahead: NICO When I was overseas, I saw some things. Things that eat your guts out. Things that stay in front of your eyes like they were burned in and branded. He turns to Jackson. NICO You can walk away from them, Jax. You can quit, but you know it's still going on. You try something anyway -- (smiles a moment) -- I know I'm not going to change the world. I can't stop the tonnage coming in, I can't fight the boys behind the desks pushing their buttons -- ANGLE INCLUDING MEAN STREETS OUTSIDE NICO But maybe here, huh? (indicates street) Maybe in my own city, my own neighborhood, on my own block -- maybe here I can do something. He turns a corner. NICO That's why I'm a shitheel cop. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 20A. * 64A INT. POLICE STATION - DAY Behind the desk, a few detectives man the phones. A Latin attorney, ABANDANO, is at the counter. COP (O.S.) You can see your client. As soon as she's through eating her dinner. 65 INT. POLICE LOCKUP - "CAGE" AND HALLWAY - EVENING Hookers, female addicts, etc. in the downtown "cage." Nico has the girl in the red dress and lizard shoes (CARLA DECARLO) out in the hallway adjacent to the lock- up. Nico is Mr. Charm, offering her a heart-shaped box of chocolates. NICO Carla... Carla -- I just want the name of your boyfriend -- CARLA I got 200 boyfriends. The hooker, Carla DeCarlo, slaps the box away, cursing in Spanish. 21. CARLA Pinchi cabron, cabeza colon! Some of the chocolates tumble onto the lockup floor, the detainees snap them up, start munching. The girl con- tinues to spit curses at Nico, gesturing with her hands with Latin flamboyance. Nico grabs her by the elbow, as a jailer opens the lockup door. More curses are being flung at Nico from various females in the cage. Nico heaves Carla in among them. Carla flops down on a bench next to a tall black hooker. MOVE IN ON the black hooker. It's Nico's partner, Jackson, dolled up like a street- walker, playing her undercover role to the hilt. JACKSON (to Nico) Why can't you sons-a-bitches ever treat someone with a little respect? NICO (walking away) Take it easy, sister. JACKSON I ain't your goddamn sister. We ain't got the same mother, motherfucka. Carla fires one final parting salvo of obscenities, then sags back among the women. Carla starts to cry. Jackson comforts her; Carla responds, lets herself be comforted. CUT TO: 66 EXT. DOWNTOWN - FINANCIAL DISTRICT - DAY Jackson, back in her normal daytime wear, exits a building. She gets into Nico's car. 67 INT. CAR - DAY Jackson checks her makeup in the rearview mirror. Nico sits behind the wheel. The two are on some kind of stakeout. JACKSON The lawyer's name is Abandano. He's on the third floor. I got a look at him. I couldn't get how he's connected, but according to Carla, he's a lousy lay. NICO Maybe we can bust him for that. Jackson spots something, gestures subtly out window -- ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 22. 68 EXT. DOWNTOWN BUILDING - DAY A short, slick-looking Latin man in a business suit emerges from the building. JACKSON That's our stud. Nico and Jackson leave their car and follow him on foot. 69 EXT. FINANCIAL DISTRICT - BANK - DAY ABANDANO meets a striking-looking middle-aged woman in front of a stately financial institution. They go in. Jackson remains out on the street, while Nico follows the couple in. 70 LATER Jackson has been waiting, sipping some coffee. Nico emerges from the bank, signaling to his partner to follow him. Abandano and the woman exit from the bank's revol- ving doors and immediately jump into a cab. Nico and Jackson look at each other and step in front of another cab. Nico opens the cab door, flips his badge open, then asks the occupant to leave. Jackson gets in the front seat next to the protesting cabbie. 71 EXT. FEDERAL BUILDING - DAY Abandano and the woman are crossing the plaza as Nico and Jackson run up the block. Near the entrance to the Federal * Building, a small but vocal group of protestors are * gathered, carrying signs and chanting slogans. The frus- * trated cabbie watches them in the background. 72 PLAZA Jackson and Nico watch Abandano and the woman pass the * crowd of demonstrators and enter the building. Jackson acts * indifferent, almost frustrated; Nico keenly senses something. CUT TO: 73 INT. EXPENSIVE RESTAURANT ("BOGOTA") - DAY * The main dining room. No customers, just busboys readying tables for the evening's business. We notice one of the * busboys is the "pimp" Nico found with Lucy. * 74 BOOTH NEAR BACK HALLWAY The owner's table. Stacks of dining checks, a cashbox and calculator, full ashtrays, wine glasses. BAUTISTA SALVANO, a heavyset, swarthy Venezuelan dressed in a tux with the collar open, glowers across the table at a mus- cular, scar-faced Latin busboy -- the kind who looks like he does more for his boss than clean up the tables. The busboy (NARDO) is nervous, apologetic -- ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 23. SALVANO (pissed off) -- I brought you in for your muscles, Nardo, not your mouth. NARDO (scared) I'm sorry, boss. SALVANO Your English is getting good... You're showing it off. Showing it off on the street -- NARDO I keep quiet. I never talk no more -- Salvano glowers at Nardo like he's about to punch him. Instead he reaches over, playfully chokes the busboy -- then releases him, as if all is forgiven. SALVANO Make yourself useful. (indicates empty wine bottle on table) Get downstairs, bring me one of these. (as Nardo stands, starts for back hallway) Then get back to work. 75 INT. RESTAURANT BASEMENT STOREROOM - LATE AFTERNOON Nardo enters at the top of the stairs, radiating relief. He trots down into the empty basement, toward a floor-to- ceiling wine rack. NARDO (to himself) I thought I was dead, man. (whistles with relief) I thought I was fucking dead. He crosses to the wine rack. It's dark, hard to see. He searches for the bottle. Suddenly: a METALLIC sound behind him. Nardo turns -- CHI CHI TESTAMENTE, a wiry, pock-faced Latino, stands in the shadows (it is clear he has been waiting there, hiding) -- holding a small silencer automatic. CHI CHI You were right, cabron. * ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 24. One SHOT between the eyes and Nardo CRASHES backward into the WINE RACK, eyes wide with shock and bewilderment. Chi Chi SHOOTS him AGAIN; Nardo drops like a stone. Coolly, professionally, Chi Chi pumps FOUR more SHOTS into the prone busboy's head. Chi Chi ejects the clip into his palm, unscrews the silencer, holsters the gun. Salvano appears at the top of the stairs. Two busboys are behind him. One of them is the young pimp. The busboys hurry * down, the pimp -- scared shitless but playing it macho-cool. * Salvano comes down the stairs. Chi Chi stands over his work. SALVANO (to busboys) Clean up this mess. CHI CHI * Who knows who else is talking -- * SALVANO * He was a young fool. * 76 BACK IN UPSTAIRS DINING ROOM Salvano and Chi Chi emerge from the basement steps and walk toward their booth. CHI CHI We're crazy waiting for this bullshit 'shipment.' Let me waste the other fucker now. Salvano puts a hand on Chi Chi's shoulder. SALVANO Be patient. This will be done the way it was planned. CUT TO: 77 EXT. BODY AND FENDER SHOP - NIGHT Rusting cyclone fences surround a mud-lot repair yard in a dingy industrial section. Young Lation and black workers finish up for the night; through the dirty, security-barred office window we can see Chi Chi talking on the phone. The lawyer, Abandano, is also there. 78 EXT. ALLEY - REAR OF SHOP - NIGHT Nico finishes connecting a small transmitter which has been hastily wired to the entering phone line. 79 INT. UNMARKED CAR - NIGHT Nico and Jackson in the shadows down the street from the body shop. Nico wears earphones, a small tape recorder on the seat beside him. Jackson does not look happy. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 25. JACKSON Toscani, you're going to have me doing time. NICO Lighten up, Jax. No one's bringing this into court. JACKSON Except against us. NICO I don't give a shit how we do it. I just wanna get there. Jackson gives Nico a dirty look, but stifles her protest. JACKSON I thought you said you were gonna protect me. Cover my butt. Be my guardian angel -- Nico hears something through the earphones. Gestures for silence -- 80 ANGLE THROUGH OFFICE WINDOW Chi Chi listens with increased intensity to something on the phone. He starts writing it down -- 81 BACK TO NICO In unmarked car. He's writing it down too. NICO I got the shipment. * JACKSON What? What's he saying? NICO (scribbling furiously) '... Engine block has cleared customs. Serial number VA-748. Pick up Tuesday, 3 May as authorized.' 82 EXT. BODY SHOP - NIGHT Chi Chi emerges from the office, tucking a scrap of paper into his pocket. Abandano follows. They get into a late-model Lincoln which pulls out onto the street. * 83 EXT. STREET - NIGHT Nico and Jackson's car follows at a discreet distance. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 26. NICO (V.O.) Unit Ten Tango X-ray. I need a vehicle registration I.D. POLICE RADIO (V.O.) Go ahead, please. NICO (V.O.) '86 Lincoln. Illinois 354 Dog '67. * 84 INT. UNMARKED CAR - MOVING - NIGHT Jackson picks up Nico's pad to take down the response. After a moment: POLICE RADIO (V.O.) Vehicle registration follows. Leaseholder: Ramon Testamente, registered alien. Nation of origin: Venezuela. Do you wish criminal record search? NICO (into mike) I want to know when he wipes his * behind. * 85 SERIES OF SHOTS As Nico and Jackson tail the Lincoln out of the industrial zone into a fancier, non-Latin neighborhood. On the sidewalks we glimpse theatergoers, fashionable white couples out on the town. 86 LINCOLN Pulls up to a valet park outside a ton-y restaurant. A sign says: "BOGOTA." * 87 INT. UNMARKED CAR - MOVING Nico and Jackson exchange a glance. JACKSON Salvano? NICO Jackpot. 88 EXT. RESTAURANT - NIGHT Chi Chi and Abandano get out of their car, a valet takes it, Chi Chi enters the restaurant. 89 INT. SALVANO'S RESTAURANT - NIGHT Nico and Jackson enter the main dining room, which we recognize from the scene with Nardo the busboy. 27. The place is packed with fashionable people of all races. A band plays salsa; couples dance. Nico and Jackson pass easily as a hip "uptown" couple. A pretty Latin HOSTESS approaches them. HOSTESS Two for dinner? NICO Two for drinks. They elbow up to the packed bar, standing. Nico squints toward the rear dining room. 90 NICO'S POV - DOWN BAR Looking past numerous patrons, we see Chi Chi whisper something to a waiter and take a seat at a rear table (the same "owner's table" where Salvano sat before.) The waiter hurries off into a back hallway. 91 NICO AND JACKSON - AT BAR Jackson moves to the salsa beat. A BARMAID approaches. JACKSON Gimme something stiff. I need it. BARMAID Who doesn't? Nico's eyes never leave Chi Chi. 92 REAR DINING ROOM From the back hallway Salvano emerges -- in his tux, looking prosperous. He sits down beside Chi Chi and Abandano. A waitress brings two drinks. After a few words, Chi Chi removes the scrap of paper from his pocket, hands it to Salvano. NICO (O.S.) You'll have your engine block next Tuesday, boss. 93 BACK TO NICO AND JACKSON As the Barmaid brings their drinks. Jackson sees her peaceful week to retirement flying out the window. JACKSON Why couldn't it be a week from Tuesday? I could read about it in the paper. Nico grabs her waist, pulls her onto the dance floor, and does a playful twirl. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 28. NICO Cheer up, partner. I'm gonna make you famous. 94 EXT. WHOLESALE MEAT AREA - DAY * Track spurs, greasy streets, parked fork lifts. 94A EXT. ROOF - DAY * Lieutenant Strozah surveys the street traffic. * 95 NICO, JACKSON AND LUKICH The two men, dressed as meat processors in hard hats and bloody white coats, rake cattle guts under the eave of a packing plant. Jackson, dressed like a USDA Inspector and * carrying a clipboard, inspects a few hanging carcasses. JACKSON You missed a few spots, boys. LUKICH I'm takin' it home t'a make kilbasa, boss. Luke casts an impatient glance across the street to a lot with four parked meat trucks. We glimpse two "truckers" keeping low in the shadows of one cab. Down the block a seemingly empty pickup truck is parked in an alley. LUKICH This ain't a bust -- it's a convention. NICO Don't you like company, Luke? (sarcastic) We got all the scouts here -- Drug Enforcement Agency, the Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms -- WALKIE-TALKIE (V.O.) Keep this channel clear, Toscani. We realize Nico, Jackson and Lukich are wired, with mikes out of sight under their coats. Nico glances to the pick- up, near to which three men can be spotted in the alley. Apparently one of them is the walkie-talkie voice. NICO (into mike) This is our channel, dickhead. And our collar. ANOTHER WALKIE-TALKIE (V.O.) That's enough, all of you! Keep this channel clear. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 28A. 96 ANGLE ON MEAT PLANT - DAY Nothing happening. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 29. 97 ANOTHER ANGLE Dead as hell. 98 NICO, LUKICH AND JACKSON Bored, pissed off, tired. Suddenly: 99 BATTERED VAN WITH TWO MEN emerges from a corner, two blocks down. It starts slowly this way. 1ST WALKIE-TALKIE (V.O.) All right. Everyone get their heads outa their ass. The meat truck men duck down out of sight, the pickup men back into the shadows. Nico and Lukich keep raking cow guts. The van passes slowly, checking out the area. JACKSON (sarcastic) '... And so I quit the police department... got myself a steady job -- ' The van accelerates slightly, turns a corner, vanishes. Silence. LUKICH * They spotted me. I'm too good- looking to be a meat slopper. * 1ST WALKIE-TALKIE (V.O.) Will you hot dogs shut up? The van returns. On a cross street. Heading behind the packing plant. NICO * (to Lukich) * You're too ugly. Now a second car appears. The Lincoln. Behind it is an ancient station wagon. Both vehicles take a different cross street, but both heading behind the packing plant. NICO (into hidden mike) Here we go, boys and girls -- (to Jackson) You stay put. * As soon as the two vehicles pass out of sight, Nico and Lukich ditch their rakes, dart into the packing plant. The meat truck men START their TRUCK. 30. The pickup men board their vehicle -- Jackson follows Nico and Luke -- but at a safe distance. 100 INT. PACKING PLANT - DAY Nico and Lukich sprint in a crouch past the blood runoffs, meat cutting tables -- 101 NICO'S POV - RUNNING THROUGH the windows at the rear of the plant, we see the station wagon and the van, pulling up swiftly beside one another, men getting out -- 102 INT. PLANT Nico and Lukich draw their guns, running full-tilt. NICO (into hidden miki) It's going down now. Move! 103 EXT. REAR OF PACKING PLANT - DAY The station wagon men heave their rear door open, the van men start to open their side door. The Lincoln is stopped at a distance. Suddenly -- 104 NICO AND LUKICH burst from the rear door of the packing plant, guns drawn. LUKICH Police! 105 QUICK CUTS - VAN AND STATION WAGON MEN grab for their weapons -- 106 COPS IN MEAT TRUCK AND PICKUP come highballing around both sides of the packing plant -- 107 VAN AND STATION WAGON MEN OPEN FIRE. There is confusion and mayhem; it's not clear who's a cop and who's a criminal. 108 NICO AND LUKICH dive for cover, RETURNING FIRE. The DEA men in one truck also OPEN UP. One of the van men is hit between the eyes. MACHINE GUN FIRE rakes the DEA truck; it spins out of control; flips. Lukich SHOOTS the machine-gunner. LUKICH (shouts; points) Nico! The Lincoln! 31. 109 LINCOLN starts to PEEL OUT. We glimpse Chi Chi in the driver's seat, Salvano on the passenger side. 110 NICO steps in front of the accelerating Lincoln, raises his .45. 111 INT. LINCOLN - DAY Salvano and Chi Chi dive below the dash and continue forward. Salvano, in the passenger seat, raises his GUN; FIRES blindly -- trying to hit Nico. 112 EXT. LINCOLN - DAY Nico UNLOADS his .45 into the windshield and the firewall. The Lincoln keeps coming down the narrow alley. 113 NICO brazenly steps up onto the hood and dives, grabbing onto the roof. 114 INT. LINCOLN - DAY Salvano can't believe it. He screams something in Spanish. He FIRES again, this time through the roof. 115 EXT. LINCOLN - ROOF - DAY Bullet holes appear. Nico narrowly misses being hit. 116 ANOTHER ANGLE - LINCOLN Nico reaches over the side of the car and SMASHES the pas- senger WINDOW with his fist. 117 CLOSEUP - NICO'S HAND Salvano's face is bashed. Nico's huge hand grabs Salvano's throat; he won't let go. 118 CLOSEUP - NICO He hangs on with one hand. 119 CLOSEUP - SALVANO Nico's fingers now dig into Salvano's larynx; he may never talk again. He's gagging. Salvano now points the gun at Chi Chi. Chi Chi makes the decision to stop the car in order to save his boss. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 32. 120 NICO leaps off the roof pulling Salvano past the broken glass, out of the window. 121 SEVERAL POLICE VEHICLES * SCREECH into the lot. Officers pour out, guns drawn, surrounding the Lincoln and the other vehicles. Jackson joins them, weapon in hand. 122 NICO drags Salvano by the neck across the lot to the van, slamming the drug dealer up against the van's side. Lukich, Jackson and Strozah are there, with the DEA cops, * all covering the other men. NICO (to Salvano) How many kilos you got in there, Skivuzo? Salvano couldn't answer if he wanted to. The other cops look at Nico with awe. Lukich whips the van door open, yanks a tarp off the cargo. 123 INT. VAN The engine block sits in a wooden shipping frame, wrapped with industrial plastic. Nico climbs into the van, rips the plastic sheeting off, grabs the wood slats of the shipping frame, tears them off. In the background, ambulances are arriving to care for the wounded cops and criminals. 124 CLOSEUP - ENGINE BLOCK From the cylinder heads emerges a full load, not of drugs, but of plastique tubes labeled U.S. ARMY C-4 HIGH EXPLOSIVE. 125 LUKICH, JACKSON AND OTHER COPS react with surprise and shock. 126 NICO rips open one of tubes and smells it. 127 CLOSE - NICO Confused; frustrated. NICO What kinda fuckin' high is this? CUT TO: ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 33. 128 INT. FBI OFFICE - NIGHT OPENING ON SALVANO, in a chair, looking bruised and swollen, and wearing an expression of fuming indignation. SALVANO -- I'll tell you what this cop is. He's a fucking menace! 129 TWO FBI AGENTS (NEELEY AND HALLORAN) * face Salvano, Chi Chi and the lawyer Abandano (apparently representing Salvano and Chi Chi). Neeley is on the phone. * Pictures of Reagan and Meese are prominent on the wall. SALVANO You see what he did to me?! AGENT HALLORAN Your problem is being handled right now, Mr. Salv -- SALVANO Yeah? Well, it shoulda been handled twelve hours ago. I don't know who's running this outfit, but somebody better get his goddamn wires straight! AGENT NEELEY * (into phone) -- yes, sir... yes, sir, I understand -- SALVANO That maniac should be wearing a number, not a badge. Salvano knows what the call is about. He straightens the tie beneath his bruised neck, assuming the attitude of a respectable citizen who has been unjustly wronged. AGENT NEELEY * (into phone) -- count on it, sir. Right. You'll have our full cooperation. Neeley hangs up. Glances dubiously to Halloran. Then turns * grimly to Salvano, Chi Chi and the lawyer Abandano. AGENT NEELEY * You're free to go. 130 OMITTED 131 INT. FEDERAL BUILDING - LOBBY - NIGHT * The hoods and their lawyer smugly walk past a cleaning woman. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 33A. 132 INT. PRECINCT CAPTAIN'S OFFICE - MORNING OPENING ON Agent Neeley's face. Composed, clean-cut, but * intense, wearing a light-colored business suit. PAN TO Agent Halloran -- the same upright, clean-shaven bureau look. The two men are seated to one side of LIEUTENANT FRED STROZAH. 133 NICO, JACKSON, LUKICH AND DEA AND ATF MEN sit and stand in various postures in front of the Lieutenant's desk. LIEUTENANT STROZAH (to Nico, DEA & AIF) -- This is no reflection on the work you officers have done. I feel, and the whole department feels, extremely proud of your initiative and gallantry. That "spare me the horseshit" look on Nico's face. He's fuming. Strozah sees Nico's bitter expression. It's on the others' faces too. LIEUTENANT STROZAH As all of you are well aware, possession of these explosives is a federal offense and under jurisdiction of the F.B.I. Nico's eyes meet Lieutenant Strozah's. There's respect between the two, but it's plainly under a helluva strain. NICO Sir. With all respect to our brothers in the Bureau -- (biting sarcasm; turns to Neeley) * -- That's no answer. It's no answer to why one of the biggest dealers in the city is out on the street now, free as a bird! Agent Neeley stiffens. * LIEUTENANT STROZAH Keep it in your pants, Nico. These men have a job to do, just like us. Nico stifles his outrage. The other cops exchange glances -- upset and angry. Agent Neeley clears his throat. * AGENT NEELEY * Lieutenant, I think these officers are entitled to a fuller explanation. (MORE) ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 34. AGENT NEELEY (CONT'D) They've risked their lives. I understand one man is in the hospital. He speaks to the officers. AGENT NEELEY * What I'm about to say doesn't leave this room. Is that clear? Assent from everyone. AGENT NEELEY * Mr. Salvano has been working for some time in cooperation with certain federal agencies. 134 CLOSE - NICO'S FACE Stunned and furious at this royal fuck-up. AGENT NEELEY (O.S.) * I'm not at liberty to divulge the nature of Mr. Salvano's involvement -- I just learned of its existence myself a few hours ago. But one thing I can tell you -- 135 BACK TO AGENT NEELEY * AGENT NEELEY * Mr. Salvano's role is crucial to an extremely sensitive ongoing investigation. Any further surveillance, harassment, or unauthorized operations against this individual are forbidden. I must order you gentlemen -- (looking straight at Nico) -- with all respect for your work and your courage, to stand down. Lukich shakes his head; Nico is devastated. Jackson takes it all in. CUT TO: 136 INT. POLICE SQUAD ROOM - MORNING OPENING CLOSE ON a desk drawer being opened. Aside from rounds of ammo, notes and an aging eggplant parmigiana sandwich, there are half a dozen hand-labeled audio- cassettes and a small collection of miniaturized bugging devices. Jackson and Lukich watch Nico take out the notes, hand them to Lieutenant Strozah. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 35. LIEUTENANT STROZAH The tapes too. NICO (mocking) That's my Lawrence Welk collection! LIEUTENANT STROZAH I want everything you got on this one. Reluctantly, Nico hands over the tapes. The Lieutenant eyes the bugs and wires. LIEUTENANT STROZAH I know you don't give a shit about yourself, Toscani. (a glance to Jax) But you're gonna put Jackson's ass in a sling, too, with these illegal wires. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 35A. * 136A OTHER SIDE OF SQUAD ROOM Agent Halloran edges up to Jackson, who's grabbing coffee on the far side of the squad room, and watching from there as Nico gives Strozah more of a hard time. AGENT HALLORAN What's the story on your partner, Jackson? Did he learn this style or was he born with a brick up his ass? Jackson checks Halloran out. He's black too and, despite herself, there's a certain rapport. JACKSON He has ethics. Unlike certain others on this case. Halloran watches the illegal bugs and tapes come out of Nico's drawer. AGENT HALLORAN His 'ethics' are gonna cost him his badge and his gun. This "white" talk gives Jackson a pain. She slips into her jive mode. JACKSON You don't wanna catch him without no gun. Halloran's look asks why not? JACKSON 'Cause what he do with his hands... make bullet holes look pretty. Across the room, Nico turns over the tapes. AGENT HALLORAN He bad? JACKSON Bad bad. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 36. 137 INT. PRECINCT HOUSE - STAIRWAY - DAY Nico and Jackson come down the stairs. Jackson has had ample excitement for her last week on the force. JACKSON Is that enough? Can we do something normal now -- like eat lunch? NICO Anything you say, Jax. How about Salvano's? JACKSON Let it be, Nico. 138 EXT. PRECINCT HOUSE - DAY Nico and Jackson's car pulls out into traffic. 139 INT. UNMARKED CAR - PARKED (ALLEY BEHIND SALVANO'S) Jackson and Nico are eating some fast good. Nico reaches to his jacket pocket; takes out a cassette. JACKSON What... you kept his tape, too? Nico already has it in the PLAYER. We hear FRAGMENTS of the telephone tap from the body shop in Spanish and English. Jackson looks frustrated. Nico listens care- fully to what appears to be the taped PHONE CONVERSATION. NICO Poetry, ain't it? 140 EXT. REAR SALVANO'S RESTAURANT - DAY (POV FROM CAR) The pimp (busboy) comes out and dumps a load of garbage. 141 INT. UNMARKED CAR - DAY Nico and Jackson case the restaurant from down the alley. 142 EXT. REAR SALVANO'S - NICO'S POV - DAY From the restaurant door, Salvano and Chi Chi emerge. They get into a black Cadillac and pull out. * NICO (O.S.) And now for some dessert. 143 SERIES OF SHOTS As Nico's car tails Salvano's through various streets. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 37. 144 EXT. OAK STREET Salvano comes out of a fancy flower shop with a bimbo on his arm. He kisses her goodbye and puts her in a cab. NICO (O.S.) And that must be Mrs. Sal. So nice to see married couples still in love. 144A NICO AND JACKSON are hidden, waiting. 144B CHI CHI emerges from a dry cleaner's with a suit on a hanger. * 145 EXT. ST. ELIZABETH'S PARISH CHURCH - DAY Salvano's Caddy pulls up outside the same church where we * saw Nico's son get baptized. Salvano and Chi Chi get out, look both ways up and down the street. Salvano, holding * flowers, makes eye contact with a car down the block. * 146 EXT. STREET UP BLOCK FROM CHURCH - DAY Nico's car backs out of sight around the corner. 147 SIDEWALK IN FRONT OF CHURCH Salvano and Chi Chi, seeing nothing, enter the church. 148 INT. CHURCH - DAY A smattering of older women and men praying. Salvano and Chi Chi stop at the head of the aisle, genuflect to the altar, move in, take seats toward the front. 149 BACK OF CHURCH Nico and Jackson slip in the front door, glide silently into the shadows at the rear of the church. JACKSON This is your mother's church, isn't it? NICO Yeah. But I bet she's never seen these boys in the choir. 150 NICO'S POV Salvano's head is bowed, but Chi Chi is looking around quite carefully. Nico and Jackson fade into the shadows behind the huge pillars. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 37A. 151 SALVANO AND CHI CHI After a few moments, the pair rises. They cross them- selves, start out for the front door. As they walk, they continue to look for something. 152 INT. CHURCH - DAY * Nico and Jackson emerge into a courtyard which reveals a day care center and a rectory. They head toward the front of the building. Jackson, planning on picking up their tail on Salvano, is stoped by Nico. He wants to stay and look around. 38. FATHER GENARRO (O.S.) Nicola! That can't be you in church without the family! Nico turns to see Father Genarro, perspiring in a baggy sweatshirt, a handball glove on his hand. The courtyard alongside the church is marked off as an athletic area. NICO Father Genarro. The priest seizes Nico's hand warmly, smiles at Jackson. FATHER GENARRO This must be your partner in crime. (shakes her hand) I'm Father Genarro. I saw you at the baptismal party. (with a wink to Nico) What

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How many times the word 'wheel' appears in the text?

with Lucy. Jackson, standing in the doorway, has seen all this. 64 INT. UNMARKED CAR - MOVING - DAY Nico at the wheel has just pulled away from the bakery. Jackson, in the passenger seat, studies her partner for a few moments, shaking her head at the contradictions in this man. Educated, classy, an elegant dresser -- yet underneath an out-and-out wild man. JACKSON I don't get you, Toscani. (beat) What the hell are you doing being a shitheel cop? With your background? For a long moment Nico says nothing. Then, quietly, look- ing straight ahead: NICO When I was overseas, I saw some things. Things that eat your guts out. Things that stay in front of your eyes like they were burned in and branded. He turns to Jackson. NICO You can walk away from them, Jax. You can quit, but you know it's still going on. You try something anyway -- (smiles a moment) -- I know I'm not going to change the world. I can't stop the tonnage coming in, I can't fight the boys behind the desks pushing their buttons -- ANGLE INCLUDING MEAN STREETS OUTSIDE NICO But maybe here, huh? (indicates street) Maybe in my own city, my own neighborhood, on my own block -- maybe here I can do something. He turns a corner. NICO That's why I'm a shitheel cop. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 20A. * 64A INT. POLICE STATION - DAY Behind the desk, a few detectives man the phones. A Latin attorney, ABANDANO, is at the counter. COP (O.S.) You can see your client. As soon as she's through eating her dinner. 65 INT. POLICE LOCKUP - "CAGE" AND HALLWAY - EVENING Hookers, female addicts, etc. in the downtown "cage." Nico has the girl in the red dress and lizard shoes (CARLA DECARLO) out in the hallway adjacent to the lock- up. Nico is Mr. Charm, offering her a heart-shaped box of chocolates. NICO Carla... Carla -- I just want the name of your boyfriend -- CARLA I got 200 boyfriends. The hooker, Carla DeCarlo, slaps the box away, cursing in Spanish. 21. CARLA Pinchi cabron, cabeza colon! Some of the chocolates tumble onto the lockup floor, the detainees snap them up, start munching. The girl con- tinues to spit curses at Nico, gesturing with her hands with Latin flamboyance. Nico grabs her by the elbow, as a jailer opens the lockup door. More curses are being flung at Nico from various females in the cage. Nico heaves Carla in among them. Carla flops down on a bench next to a tall black hooker. MOVE IN ON the black hooker. It's Nico's partner, Jackson, dolled up like a street- walker, playing her undercover role to the hilt. JACKSON (to Nico) Why can't you sons-a-bitches ever treat someone with a little respect? NICO (walking away) Take it easy, sister. JACKSON I ain't your goddamn sister. We ain't got the same mother, motherfucka. Carla fires one final parting salvo of obscenities, then sags back among the women. Carla starts to cry. Jackson comforts her; Carla responds, lets herself be comforted. CUT TO: 66 EXT. DOWNTOWN - FINANCIAL DISTRICT - DAY Jackson, back in her normal daytime wear, exits a building. She gets into Nico's car. 67 INT. CAR - DAY Jackson checks her makeup in the rearview mirror. Nico sits behind the wheel. The two are on some kind of stakeout. JACKSON The lawyer's name is Abandano. He's on the third floor. I got a look at him. I couldn't get how he's connected, but according to Carla, he's a lousy lay. NICO Maybe we can bust him for that. Jackson spots something, gestures subtly out window -- ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 22. 68 EXT. DOWNTOWN BUILDING - DAY A short, slick-looking Latin man in a business suit emerges from the building. JACKSON That's our stud. Nico and Jackson leave their car and follow him on foot. 69 EXT. FINANCIAL DISTRICT - BANK - DAY ABANDANO meets a striking-looking middle-aged woman in front of a stately financial institution. They go in. Jackson remains out on the street, while Nico follows the couple in. 70 LATER Jackson has been waiting, sipping some coffee. Nico emerges from the bank, signaling to his partner to follow him. Abandano and the woman exit from the bank's revol- ving doors and immediately jump into a cab. Nico and Jackson look at each other and step in front of another cab. Nico opens the cab door, flips his badge open, then asks the occupant to leave. Jackson gets in the front seat next to the protesting cabbie. 71 EXT. FEDERAL BUILDING - DAY Abandano and the woman are crossing the plaza as Nico and Jackson run up the block. Near the entrance to the Federal * Building, a small but vocal group of protestors are * gathered, carrying signs and chanting slogans. The frus- * trated cabbie watches them in the background. 72 PLAZA Jackson and Nico watch Abandano and the woman pass the * crowd of demonstrators and enter the building. Jackson acts * indifferent, almost frustrated; Nico keenly senses something. CUT TO: 73 INT. EXPENSIVE RESTAURANT ("BOGOTA") - DAY * The main dining room. No customers, just busboys readying tables for the evening's business. We notice one of the * busboys is the "pimp" Nico found with Lucy. * 74 BOOTH NEAR BACK HALLWAY The owner's table. Stacks of dining checks, a cashbox and calculator, full ashtrays, wine glasses. BAUTISTA SALVANO, a heavyset, swarthy Venezuelan dressed in a tux with the collar open, glowers across the table at a mus- cular, scar-faced Latin busboy -- the kind who looks like he does more for his boss than clean up the tables. The busboy (NARDO) is nervous, apologetic -- ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 23. SALVANO (pissed off) -- I brought you in for your muscles, Nardo, not your mouth. NARDO (scared) I'm sorry, boss. SALVANO Your English is getting good... You're showing it off. Showing it off on the street -- NARDO I keep quiet. I never talk no more -- Salvano glowers at Nardo like he's about to punch him. Instead he reaches over, playfully chokes the busboy -- then releases him, as if all is forgiven. SALVANO Make yourself useful. (indicates empty wine bottle on table) Get downstairs, bring me one of these. (as Nardo stands, starts for back hallway) Then get back to work. 75 INT. RESTAURANT BASEMENT STOREROOM - LATE AFTERNOON Nardo enters at the top of the stairs, radiating relief. He trots down into the empty basement, toward a floor-to- ceiling wine rack. NARDO (to himself) I thought I was dead, man. (whistles with relief) I thought I was fucking dead. He crosses to the wine rack. It's dark, hard to see. He searches for the bottle. Suddenly: a METALLIC sound behind him. Nardo turns -- CHI CHI TESTAMENTE, a wiry, pock-faced Latino, stands in the shadows (it is clear he has been waiting there, hiding) -- holding a small silencer automatic. CHI CHI You were right, cabron. * ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 24. One SHOT between the eyes and Nardo CRASHES backward into the WINE RACK, eyes wide with shock and bewilderment. Chi Chi SHOOTS him AGAIN; Nardo drops like a stone. Coolly, professionally, Chi Chi pumps FOUR more SHOTS into the prone busboy's head. Chi Chi ejects the clip into his palm, unscrews the silencer, holsters the gun. Salvano appears at the top of the stairs. Two busboys are behind him. One of them is the young pimp. The busboys hurry * down, the pimp -- scared shitless but playing it macho-cool. * Salvano comes down the stairs. Chi Chi stands over his work. SALVANO (to busboys) Clean up this mess. CHI CHI * Who knows who else is talking -- * SALVANO * He was a young fool. * 76 BACK IN UPSTAIRS DINING ROOM Salvano and Chi Chi emerge from the basement steps and walk toward their booth. CHI CHI We're crazy waiting for this bullshit 'shipment.' Let me waste the other fucker now. Salvano puts a hand on Chi Chi's shoulder. SALVANO Be patient. This will be done the way it was planned. CUT TO: 77 EXT. BODY AND FENDER SHOP - NIGHT Rusting cyclone fences surround a mud-lot repair yard in a dingy industrial section. Young Lation and black workers finish up for the night; through the dirty, security-barred office window we can see Chi Chi talking on the phone. The lawyer, Abandano, is also there. 78 EXT. ALLEY - REAR OF SHOP - NIGHT Nico finishes connecting a small transmitter which has been hastily wired to the entering phone line. 79 INT. UNMARKED CAR - NIGHT Nico and Jackson in the shadows down the street from the body shop. Nico wears earphones, a small tape recorder on the seat beside him. Jackson does not look happy. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 25. JACKSON Toscani, you're going to have me doing time. NICO Lighten up, Jax. No one's bringing this into court. JACKSON Except against us. NICO I don't give a shit how we do it. I just wanna get there. Jackson gives Nico a dirty look, but stifles her protest. JACKSON I thought you said you were gonna protect me. Cover my butt. Be my guardian angel -- Nico hears something through the earphones. Gestures for silence -- 80 ANGLE THROUGH OFFICE WINDOW Chi Chi listens with increased intensity to something on the phone. He starts writing it down -- 81 BACK TO NICO In unmarked car. He's writing it down too. NICO I got the shipment. * JACKSON What? What's he saying? NICO (scribbling furiously) '... Engine block has cleared customs. Serial number VA-748. Pick up Tuesday, 3 May as authorized.' 82 EXT. BODY SHOP - NIGHT Chi Chi emerges from the office, tucking a scrap of paper into his pocket. Abandano follows. They get into a late-model Lincoln which pulls out onto the street. * 83 EXT. STREET - NIGHT Nico and Jackson's car follows at a discreet distance. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 26. NICO (V.O.) Unit Ten Tango X-ray. I need a vehicle registration I.D. POLICE RADIO (V.O.) Go ahead, please. NICO (V.O.) '86 Lincoln. Illinois 354 Dog '67. * 84 INT. UNMARKED CAR - MOVING - NIGHT Jackson picks up Nico's pad to take down the response. After a moment: POLICE RADIO (V.O.) Vehicle registration follows. Leaseholder: Ramon Testamente, registered alien. Nation of origin: Venezuela. Do you wish criminal record search? NICO (into mike) I want to know when he wipes his * behind. * 85 SERIES OF SHOTS As Nico and Jackson tail the Lincoln out of the industrial zone into a fancier, non-Latin neighborhood. On the sidewalks we glimpse theatergoers, fashionable white couples out on the town. 86 LINCOLN Pulls up to a valet park outside a ton-y restaurant. A sign says: "BOGOTA." * 87 INT. UNMARKED CAR - MOVING Nico and Jackson exchange a glance. JACKSON Salvano? NICO Jackpot. 88 EXT. RESTAURANT - NIGHT Chi Chi and Abandano get out of their car, a valet takes it, Chi Chi enters the restaurant. 89 INT. SALVANO'S RESTAURANT - NIGHT Nico and Jackson enter the main dining room, which we recognize from the scene with Nardo the busboy. 27. The place is packed with fashionable people of all races. A band plays salsa; couples dance. Nico and Jackson pass easily as a hip "uptown" couple. A pretty Latin HOSTESS approaches them. HOSTESS Two for dinner? NICO Two for drinks. They elbow up to the packed bar, standing. Nico squints toward the rear dining room. 90 NICO'S POV - DOWN BAR Looking past numerous patrons, we see Chi Chi whisper something to a waiter and take a seat at a rear table (the same "owner's table" where Salvano sat before.) The waiter hurries off into a back hallway. 91 NICO AND JACKSON - AT BAR Jackson moves to the salsa beat. A BARMAID approaches. JACKSON Gimme something stiff. I need it. BARMAID Who doesn't? Nico's eyes never leave Chi Chi. 92 REAR DINING ROOM From the back hallway Salvano emerges -- in his tux, looking prosperous. He sits down beside Chi Chi and Abandano. A waitress brings two drinks. After a few words, Chi Chi removes the scrap of paper from his pocket, hands it to Salvano. NICO (O.S.) You'll have your engine block next Tuesday, boss. 93 BACK TO NICO AND JACKSON As the Barmaid brings their drinks. Jackson sees her peaceful week to retirement flying out the window. JACKSON Why couldn't it be a week from Tuesday? I could read about it in the paper. Nico grabs her waist, pulls her onto the dance floor, and does a playful twirl. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 28. NICO Cheer up, partner. I'm gonna make you famous. 94 EXT. WHOLESALE MEAT AREA - DAY * Track spurs, greasy streets, parked fork lifts. 94A EXT. ROOF - DAY * Lieutenant Strozah surveys the street traffic. * 95 NICO, JACKSON AND LUKICH The two men, dressed as meat processors in hard hats and bloody white coats, rake cattle guts under the eave of a packing plant. Jackson, dressed like a USDA Inspector and * carrying a clipboard, inspects a few hanging carcasses. JACKSON You missed a few spots, boys. LUKICH I'm takin' it home t'a make kilbasa, boss. Luke casts an impatient glance across the street to a lot with four parked meat trucks. We glimpse two "truckers" keeping low in the shadows of one cab. Down the block a seemingly empty pickup truck is parked in an alley. LUKICH This ain't a bust -- it's a convention. NICO Don't you like company, Luke? (sarcastic) We got all the scouts here -- Drug Enforcement Agency, the Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms -- WALKIE-TALKIE (V.O.) Keep this channel clear, Toscani. We realize Nico, Jackson and Lukich are wired, with mikes out of sight under their coats. Nico glances to the pick- up, near to which three men can be spotted in the alley. Apparently one of them is the walkie-talkie voice. NICO (into mike) This is our channel, dickhead. And our collar. ANOTHER WALKIE-TALKIE (V.O.) That's enough, all of you! Keep this channel clear. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 28A. 96 ANGLE ON MEAT PLANT - DAY Nothing happening. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 29. 97 ANOTHER ANGLE Dead as hell. 98 NICO, LUKICH AND JACKSON Bored, pissed off, tired. Suddenly: 99 BATTERED VAN WITH TWO MEN emerges from a corner, two blocks down. It starts slowly this way. 1ST WALKIE-TALKIE (V.O.) All right. Everyone get their heads outa their ass. The meat truck men duck down out of sight, the pickup men back into the shadows. Nico and Lukich keep raking cow guts. The van passes slowly, checking out the area. JACKSON (sarcastic) '... And so I quit the police department... got myself a steady job -- ' The van accelerates slightly, turns a corner, vanishes. Silence. LUKICH * They spotted me. I'm too good- looking to be a meat slopper. * 1ST WALKIE-TALKIE (V.O.) Will you hot dogs shut up? The van returns. On a cross street. Heading behind the packing plant. NICO * (to Lukich) * You're too ugly. Now a second car appears. The Lincoln. Behind it is an ancient station wagon. Both vehicles take a different cross street, but both heading behind the packing plant. NICO (into hidden mike) Here we go, boys and girls -- (to Jackson) You stay put. * As soon as the two vehicles pass out of sight, Nico and Lukich ditch their rakes, dart into the packing plant. The meat truck men START their TRUCK. 30. The pickup men board their vehicle -- Jackson follows Nico and Luke -- but at a safe distance. 100 INT. PACKING PLANT - DAY Nico and Lukich sprint in a crouch past the blood runoffs, meat cutting tables -- 101 NICO'S POV - RUNNING THROUGH the windows at the rear of the plant, we see the station wagon and the van, pulling up swiftly beside one another, men getting out -- 102 INT. PLANT Nico and Lukich draw their guns, running full-tilt. NICO (into hidden miki) It's going down now. Move! 103 EXT. REAR OF PACKING PLANT - DAY The station wagon men heave their rear door open, the van men start to open their side door. The Lincoln is stopped at a distance. Suddenly -- 104 NICO AND LUKICH burst from the rear door of the packing plant, guns drawn. LUKICH Police! 105 QUICK CUTS - VAN AND STATION WAGON MEN grab for their weapons -- 106 COPS IN MEAT TRUCK AND PICKUP come highballing around both sides of the packing plant -- 107 VAN AND STATION WAGON MEN OPEN FIRE. There is confusion and mayhem; it's not clear who's a cop and who's a criminal. 108 NICO AND LUKICH dive for cover, RETURNING FIRE. The DEA men in one truck also OPEN UP. One of the van men is hit between the eyes. MACHINE GUN FIRE rakes the DEA truck; it spins out of control; flips. Lukich SHOOTS the machine-gunner. LUKICH (shouts; points) Nico! The Lincoln! 31. 109 LINCOLN starts to PEEL OUT. We glimpse Chi Chi in the driver's seat, Salvano on the passenger side. 110 NICO steps in front of the accelerating Lincoln, raises his .45. 111 INT. LINCOLN - DAY Salvano and Chi Chi dive below the dash and continue forward. Salvano, in the passenger seat, raises his GUN; FIRES blindly -- trying to hit Nico. 112 EXT. LINCOLN - DAY Nico UNLOADS his .45 into the windshield and the firewall. The Lincoln keeps coming down the narrow alley. 113 NICO brazenly steps up onto the hood and dives, grabbing onto the roof. 114 INT. LINCOLN - DAY Salvano can't believe it. He screams something in Spanish. He FIRES again, this time through the roof. 115 EXT. LINCOLN - ROOF - DAY Bullet holes appear. Nico narrowly misses being hit. 116 ANOTHER ANGLE - LINCOLN Nico reaches over the side of the car and SMASHES the pas- senger WINDOW with his fist. 117 CLOSEUP - NICO'S HAND Salvano's face is bashed. Nico's huge hand grabs Salvano's throat; he won't let go. 118 CLOSEUP - NICO He hangs on with one hand. 119 CLOSEUP - SALVANO Nico's fingers now dig into Salvano's larynx; he may never talk again. He's gagging. Salvano now points the gun at Chi Chi. Chi Chi makes the decision to stop the car in order to save his boss. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 32. 120 NICO leaps off the roof pulling Salvano past the broken glass, out of the window. 121 SEVERAL POLICE VEHICLES * SCREECH into the lot. Officers pour out, guns drawn, surrounding the Lincoln and the other vehicles. Jackson joins them, weapon in hand. 122 NICO drags Salvano by the neck across the lot to the van, slamming the drug dealer up against the van's side. Lukich, Jackson and Strozah are there, with the DEA cops, * all covering the other men. NICO (to Salvano) How many kilos you got in there, Skivuzo? Salvano couldn't answer if he wanted to. The other cops look at Nico with awe. Lukich whips the van door open, yanks a tarp off the cargo. 123 INT. VAN The engine block sits in a wooden shipping frame, wrapped with industrial plastic. Nico climbs into the van, rips the plastic sheeting off, grabs the wood slats of the shipping frame, tears them off. In the background, ambulances are arriving to care for the wounded cops and criminals. 124 CLOSEUP - ENGINE BLOCK From the cylinder heads emerges a full load, not of drugs, but of plastique tubes labeled U.S. ARMY C-4 HIGH EXPLOSIVE. 125 LUKICH, JACKSON AND OTHER COPS react with surprise and shock. 126 NICO rips open one of tubes and smells it. 127 CLOSE - NICO Confused; frustrated. NICO What kinda fuckin' high is this? CUT TO: ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 33. 128 INT. FBI OFFICE - NIGHT OPENING ON SALVANO, in a chair, looking bruised and swollen, and wearing an expression of fuming indignation. SALVANO -- I'll tell you what this cop is. He's a fucking menace! 129 TWO FBI AGENTS (NEELEY AND HALLORAN) * face Salvano, Chi Chi and the lawyer Abandano (apparently representing Salvano and Chi Chi). Neeley is on the phone. * Pictures of Reagan and Meese are prominent on the wall. SALVANO You see what he did to me?! AGENT HALLORAN Your problem is being handled right now, Mr. Salv -- SALVANO Yeah? Well, it shoulda been handled twelve hours ago. I don't know who's running this outfit, but somebody better get his goddamn wires straight! AGENT NEELEY * (into phone) -- yes, sir... yes, sir, I understand -- SALVANO That maniac should be wearing a number, not a badge. Salvano knows what the call is about. He straightens the tie beneath his bruised neck, assuming the attitude of a respectable citizen who has been unjustly wronged. AGENT NEELEY * (into phone) -- count on it, sir. Right. You'll have our full cooperation. Neeley hangs up. Glances dubiously to Halloran. Then turns * grimly to Salvano, Chi Chi and the lawyer Abandano. AGENT NEELEY * You're free to go. 130 OMITTED 131 INT. FEDERAL BUILDING - LOBBY - NIGHT * The hoods and their lawyer smugly walk past a cleaning woman. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 33A. 132 INT. PRECINCT CAPTAIN'S OFFICE - MORNING OPENING ON Agent Neeley's face. Composed, clean-cut, but * intense, wearing a light-colored business suit. PAN TO Agent Halloran -- the same upright, clean-shaven bureau look. The two men are seated to one side of LIEUTENANT FRED STROZAH. 133 NICO, JACKSON, LUKICH AND DEA AND ATF MEN sit and stand in various postures in front of the Lieutenant's desk. LIEUTENANT STROZAH (to Nico, DEA & AIF) -- This is no reflection on the work you officers have done. I feel, and the whole department feels, extremely proud of your initiative and gallantry. That "spare me the horseshit" look on Nico's face. He's fuming. Strozah sees Nico's bitter expression. It's on the others' faces too. LIEUTENANT STROZAH As all of you are well aware, possession of these explosives is a federal offense and under jurisdiction of the F.B.I. Nico's eyes meet Lieutenant Strozah's. There's respect between the two, but it's plainly under a helluva strain. NICO Sir. With all respect to our brothers in the Bureau -- (biting sarcasm; turns to Neeley) * -- That's no answer. It's no answer to why one of the biggest dealers in the city is out on the street now, free as a bird! Agent Neeley stiffens. * LIEUTENANT STROZAH Keep it in your pants, Nico. These men have a job to do, just like us. Nico stifles his outrage. The other cops exchange glances -- upset and angry. Agent Neeley clears his throat. * AGENT NEELEY * Lieutenant, I think these officers are entitled to a fuller explanation. (MORE) ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 34. AGENT NEELEY (CONT'D) They've risked their lives. I understand one man is in the hospital. He speaks to the officers. AGENT NEELEY * What I'm about to say doesn't leave this room. Is that clear? Assent from everyone. AGENT NEELEY * Mr. Salvano has been working for some time in cooperation with certain federal agencies. 134 CLOSE - NICO'S FACE Stunned and furious at this royal fuck-up. AGENT NEELEY (O.S.) * I'm not at liberty to divulge the nature of Mr. Salvano's involvement -- I just learned of its existence myself a few hours ago. But one thing I can tell you -- 135 BACK TO AGENT NEELEY * AGENT NEELEY * Mr. Salvano's role is crucial to an extremely sensitive ongoing investigation. Any further surveillance, harassment, or unauthorized operations against this individual are forbidden. I must order you gentlemen -- (looking straight at Nico) -- with all respect for your work and your courage, to stand down. Lukich shakes his head; Nico is devastated. Jackson takes it all in. CUT TO: 136 INT. POLICE SQUAD ROOM - MORNING OPENING CLOSE ON a desk drawer being opened. Aside from rounds of ammo, notes and an aging eggplant parmigiana sandwich, there are half a dozen hand-labeled audio- cassettes and a small collection of miniaturized bugging devices. Jackson and Lukich watch Nico take out the notes, hand them to Lieutenant Strozah. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 35. LIEUTENANT STROZAH The tapes too. NICO (mocking) That's my Lawrence Welk collection! LIEUTENANT STROZAH I want everything you got on this one. Reluctantly, Nico hands over the tapes. The Lieutenant eyes the bugs and wires. LIEUTENANT STROZAH I know you don't give a shit about yourself, Toscani. (a glance to Jax) But you're gonna put Jackson's ass in a sling, too, with these illegal wires. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 35A. * 136A OTHER SIDE OF SQUAD ROOM Agent Halloran edges up to Jackson, who's grabbing coffee on the far side of the squad room, and watching from there as Nico gives Strozah more of a hard time. AGENT HALLORAN What's the story on your partner, Jackson? Did he learn this style or was he born with a brick up his ass? Jackson checks Halloran out. He's black too and, despite herself, there's a certain rapport. JACKSON He has ethics. Unlike certain others on this case. Halloran watches the illegal bugs and tapes come out of Nico's drawer. AGENT HALLORAN His 'ethics' are gonna cost him his badge and his gun. This "white" talk gives Jackson a pain. She slips into her jive mode. JACKSON You don't wanna catch him without no gun. Halloran's look asks why not? JACKSON 'Cause what he do with his hands... make bullet holes look pretty. Across the room, Nico turns over the tapes. AGENT HALLORAN He bad? JACKSON Bad bad. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 36. 137 INT. PRECINCT HOUSE - STAIRWAY - DAY Nico and Jackson come down the stairs. Jackson has had ample excitement for her last week on the force. JACKSON Is that enough? Can we do something normal now -- like eat lunch? NICO Anything you say, Jax. How about Salvano's? JACKSON Let it be, Nico. 138 EXT. PRECINCT HOUSE - DAY Nico and Jackson's car pulls out into traffic. 139 INT. UNMARKED CAR - PARKED (ALLEY BEHIND SALVANO'S) Jackson and Nico are eating some fast good. Nico reaches to his jacket pocket; takes out a cassette. JACKSON What... you kept his tape, too? Nico already has it in the PLAYER. We hear FRAGMENTS of the telephone tap from the body shop in Spanish and English. Jackson looks frustrated. Nico listens care- fully to what appears to be the taped PHONE CONVERSATION. NICO Poetry, ain't it? 140 EXT. REAR SALVANO'S RESTAURANT - DAY (POV FROM CAR) The pimp (busboy) comes out and dumps a load of garbage. 141 INT. UNMARKED CAR - DAY Nico and Jackson case the restaurant from down the alley. 142 EXT. REAR SALVANO'S - NICO'S POV - DAY From the restaurant door, Salvano and Chi Chi emerge. They get into a black Cadillac and pull out. * NICO (O.S.) And now for some dessert. 143 SERIES OF SHOTS As Nico's car tails Salvano's through various streets. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 37. 144 EXT. OAK STREET Salvano comes out of a fancy flower shop with a bimbo on his arm. He kisses her goodbye and puts her in a cab. NICO (O.S.) And that must be Mrs. Sal. So nice to see married couples still in love. 144A NICO AND JACKSON are hidden, waiting. 144B CHI CHI emerges from a dry cleaner's with a suit on a hanger. * 145 EXT. ST. ELIZABETH'S PARISH CHURCH - DAY Salvano's Caddy pulls up outside the same church where we * saw Nico's son get baptized. Salvano and Chi Chi get out, look both ways up and down the street. Salvano, holding * flowers, makes eye contact with a car down the block. * 146 EXT. STREET UP BLOCK FROM CHURCH - DAY Nico's car backs out of sight around the corner. 147 SIDEWALK IN FRONT OF CHURCH Salvano and Chi Chi, seeing nothing, enter the church. 148 INT. CHURCH - DAY A smattering of older women and men praying. Salvano and Chi Chi stop at the head of the aisle, genuflect to the altar, move in, take seats toward the front. 149 BACK OF CHURCH Nico and Jackson slip in the front door, glide silently into the shadows at the rear of the church. JACKSON This is your mother's church, isn't it? NICO Yeah. But I bet she's never seen these boys in the choir. 150 NICO'S POV Salvano's head is bowed, but Chi Chi is looking around quite carefully. Nico and Jackson fade into the shadows behind the huge pillars. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 37A. 151 SALVANO AND CHI CHI After a few moments, the pair rises. They cross them- selves, start out for the front door. As they walk, they continue to look for something. 152 INT. CHURCH - DAY * Nico and Jackson emerge into a courtyard which reveals a day care center and a rectory. They head toward the front of the building. Jackson, planning on picking up their tail on Salvano, is stoped by Nico. He wants to stay and look around. 38. FATHER GENARRO (O.S.) Nicola! That can't be you in church without the family! Nico turns to see Father Genarro, perspiring in a baggy sweatshirt, a handball glove on his hand. The courtyard alongside the church is marked off as an athletic area. NICO Father Genarro. The priest seizes Nico's hand warmly, smiles at Jackson. FATHER GENARRO This must be your partner in crime. (shakes her hand) I'm Father Genarro. I saw you at the baptismal party. (with a wink to Nico) What

lucy

How many times the word 'lucy' appears in the text?

with Lucy. Jackson, standing in the doorway, has seen all this. 64 INT. UNMARKED CAR - MOVING - DAY Nico at the wheel has just pulled away from the bakery. Jackson, in the passenger seat, studies her partner for a few moments, shaking her head at the contradictions in this man. Educated, classy, an elegant dresser -- yet underneath an out-and-out wild man. JACKSON I don't get you, Toscani. (beat) What the hell are you doing being a shitheel cop? With your background? For a long moment Nico says nothing. Then, quietly, look- ing straight ahead: NICO When I was overseas, I saw some things. Things that eat your guts out. Things that stay in front of your eyes like they were burned in and branded. He turns to Jackson. NICO You can walk away from them, Jax. You can quit, but you know it's still going on. You try something anyway -- (smiles a moment) -- I know I'm not going to change the world. I can't stop the tonnage coming in, I can't fight the boys behind the desks pushing their buttons -- ANGLE INCLUDING MEAN STREETS OUTSIDE NICO But maybe here, huh? (indicates street) Maybe in my own city, my own neighborhood, on my own block -- maybe here I can do something. He turns a corner. NICO That's why I'm a shitheel cop. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 20A. * 64A INT. POLICE STATION - DAY Behind the desk, a few detectives man the phones. A Latin attorney, ABANDANO, is at the counter. COP (O.S.) You can see your client. As soon as she's through eating her dinner. 65 INT. POLICE LOCKUP - "CAGE" AND HALLWAY - EVENING Hookers, female addicts, etc. in the downtown "cage." Nico has the girl in the red dress and lizard shoes (CARLA DECARLO) out in the hallway adjacent to the lock- up. Nico is Mr. Charm, offering her a heart-shaped box of chocolates. NICO Carla... Carla -- I just want the name of your boyfriend -- CARLA I got 200 boyfriends. The hooker, Carla DeCarlo, slaps the box away, cursing in Spanish. 21. CARLA Pinchi cabron, cabeza colon! Some of the chocolates tumble onto the lockup floor, the detainees snap them up, start munching. The girl con- tinues to spit curses at Nico, gesturing with her hands with Latin flamboyance. Nico grabs her by the elbow, as a jailer opens the lockup door. More curses are being flung at Nico from various females in the cage. Nico heaves Carla in among them. Carla flops down on a bench next to a tall black hooker. MOVE IN ON the black hooker. It's Nico's partner, Jackson, dolled up like a street- walker, playing her undercover role to the hilt. JACKSON (to Nico) Why can't you sons-a-bitches ever treat someone with a little respect? NICO (walking away) Take it easy, sister. JACKSON I ain't your goddamn sister. We ain't got the same mother, motherfucka. Carla fires one final parting salvo of obscenities, then sags back among the women. Carla starts to cry. Jackson comforts her; Carla responds, lets herself be comforted. CUT TO: 66 EXT. DOWNTOWN - FINANCIAL DISTRICT - DAY Jackson, back in her normal daytime wear, exits a building. She gets into Nico's car. 67 INT. CAR - DAY Jackson checks her makeup in the rearview mirror. Nico sits behind the wheel. The two are on some kind of stakeout. JACKSON The lawyer's name is Abandano. He's on the third floor. I got a look at him. I couldn't get how he's connected, but according to Carla, he's a lousy lay. NICO Maybe we can bust him for that. Jackson spots something, gestures subtly out window -- ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 22. 68 EXT. DOWNTOWN BUILDING - DAY A short, slick-looking Latin man in a business suit emerges from the building. JACKSON That's our stud. Nico and Jackson leave their car and follow him on foot. 69 EXT. FINANCIAL DISTRICT - BANK - DAY ABANDANO meets a striking-looking middle-aged woman in front of a stately financial institution. They go in. Jackson remains out on the street, while Nico follows the couple in. 70 LATER Jackson has been waiting, sipping some coffee. Nico emerges from the bank, signaling to his partner to follow him. Abandano and the woman exit from the bank's revol- ving doors and immediately jump into a cab. Nico and Jackson look at each other and step in front of another cab. Nico opens the cab door, flips his badge open, then asks the occupant to leave. Jackson gets in the front seat next to the protesting cabbie. 71 EXT. FEDERAL BUILDING - DAY Abandano and the woman are crossing the plaza as Nico and Jackson run up the block. Near the entrance to the Federal * Building, a small but vocal group of protestors are * gathered, carrying signs and chanting slogans. The frus- * trated cabbie watches them in the background. 72 PLAZA Jackson and Nico watch Abandano and the woman pass the * crowd of demonstrators and enter the building. Jackson acts * indifferent, almost frustrated; Nico keenly senses something. CUT TO: 73 INT. EXPENSIVE RESTAURANT ("BOGOTA") - DAY * The main dining room. No customers, just busboys readying tables for the evening's business. We notice one of the * busboys is the "pimp" Nico found with Lucy. * 74 BOOTH NEAR BACK HALLWAY The owner's table. Stacks of dining checks, a cashbox and calculator, full ashtrays, wine glasses. BAUTISTA SALVANO, a heavyset, swarthy Venezuelan dressed in a tux with the collar open, glowers across the table at a mus- cular, scar-faced Latin busboy -- the kind who looks like he does more for his boss than clean up the tables. The busboy (NARDO) is nervous, apologetic -- ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 23. SALVANO (pissed off) -- I brought you in for your muscles, Nardo, not your mouth. NARDO (scared) I'm sorry, boss. SALVANO Your English is getting good... You're showing it off. Showing it off on the street -- NARDO I keep quiet. I never talk no more -- Salvano glowers at Nardo like he's about to punch him. Instead he reaches over, playfully chokes the busboy -- then releases him, as if all is forgiven. SALVANO Make yourself useful. (indicates empty wine bottle on table) Get downstairs, bring me one of these. (as Nardo stands, starts for back hallway) Then get back to work. 75 INT. RESTAURANT BASEMENT STOREROOM - LATE AFTERNOON Nardo enters at the top of the stairs, radiating relief. He trots down into the empty basement, toward a floor-to- ceiling wine rack. NARDO (to himself) I thought I was dead, man. (whistles with relief) I thought I was fucking dead. He crosses to the wine rack. It's dark, hard to see. He searches for the bottle. Suddenly: a METALLIC sound behind him. Nardo turns -- CHI CHI TESTAMENTE, a wiry, pock-faced Latino, stands in the shadows (it is clear he has been waiting there, hiding) -- holding a small silencer automatic. CHI CHI You were right, cabron. * ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 24. One SHOT between the eyes and Nardo CRASHES backward into the WINE RACK, eyes wide with shock and bewilderment. Chi Chi SHOOTS him AGAIN; Nardo drops like a stone. Coolly, professionally, Chi Chi pumps FOUR more SHOTS into the prone busboy's head. Chi Chi ejects the clip into his palm, unscrews the silencer, holsters the gun. Salvano appears at the top of the stairs. Two busboys are behind him. One of them is the young pimp. The busboys hurry * down, the pimp -- scared shitless but playing it macho-cool. * Salvano comes down the stairs. Chi Chi stands over his work. SALVANO (to busboys) Clean up this mess. CHI CHI * Who knows who else is talking -- * SALVANO * He was a young fool. * 76 BACK IN UPSTAIRS DINING ROOM Salvano and Chi Chi emerge from the basement steps and walk toward their booth. CHI CHI We're crazy waiting for this bullshit 'shipment.' Let me waste the other fucker now. Salvano puts a hand on Chi Chi's shoulder. SALVANO Be patient. This will be done the way it was planned. CUT TO: 77 EXT. BODY AND FENDER SHOP - NIGHT Rusting cyclone fences surround a mud-lot repair yard in a dingy industrial section. Young Lation and black workers finish up for the night; through the dirty, security-barred office window we can see Chi Chi talking on the phone. The lawyer, Abandano, is also there. 78 EXT. ALLEY - REAR OF SHOP - NIGHT Nico finishes connecting a small transmitter which has been hastily wired to the entering phone line. 79 INT. UNMARKED CAR - NIGHT Nico and Jackson in the shadows down the street from the body shop. Nico wears earphones, a small tape recorder on the seat beside him. Jackson does not look happy. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 25. JACKSON Toscani, you're going to have me doing time. NICO Lighten up, Jax. No one's bringing this into court. JACKSON Except against us. NICO I don't give a shit how we do it. I just wanna get there. Jackson gives Nico a dirty look, but stifles her protest. JACKSON I thought you said you were gonna protect me. Cover my butt. Be my guardian angel -- Nico hears something through the earphones. Gestures for silence -- 80 ANGLE THROUGH OFFICE WINDOW Chi Chi listens with increased intensity to something on the phone. He starts writing it down -- 81 BACK TO NICO In unmarked car. He's writing it down too. NICO I got the shipment. * JACKSON What? What's he saying? NICO (scribbling furiously) '... Engine block has cleared customs. Serial number VA-748. Pick up Tuesday, 3 May as authorized.' 82 EXT. BODY SHOP - NIGHT Chi Chi emerges from the office, tucking a scrap of paper into his pocket. Abandano follows. They get into a late-model Lincoln which pulls out onto the street. * 83 EXT. STREET - NIGHT Nico and Jackson's car follows at a discreet distance. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 26. NICO (V.O.) Unit Ten Tango X-ray. I need a vehicle registration I.D. POLICE RADIO (V.O.) Go ahead, please. NICO (V.O.) '86 Lincoln. Illinois 354 Dog '67. * 84 INT. UNMARKED CAR - MOVING - NIGHT Jackson picks up Nico's pad to take down the response. After a moment: POLICE RADIO (V.O.) Vehicle registration follows. Leaseholder: Ramon Testamente, registered alien. Nation of origin: Venezuela. Do you wish criminal record search? NICO (into mike) I want to know when he wipes his * behind. * 85 SERIES OF SHOTS As Nico and Jackson tail the Lincoln out of the industrial zone into a fancier, non-Latin neighborhood. On the sidewalks we glimpse theatergoers, fashionable white couples out on the town. 86 LINCOLN Pulls up to a valet park outside a ton-y restaurant. A sign says: "BOGOTA." * 87 INT. UNMARKED CAR - MOVING Nico and Jackson exchange a glance. JACKSON Salvano? NICO Jackpot. 88 EXT. RESTAURANT - NIGHT Chi Chi and Abandano get out of their car, a valet takes it, Chi Chi enters the restaurant. 89 INT. SALVANO'S RESTAURANT - NIGHT Nico and Jackson enter the main dining room, which we recognize from the scene with Nardo the busboy. 27. The place is packed with fashionable people of all races. A band plays salsa; couples dance. Nico and Jackson pass easily as a hip "uptown" couple. A pretty Latin HOSTESS approaches them. HOSTESS Two for dinner? NICO Two for drinks. They elbow up to the packed bar, standing. Nico squints toward the rear dining room. 90 NICO'S POV - DOWN BAR Looking past numerous patrons, we see Chi Chi whisper something to a waiter and take a seat at a rear table (the same "owner's table" where Salvano sat before.) The waiter hurries off into a back hallway. 91 NICO AND JACKSON - AT BAR Jackson moves to the salsa beat. A BARMAID approaches. JACKSON Gimme something stiff. I need it. BARMAID Who doesn't? Nico's eyes never leave Chi Chi. 92 REAR DINING ROOM From the back hallway Salvano emerges -- in his tux, looking prosperous. He sits down beside Chi Chi and Abandano. A waitress brings two drinks. After a few words, Chi Chi removes the scrap of paper from his pocket, hands it to Salvano. NICO (O.S.) You'll have your engine block next Tuesday, boss. 93 BACK TO NICO AND JACKSON As the Barmaid brings their drinks. Jackson sees her peaceful week to retirement flying out the window. JACKSON Why couldn't it be a week from Tuesday? I could read about it in the paper. Nico grabs her waist, pulls her onto the dance floor, and does a playful twirl. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 28. NICO Cheer up, partner. I'm gonna make you famous. 94 EXT. WHOLESALE MEAT AREA - DAY * Track spurs, greasy streets, parked fork lifts. 94A EXT. ROOF - DAY * Lieutenant Strozah surveys the street traffic. * 95 NICO, JACKSON AND LUKICH The two men, dressed as meat processors in hard hats and bloody white coats, rake cattle guts under the eave of a packing plant. Jackson, dressed like a USDA Inspector and * carrying a clipboard, inspects a few hanging carcasses. JACKSON You missed a few spots, boys. LUKICH I'm takin' it home t'a make kilbasa, boss. Luke casts an impatient glance across the street to a lot with four parked meat trucks. We glimpse two "truckers" keeping low in the shadows of one cab. Down the block a seemingly empty pickup truck is parked in an alley. LUKICH This ain't a bust -- it's a convention. NICO Don't you like company, Luke? (sarcastic) We got all the scouts here -- Drug Enforcement Agency, the Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms -- WALKIE-TALKIE (V.O.) Keep this channel clear, Toscani. We realize Nico, Jackson and Lukich are wired, with mikes out of sight under their coats. Nico glances to the pick- up, near to which three men can be spotted in the alley. Apparently one of them is the walkie-talkie voice. NICO (into mike) This is our channel, dickhead. And our collar. ANOTHER WALKIE-TALKIE (V.O.) That's enough, all of you! Keep this channel clear. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 28A. 96 ANGLE ON MEAT PLANT - DAY Nothing happening. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 29. 97 ANOTHER ANGLE Dead as hell. 98 NICO, LUKICH AND JACKSON Bored, pissed off, tired. Suddenly: 99 BATTERED VAN WITH TWO MEN emerges from a corner, two blocks down. It starts slowly this way. 1ST WALKIE-TALKIE (V.O.) All right. Everyone get their heads outa their ass. The meat truck men duck down out of sight, the pickup men back into the shadows. Nico and Lukich keep raking cow guts. The van passes slowly, checking out the area. JACKSON (sarcastic) '... And so I quit the police department... got myself a steady job -- ' The van accelerates slightly, turns a corner, vanishes. Silence. LUKICH * They spotted me. I'm too good- looking to be a meat slopper. * 1ST WALKIE-TALKIE (V.O.) Will you hot dogs shut up? The van returns. On a cross street. Heading behind the packing plant. NICO * (to Lukich) * You're too ugly. Now a second car appears. The Lincoln. Behind it is an ancient station wagon. Both vehicles take a different cross street, but both heading behind the packing plant. NICO (into hidden mike) Here we go, boys and girls -- (to Jackson) You stay put. * As soon as the two vehicles pass out of sight, Nico and Lukich ditch their rakes, dart into the packing plant. The meat truck men START their TRUCK. 30. The pickup men board their vehicle -- Jackson follows Nico and Luke -- but at a safe distance. 100 INT. PACKING PLANT - DAY Nico and Lukich sprint in a crouch past the blood runoffs, meat cutting tables -- 101 NICO'S POV - RUNNING THROUGH the windows at the rear of the plant, we see the station wagon and the van, pulling up swiftly beside one another, men getting out -- 102 INT. PLANT Nico and Lukich draw their guns, running full-tilt. NICO (into hidden miki) It's going down now. Move! 103 EXT. REAR OF PACKING PLANT - DAY The station wagon men heave their rear door open, the van men start to open their side door. The Lincoln is stopped at a distance. Suddenly -- 104 NICO AND LUKICH burst from the rear door of the packing plant, guns drawn. LUKICH Police! 105 QUICK CUTS - VAN AND STATION WAGON MEN grab for their weapons -- 106 COPS IN MEAT TRUCK AND PICKUP come highballing around both sides of the packing plant -- 107 VAN AND STATION WAGON MEN OPEN FIRE. There is confusion and mayhem; it's not clear who's a cop and who's a criminal. 108 NICO AND LUKICH dive for cover, RETURNING FIRE. The DEA men in one truck also OPEN UP. One of the van men is hit between the eyes. MACHINE GUN FIRE rakes the DEA truck; it spins out of control; flips. Lukich SHOOTS the machine-gunner. LUKICH (shouts; points) Nico! The Lincoln! 31. 109 LINCOLN starts to PEEL OUT. We glimpse Chi Chi in the driver's seat, Salvano on the passenger side. 110 NICO steps in front of the accelerating Lincoln, raises his .45. 111 INT. LINCOLN - DAY Salvano and Chi Chi dive below the dash and continue forward. Salvano, in the passenger seat, raises his GUN; FIRES blindly -- trying to hit Nico. 112 EXT. LINCOLN - DAY Nico UNLOADS his .45 into the windshield and the firewall. The Lincoln keeps coming down the narrow alley. 113 NICO brazenly steps up onto the hood and dives, grabbing onto the roof. 114 INT. LINCOLN - DAY Salvano can't believe it. He screams something in Spanish. He FIRES again, this time through the roof. 115 EXT. LINCOLN - ROOF - DAY Bullet holes appear. Nico narrowly misses being hit. 116 ANOTHER ANGLE - LINCOLN Nico reaches over the side of the car and SMASHES the pas- senger WINDOW with his fist. 117 CLOSEUP - NICO'S HAND Salvano's face is bashed. Nico's huge hand grabs Salvano's throat; he won't let go. 118 CLOSEUP - NICO He hangs on with one hand. 119 CLOSEUP - SALVANO Nico's fingers now dig into Salvano's larynx; he may never talk again. He's gagging. Salvano now points the gun at Chi Chi. Chi Chi makes the decision to stop the car in order to save his boss. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 32. 120 NICO leaps off the roof pulling Salvano past the broken glass, out of the window. 121 SEVERAL POLICE VEHICLES * SCREECH into the lot. Officers pour out, guns drawn, surrounding the Lincoln and the other vehicles. Jackson joins them, weapon in hand. 122 NICO drags Salvano by the neck across the lot to the van, slamming the drug dealer up against the van's side. Lukich, Jackson and Strozah are there, with the DEA cops, * all covering the other men. NICO (to Salvano) How many kilos you got in there, Skivuzo? Salvano couldn't answer if he wanted to. The other cops look at Nico with awe. Lukich whips the van door open, yanks a tarp off the cargo. 123 INT. VAN The engine block sits in a wooden shipping frame, wrapped with industrial plastic. Nico climbs into the van, rips the plastic sheeting off, grabs the wood slats of the shipping frame, tears them off. In the background, ambulances are arriving to care for the wounded cops and criminals. 124 CLOSEUP - ENGINE BLOCK From the cylinder heads emerges a full load, not of drugs, but of plastique tubes labeled U.S. ARMY C-4 HIGH EXPLOSIVE. 125 LUKICH, JACKSON AND OTHER COPS react with surprise and shock. 126 NICO rips open one of tubes and smells it. 127 CLOSE - NICO Confused; frustrated. NICO What kinda fuckin' high is this? CUT TO: ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 33. 128 INT. FBI OFFICE - NIGHT OPENING ON SALVANO, in a chair, looking bruised and swollen, and wearing an expression of fuming indignation. SALVANO -- I'll tell you what this cop is. He's a fucking menace! 129 TWO FBI AGENTS (NEELEY AND HALLORAN) * face Salvano, Chi Chi and the lawyer Abandano (apparently representing Salvano and Chi Chi). Neeley is on the phone. * Pictures of Reagan and Meese are prominent on the wall. SALVANO You see what he did to me?! AGENT HALLORAN Your problem is being handled right now, Mr. Salv -- SALVANO Yeah? Well, it shoulda been handled twelve hours ago. I don't know who's running this outfit, but somebody better get his goddamn wires straight! AGENT NEELEY * (into phone) -- yes, sir... yes, sir, I understand -- SALVANO That maniac should be wearing a number, not a badge. Salvano knows what the call is about. He straightens the tie beneath his bruised neck, assuming the attitude of a respectable citizen who has been unjustly wronged. AGENT NEELEY * (into phone) -- count on it, sir. Right. You'll have our full cooperation. Neeley hangs up. Glances dubiously to Halloran. Then turns * grimly to Salvano, Chi Chi and the lawyer Abandano. AGENT NEELEY * You're free to go. 130 OMITTED 131 INT. FEDERAL BUILDING - LOBBY - NIGHT * The hoods and their lawyer smugly walk past a cleaning woman. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 33A. 132 INT. PRECINCT CAPTAIN'S OFFICE - MORNING OPENING ON Agent Neeley's face. Composed, clean-cut, but * intense, wearing a light-colored business suit. PAN TO Agent Halloran -- the same upright, clean-shaven bureau look. The two men are seated to one side of LIEUTENANT FRED STROZAH. 133 NICO, JACKSON, LUKICH AND DEA AND ATF MEN sit and stand in various postures in front of the Lieutenant's desk. LIEUTENANT STROZAH (to Nico, DEA & AIF) -- This is no reflection on the work you officers have done. I feel, and the whole department feels, extremely proud of your initiative and gallantry. That "spare me the horseshit" look on Nico's face. He's fuming. Strozah sees Nico's bitter expression. It's on the others' faces too. LIEUTENANT STROZAH As all of you are well aware, possession of these explosives is a federal offense and under jurisdiction of the F.B.I. Nico's eyes meet Lieutenant Strozah's. There's respect between the two, but it's plainly under a helluva strain. NICO Sir. With all respect to our brothers in the Bureau -- (biting sarcasm; turns to Neeley) * -- That's no answer. It's no answer to why one of the biggest dealers in the city is out on the street now, free as a bird! Agent Neeley stiffens. * LIEUTENANT STROZAH Keep it in your pants, Nico. These men have a job to do, just like us. Nico stifles his outrage. The other cops exchange glances -- upset and angry. Agent Neeley clears his throat. * AGENT NEELEY * Lieutenant, I think these officers are entitled to a fuller explanation. (MORE) ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 34. AGENT NEELEY (CONT'D) They've risked their lives. I understand one man is in the hospital. He speaks to the officers. AGENT NEELEY * What I'm about to say doesn't leave this room. Is that clear? Assent from everyone. AGENT NEELEY * Mr. Salvano has been working for some time in cooperation with certain federal agencies. 134 CLOSE - NICO'S FACE Stunned and furious at this royal fuck-up. AGENT NEELEY (O.S.) * I'm not at liberty to divulge the nature of Mr. Salvano's involvement -- I just learned of its existence myself a few hours ago. But one thing I can tell you -- 135 BACK TO AGENT NEELEY * AGENT NEELEY * Mr. Salvano's role is crucial to an extremely sensitive ongoing investigation. Any further surveillance, harassment, or unauthorized operations against this individual are forbidden. I must order you gentlemen -- (looking straight at Nico) -- with all respect for your work and your courage, to stand down. Lukich shakes his head; Nico is devastated. Jackson takes it all in. CUT TO: 136 INT. POLICE SQUAD ROOM - MORNING OPENING CLOSE ON a desk drawer being opened. Aside from rounds of ammo, notes and an aging eggplant parmigiana sandwich, there are half a dozen hand-labeled audio- cassettes and a small collection of miniaturized bugging devices. Jackson and Lukich watch Nico take out the notes, hand them to Lieutenant Strozah. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 35. LIEUTENANT STROZAH The tapes too. NICO (mocking) That's my Lawrence Welk collection! LIEUTENANT STROZAH I want everything you got on this one. Reluctantly, Nico hands over the tapes. The Lieutenant eyes the bugs and wires. LIEUTENANT STROZAH I know you don't give a shit about yourself, Toscani. (a glance to Jax) But you're gonna put Jackson's ass in a sling, too, with these illegal wires. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 35A. * 136A OTHER SIDE OF SQUAD ROOM Agent Halloran edges up to Jackson, who's grabbing coffee on the far side of the squad room, and watching from there as Nico gives Strozah more of a hard time. AGENT HALLORAN What's the story on your partner, Jackson? Did he learn this style or was he born with a brick up his ass? Jackson checks Halloran out. He's black too and, despite herself, there's a certain rapport. JACKSON He has ethics. Unlike certain others on this case. Halloran watches the illegal bugs and tapes come out of Nico's drawer. AGENT HALLORAN His 'ethics' are gonna cost him his badge and his gun. This "white" talk gives Jackson a pain. She slips into her jive mode. JACKSON You don't wanna catch him without no gun. Halloran's look asks why not? JACKSON 'Cause what he do with his hands... make bullet holes look pretty. Across the room, Nico turns over the tapes. AGENT HALLORAN He bad? JACKSON Bad bad. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 36. 137 INT. PRECINCT HOUSE - STAIRWAY - DAY Nico and Jackson come down the stairs. Jackson has had ample excitement for her last week on the force. JACKSON Is that enough? Can we do something normal now -- like eat lunch? NICO Anything you say, Jax. How about Salvano's? JACKSON Let it be, Nico. 138 EXT. PRECINCT HOUSE - DAY Nico and Jackson's car pulls out into traffic. 139 INT. UNMARKED CAR - PARKED (ALLEY BEHIND SALVANO'S) Jackson and Nico are eating some fast good. Nico reaches to his jacket pocket; takes out a cassette. JACKSON What... you kept his tape, too? Nico already has it in the PLAYER. We hear FRAGMENTS of the telephone tap from the body shop in Spanish and English. Jackson looks frustrated. Nico listens care- fully to what appears to be the taped PHONE CONVERSATION. NICO Poetry, ain't it? 140 EXT. REAR SALVANO'S RESTAURANT - DAY (POV FROM CAR) The pimp (busboy) comes out and dumps a load of garbage. 141 INT. UNMARKED CAR - DAY Nico and Jackson case the restaurant from down the alley. 142 EXT. REAR SALVANO'S - NICO'S POV - DAY From the restaurant door, Salvano and Chi Chi emerge. They get into a black Cadillac and pull out. * NICO (O.S.) And now for some dessert. 143 SERIES OF SHOTS As Nico's car tails Salvano's through various streets. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 37. 144 EXT. OAK STREET Salvano comes out of a fancy flower shop with a bimbo on his arm. He kisses her goodbye and puts her in a cab. NICO (O.S.) And that must be Mrs. Sal. So nice to see married couples still in love. 144A NICO AND JACKSON are hidden, waiting. 144B CHI CHI emerges from a dry cleaner's with a suit on a hanger. * 145 EXT. ST. ELIZABETH'S PARISH CHURCH - DAY Salvano's Caddy pulls up outside the same church where we * saw Nico's son get baptized. Salvano and Chi Chi get out, look both ways up and down the street. Salvano, holding * flowers, makes eye contact with a car down the block. * 146 EXT. STREET UP BLOCK FROM CHURCH - DAY Nico's car backs out of sight around the corner. 147 SIDEWALK IN FRONT OF CHURCH Salvano and Chi Chi, seeing nothing, enter the church. 148 INT. CHURCH - DAY A smattering of older women and men praying. Salvano and Chi Chi stop at the head of the aisle, genuflect to the altar, move in, take seats toward the front. 149 BACK OF CHURCH Nico and Jackson slip in the front door, glide silently into the shadows at the rear of the church. JACKSON This is your mother's church, isn't it? NICO Yeah. But I bet she's never seen these boys in the choir. 150 NICO'S POV Salvano's head is bowed, but Chi Chi is looking around quite carefully. Nico and Jackson fade into the shadows behind the huge pillars. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 37A. 151 SALVANO AND CHI CHI After a few moments, the pair rises. They cross them- selves, start out for the front door. As they walk, they continue to look for something. 152 INT. CHURCH - DAY * Nico and Jackson emerge into a courtyard which reveals a day care center and a rectory. They head toward the front of the building. Jackson, planning on picking up their tail on Salvano, is stoped by Nico. He wants to stay and look around. 38. FATHER GENARRO (O.S.) Nicola! That can't be you in church without the family! Nico turns to see Father Genarro, perspiring in a baggy sweatshirt, a handball glove on his hand. The courtyard alongside the church is marked off as an athletic area. NICO Father Genarro. The priest seizes Nico's hand warmly, smiles at Jackson. FATHER GENARRO This must be your partner in crime. (shakes her hand) I'm Father Genarro. I saw you at the baptismal party. (with a wink to Nico) What

things

How many times the word 'things' appears in the text?

with Lucy. Jackson, standing in the doorway, has seen all this. 64 INT. UNMARKED CAR - MOVING - DAY Nico at the wheel has just pulled away from the bakery. Jackson, in the passenger seat, studies her partner for a few moments, shaking her head at the contradictions in this man. Educated, classy, an elegant dresser -- yet underneath an out-and-out wild man. JACKSON I don't get you, Toscani. (beat) What the hell are you doing being a shitheel cop? With your background? For a long moment Nico says nothing. Then, quietly, look- ing straight ahead: NICO When I was overseas, I saw some things. Things that eat your guts out. Things that stay in front of your eyes like they were burned in and branded. He turns to Jackson. NICO You can walk away from them, Jax. You can quit, but you know it's still going on. You try something anyway -- (smiles a moment) -- I know I'm not going to change the world. I can't stop the tonnage coming in, I can't fight the boys behind the desks pushing their buttons -- ANGLE INCLUDING MEAN STREETS OUTSIDE NICO But maybe here, huh? (indicates street) Maybe in my own city, my own neighborhood, on my own block -- maybe here I can do something. He turns a corner. NICO That's why I'm a shitheel cop. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 20A. * 64A INT. POLICE STATION - DAY Behind the desk, a few detectives man the phones. A Latin attorney, ABANDANO, is at the counter. COP (O.S.) You can see your client. As soon as she's through eating her dinner. 65 INT. POLICE LOCKUP - "CAGE" AND HALLWAY - EVENING Hookers, female addicts, etc. in the downtown "cage." Nico has the girl in the red dress and lizard shoes (CARLA DECARLO) out in the hallway adjacent to the lock- up. Nico is Mr. Charm, offering her a heart-shaped box of chocolates. NICO Carla... Carla -- I just want the name of your boyfriend -- CARLA I got 200 boyfriends. The hooker, Carla DeCarlo, slaps the box away, cursing in Spanish. 21. CARLA Pinchi cabron, cabeza colon! Some of the chocolates tumble onto the lockup floor, the detainees snap them up, start munching. The girl con- tinues to spit curses at Nico, gesturing with her hands with Latin flamboyance. Nico grabs her by the elbow, as a jailer opens the lockup door. More curses are being flung at Nico from various females in the cage. Nico heaves Carla in among them. Carla flops down on a bench next to a tall black hooker. MOVE IN ON the black hooker. It's Nico's partner, Jackson, dolled up like a street- walker, playing her undercover role to the hilt. JACKSON (to Nico) Why can't you sons-a-bitches ever treat someone with a little respect? NICO (walking away) Take it easy, sister. JACKSON I ain't your goddamn sister. We ain't got the same mother, motherfucka. Carla fires one final parting salvo of obscenities, then sags back among the women. Carla starts to cry. Jackson comforts her; Carla responds, lets herself be comforted. CUT TO: 66 EXT. DOWNTOWN - FINANCIAL DISTRICT - DAY Jackson, back in her normal daytime wear, exits a building. She gets into Nico's car. 67 INT. CAR - DAY Jackson checks her makeup in the rearview mirror. Nico sits behind the wheel. The two are on some kind of stakeout. JACKSON The lawyer's name is Abandano. He's on the third floor. I got a look at him. I couldn't get how he's connected, but according to Carla, he's a lousy lay. NICO Maybe we can bust him for that. Jackson spots something, gestures subtly out window -- ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 22. 68 EXT. DOWNTOWN BUILDING - DAY A short, slick-looking Latin man in a business suit emerges from the building. JACKSON That's our stud. Nico and Jackson leave their car and follow him on foot. 69 EXT. FINANCIAL DISTRICT - BANK - DAY ABANDANO meets a striking-looking middle-aged woman in front of a stately financial institution. They go in. Jackson remains out on the street, while Nico follows the couple in. 70 LATER Jackson has been waiting, sipping some coffee. Nico emerges from the bank, signaling to his partner to follow him. Abandano and the woman exit from the bank's revol- ving doors and immediately jump into a cab. Nico and Jackson look at each other and step in front of another cab. Nico opens the cab door, flips his badge open, then asks the occupant to leave. Jackson gets in the front seat next to the protesting cabbie. 71 EXT. FEDERAL BUILDING - DAY Abandano and the woman are crossing the plaza as Nico and Jackson run up the block. Near the entrance to the Federal * Building, a small but vocal group of protestors are * gathered, carrying signs and chanting slogans. The frus- * trated cabbie watches them in the background. 72 PLAZA Jackson and Nico watch Abandano and the woman pass the * crowd of demonstrators and enter the building. Jackson acts * indifferent, almost frustrated; Nico keenly senses something. CUT TO: 73 INT. EXPENSIVE RESTAURANT ("BOGOTA") - DAY * The main dining room. No customers, just busboys readying tables for the evening's business. We notice one of the * busboys is the "pimp" Nico found with Lucy. * 74 BOOTH NEAR BACK HALLWAY The owner's table. Stacks of dining checks, a cashbox and calculator, full ashtrays, wine glasses. BAUTISTA SALVANO, a heavyset, swarthy Venezuelan dressed in a tux with the collar open, glowers across the table at a mus- cular, scar-faced Latin busboy -- the kind who looks like he does more for his boss than clean up the tables. The busboy (NARDO) is nervous, apologetic -- ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 23. SALVANO (pissed off) -- I brought you in for your muscles, Nardo, not your mouth. NARDO (scared) I'm sorry, boss. SALVANO Your English is getting good... You're showing it off. Showing it off on the street -- NARDO I keep quiet. I never talk no more -- Salvano glowers at Nardo like he's about to punch him. Instead he reaches over, playfully chokes the busboy -- then releases him, as if all is forgiven. SALVANO Make yourself useful. (indicates empty wine bottle on table) Get downstairs, bring me one of these. (as Nardo stands, starts for back hallway) Then get back to work. 75 INT. RESTAURANT BASEMENT STOREROOM - LATE AFTERNOON Nardo enters at the top of the stairs, radiating relief. He trots down into the empty basement, toward a floor-to- ceiling wine rack. NARDO (to himself) I thought I was dead, man. (whistles with relief) I thought I was fucking dead. He crosses to the wine rack. It's dark, hard to see. He searches for the bottle. Suddenly: a METALLIC sound behind him. Nardo turns -- CHI CHI TESTAMENTE, a wiry, pock-faced Latino, stands in the shadows (it is clear he has been waiting there, hiding) -- holding a small silencer automatic. CHI CHI You were right, cabron. * ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 24. One SHOT between the eyes and Nardo CRASHES backward into the WINE RACK, eyes wide with shock and bewilderment. Chi Chi SHOOTS him AGAIN; Nardo drops like a stone. Coolly, professionally, Chi Chi pumps FOUR more SHOTS into the prone busboy's head. Chi Chi ejects the clip into his palm, unscrews the silencer, holsters the gun. Salvano appears at the top of the stairs. Two busboys are behind him. One of them is the young pimp. The busboys hurry * down, the pimp -- scared shitless but playing it macho-cool. * Salvano comes down the stairs. Chi Chi stands over his work. SALVANO (to busboys) Clean up this mess. CHI CHI * Who knows who else is talking -- * SALVANO * He was a young fool. * 76 BACK IN UPSTAIRS DINING ROOM Salvano and Chi Chi emerge from the basement steps and walk toward their booth. CHI CHI We're crazy waiting for this bullshit 'shipment.' Let me waste the other fucker now. Salvano puts a hand on Chi Chi's shoulder. SALVANO Be patient. This will be done the way it was planned. CUT TO: 77 EXT. BODY AND FENDER SHOP - NIGHT Rusting cyclone fences surround a mud-lot repair yard in a dingy industrial section. Young Lation and black workers finish up for the night; through the dirty, security-barred office window we can see Chi Chi talking on the phone. The lawyer, Abandano, is also there. 78 EXT. ALLEY - REAR OF SHOP - NIGHT Nico finishes connecting a small transmitter which has been hastily wired to the entering phone line. 79 INT. UNMARKED CAR - NIGHT Nico and Jackson in the shadows down the street from the body shop. Nico wears earphones, a small tape recorder on the seat beside him. Jackson does not look happy. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 25. JACKSON Toscani, you're going to have me doing time. NICO Lighten up, Jax. No one's bringing this into court. JACKSON Except against us. NICO I don't give a shit how we do it. I just wanna get there. Jackson gives Nico a dirty look, but stifles her protest. JACKSON I thought you said you were gonna protect me. Cover my butt. Be my guardian angel -- Nico hears something through the earphones. Gestures for silence -- 80 ANGLE THROUGH OFFICE WINDOW Chi Chi listens with increased intensity to something on the phone. He starts writing it down -- 81 BACK TO NICO In unmarked car. He's writing it down too. NICO I got the shipment. * JACKSON What? What's he saying? NICO (scribbling furiously) '... Engine block has cleared customs. Serial number VA-748. Pick up Tuesday, 3 May as authorized.' 82 EXT. BODY SHOP - NIGHT Chi Chi emerges from the office, tucking a scrap of paper into his pocket. Abandano follows. They get into a late-model Lincoln which pulls out onto the street. * 83 EXT. STREET - NIGHT Nico and Jackson's car follows at a discreet distance. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 26. NICO (V.O.) Unit Ten Tango X-ray. I need a vehicle registration I.D. POLICE RADIO (V.O.) Go ahead, please. NICO (V.O.) '86 Lincoln. Illinois 354 Dog '67. * 84 INT. UNMARKED CAR - MOVING - NIGHT Jackson picks up Nico's pad to take down the response. After a moment: POLICE RADIO (V.O.) Vehicle registration follows. Leaseholder: Ramon Testamente, registered alien. Nation of origin: Venezuela. Do you wish criminal record search? NICO (into mike) I want to know when he wipes his * behind. * 85 SERIES OF SHOTS As Nico and Jackson tail the Lincoln out of the industrial zone into a fancier, non-Latin neighborhood. On the sidewalks we glimpse theatergoers, fashionable white couples out on the town. 86 LINCOLN Pulls up to a valet park outside a ton-y restaurant. A sign says: "BOGOTA." * 87 INT. UNMARKED CAR - MOVING Nico and Jackson exchange a glance. JACKSON Salvano? NICO Jackpot. 88 EXT. RESTAURANT - NIGHT Chi Chi and Abandano get out of their car, a valet takes it, Chi Chi enters the restaurant. 89 INT. SALVANO'S RESTAURANT - NIGHT Nico and Jackson enter the main dining room, which we recognize from the scene with Nardo the busboy. 27. The place is packed with fashionable people of all races. A band plays salsa; couples dance. Nico and Jackson pass easily as a hip "uptown" couple. A pretty Latin HOSTESS approaches them. HOSTESS Two for dinner? NICO Two for drinks. They elbow up to the packed bar, standing. Nico squints toward the rear dining room. 90 NICO'S POV - DOWN BAR Looking past numerous patrons, we see Chi Chi whisper something to a waiter and take a seat at a rear table (the same "owner's table" where Salvano sat before.) The waiter hurries off into a back hallway. 91 NICO AND JACKSON - AT BAR Jackson moves to the salsa beat. A BARMAID approaches. JACKSON Gimme something stiff. I need it. BARMAID Who doesn't? Nico's eyes never leave Chi Chi. 92 REAR DINING ROOM From the back hallway Salvano emerges -- in his tux, looking prosperous. He sits down beside Chi Chi and Abandano. A waitress brings two drinks. After a few words, Chi Chi removes the scrap of paper from his pocket, hands it to Salvano. NICO (O.S.) You'll have your engine block next Tuesday, boss. 93 BACK TO NICO AND JACKSON As the Barmaid brings their drinks. Jackson sees her peaceful week to retirement flying out the window. JACKSON Why couldn't it be a week from Tuesday? I could read about it in the paper. Nico grabs her waist, pulls her onto the dance floor, and does a playful twirl. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 28. NICO Cheer up, partner. I'm gonna make you famous. 94 EXT. WHOLESALE MEAT AREA - DAY * Track spurs, greasy streets, parked fork lifts. 94A EXT. ROOF - DAY * Lieutenant Strozah surveys the street traffic. * 95 NICO, JACKSON AND LUKICH The two men, dressed as meat processors in hard hats and bloody white coats, rake cattle guts under the eave of a packing plant. Jackson, dressed like a USDA Inspector and * carrying a clipboard, inspects a few hanging carcasses. JACKSON You missed a few spots, boys. LUKICH I'm takin' it home t'a make kilbasa, boss. Luke casts an impatient glance across the street to a lot with four parked meat trucks. We glimpse two "truckers" keeping low in the shadows of one cab. Down the block a seemingly empty pickup truck is parked in an alley. LUKICH This ain't a bust -- it's a convention. NICO Don't you like company, Luke? (sarcastic) We got all the scouts here -- Drug Enforcement Agency, the Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms -- WALKIE-TALKIE (V.O.) Keep this channel clear, Toscani. We realize Nico, Jackson and Lukich are wired, with mikes out of sight under their coats. Nico glances to the pick- up, near to which three men can be spotted in the alley. Apparently one of them is the walkie-talkie voice. NICO (into mike) This is our channel, dickhead. And our collar. ANOTHER WALKIE-TALKIE (V.O.) That's enough, all of you! Keep this channel clear. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 28A. 96 ANGLE ON MEAT PLANT - DAY Nothing happening. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 29. 97 ANOTHER ANGLE Dead as hell. 98 NICO, LUKICH AND JACKSON Bored, pissed off, tired. Suddenly: 99 BATTERED VAN WITH TWO MEN emerges from a corner, two blocks down. It starts slowly this way. 1ST WALKIE-TALKIE (V.O.) All right. Everyone get their heads outa their ass. The meat truck men duck down out of sight, the pickup men back into the shadows. Nico and Lukich keep raking cow guts. The van passes slowly, checking out the area. JACKSON (sarcastic) '... And so I quit the police department... got myself a steady job -- ' The van accelerates slightly, turns a corner, vanishes. Silence. LUKICH * They spotted me. I'm too good- looking to be a meat slopper. * 1ST WALKIE-TALKIE (V.O.) Will you hot dogs shut up? The van returns. On a cross street. Heading behind the packing plant. NICO * (to Lukich) * You're too ugly. Now a second car appears. The Lincoln. Behind it is an ancient station wagon. Both vehicles take a different cross street, but both heading behind the packing plant. NICO (into hidden mike) Here we go, boys and girls -- (to Jackson) You stay put. * As soon as the two vehicles pass out of sight, Nico and Lukich ditch their rakes, dart into the packing plant. The meat truck men START their TRUCK. 30. The pickup men board their vehicle -- Jackson follows Nico and Luke -- but at a safe distance. 100 INT. PACKING PLANT - DAY Nico and Lukich sprint in a crouch past the blood runoffs, meat cutting tables -- 101 NICO'S POV - RUNNING THROUGH the windows at the rear of the plant, we see the station wagon and the van, pulling up swiftly beside one another, men getting out -- 102 INT. PLANT Nico and Lukich draw their guns, running full-tilt. NICO (into hidden miki) It's going down now. Move! 103 EXT. REAR OF PACKING PLANT - DAY The station wagon men heave their rear door open, the van men start to open their side door. The Lincoln is stopped at a distance. Suddenly -- 104 NICO AND LUKICH burst from the rear door of the packing plant, guns drawn. LUKICH Police! 105 QUICK CUTS - VAN AND STATION WAGON MEN grab for their weapons -- 106 COPS IN MEAT TRUCK AND PICKUP come highballing around both sides of the packing plant -- 107 VAN AND STATION WAGON MEN OPEN FIRE. There is confusion and mayhem; it's not clear who's a cop and who's a criminal. 108 NICO AND LUKICH dive for cover, RETURNING FIRE. The DEA men in one truck also OPEN UP. One of the van men is hit between the eyes. MACHINE GUN FIRE rakes the DEA truck; it spins out of control; flips. Lukich SHOOTS the machine-gunner. LUKICH (shouts; points) Nico! The Lincoln! 31. 109 LINCOLN starts to PEEL OUT. We glimpse Chi Chi in the driver's seat, Salvano on the passenger side. 110 NICO steps in front of the accelerating Lincoln, raises his .45. 111 INT. LINCOLN - DAY Salvano and Chi Chi dive below the dash and continue forward. Salvano, in the passenger seat, raises his GUN; FIRES blindly -- trying to hit Nico. 112 EXT. LINCOLN - DAY Nico UNLOADS his .45 into the windshield and the firewall. The Lincoln keeps coming down the narrow alley. 113 NICO brazenly steps up onto the hood and dives, grabbing onto the roof. 114 INT. LINCOLN - DAY Salvano can't believe it. He screams something in Spanish. He FIRES again, this time through the roof. 115 EXT. LINCOLN - ROOF - DAY Bullet holes appear. Nico narrowly misses being hit. 116 ANOTHER ANGLE - LINCOLN Nico reaches over the side of the car and SMASHES the pas- senger WINDOW with his fist. 117 CLOSEUP - NICO'S HAND Salvano's face is bashed. Nico's huge hand grabs Salvano's throat; he won't let go. 118 CLOSEUP - NICO He hangs on with one hand. 119 CLOSEUP - SALVANO Nico's fingers now dig into Salvano's larynx; he may never talk again. He's gagging. Salvano now points the gun at Chi Chi. Chi Chi makes the decision to stop the car in order to save his boss. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 32. 120 NICO leaps off the roof pulling Salvano past the broken glass, out of the window. 121 SEVERAL POLICE VEHICLES * SCREECH into the lot. Officers pour out, guns drawn, surrounding the Lincoln and the other vehicles. Jackson joins them, weapon in hand. 122 NICO drags Salvano by the neck across the lot to the van, slamming the drug dealer up against the van's side. Lukich, Jackson and Strozah are there, with the DEA cops, * all covering the other men. NICO (to Salvano) How many kilos you got in there, Skivuzo? Salvano couldn't answer if he wanted to. The other cops look at Nico with awe. Lukich whips the van door open, yanks a tarp off the cargo. 123 INT. VAN The engine block sits in a wooden shipping frame, wrapped with industrial plastic. Nico climbs into the van, rips the plastic sheeting off, grabs the wood slats of the shipping frame, tears them off. In the background, ambulances are arriving to care for the wounded cops and criminals. 124 CLOSEUP - ENGINE BLOCK From the cylinder heads emerges a full load, not of drugs, but of plastique tubes labeled U.S. ARMY C-4 HIGH EXPLOSIVE. 125 LUKICH, JACKSON AND OTHER COPS react with surprise and shock. 126 NICO rips open one of tubes and smells it. 127 CLOSE - NICO Confused; frustrated. NICO What kinda fuckin' high is this? CUT TO: ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 33. 128 INT. FBI OFFICE - NIGHT OPENING ON SALVANO, in a chair, looking bruised and swollen, and wearing an expression of fuming indignation. SALVANO -- I'll tell you what this cop is. He's a fucking menace! 129 TWO FBI AGENTS (NEELEY AND HALLORAN) * face Salvano, Chi Chi and the lawyer Abandano (apparently representing Salvano and Chi Chi). Neeley is on the phone. * Pictures of Reagan and Meese are prominent on the wall. SALVANO You see what he did to me?! AGENT HALLORAN Your problem is being handled right now, Mr. Salv -- SALVANO Yeah? Well, it shoulda been handled twelve hours ago. I don't know who's running this outfit, but somebody better get his goddamn wires straight! AGENT NEELEY * (into phone) -- yes, sir... yes, sir, I understand -- SALVANO That maniac should be wearing a number, not a badge. Salvano knows what the call is about. He straightens the tie beneath his bruised neck, assuming the attitude of a respectable citizen who has been unjustly wronged. AGENT NEELEY * (into phone) -- count on it, sir. Right. You'll have our full cooperation. Neeley hangs up. Glances dubiously to Halloran. Then turns * grimly to Salvano, Chi Chi and the lawyer Abandano. AGENT NEELEY * You're free to go. 130 OMITTED 131 INT. FEDERAL BUILDING - LOBBY - NIGHT * The hoods and their lawyer smugly walk past a cleaning woman. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 33A. 132 INT. PRECINCT CAPTAIN'S OFFICE - MORNING OPENING ON Agent Neeley's face. Composed, clean-cut, but * intense, wearing a light-colored business suit. PAN TO Agent Halloran -- the same upright, clean-shaven bureau look. The two men are seated to one side of LIEUTENANT FRED STROZAH. 133 NICO, JACKSON, LUKICH AND DEA AND ATF MEN sit and stand in various postures in front of the Lieutenant's desk. LIEUTENANT STROZAH (to Nico, DEA & AIF) -- This is no reflection on the work you officers have done. I feel, and the whole department feels, extremely proud of your initiative and gallantry. That "spare me the horseshit" look on Nico's face. He's fuming. Strozah sees Nico's bitter expression. It's on the others' faces too. LIEUTENANT STROZAH As all of you are well aware, possession of these explosives is a federal offense and under jurisdiction of the F.B.I. Nico's eyes meet Lieutenant Strozah's. There's respect between the two, but it's plainly under a helluva strain. NICO Sir. With all respect to our brothers in the Bureau -- (biting sarcasm; turns to Neeley) * -- That's no answer. It's no answer to why one of the biggest dealers in the city is out on the street now, free as a bird! Agent Neeley stiffens. * LIEUTENANT STROZAH Keep it in your pants, Nico. These men have a job to do, just like us. Nico stifles his outrage. The other cops exchange glances -- upset and angry. Agent Neeley clears his throat. * AGENT NEELEY * Lieutenant, I think these officers are entitled to a fuller explanation. (MORE) ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 34. AGENT NEELEY (CONT'D) They've risked their lives. I understand one man is in the hospital. He speaks to the officers. AGENT NEELEY * What I'm about to say doesn't leave this room. Is that clear? Assent from everyone. AGENT NEELEY * Mr. Salvano has been working for some time in cooperation with certain federal agencies. 134 CLOSE - NICO'S FACE Stunned and furious at this royal fuck-up. AGENT NEELEY (O.S.) * I'm not at liberty to divulge the nature of Mr. Salvano's involvement -- I just learned of its existence myself a few hours ago. But one thing I can tell you -- 135 BACK TO AGENT NEELEY * AGENT NEELEY * Mr. Salvano's role is crucial to an extremely sensitive ongoing investigation. Any further surveillance, harassment, or unauthorized operations against this individual are forbidden. I must order you gentlemen -- (looking straight at Nico) -- with all respect for your work and your courage, to stand down. Lukich shakes his head; Nico is devastated. Jackson takes it all in. CUT TO: 136 INT. POLICE SQUAD ROOM - MORNING OPENING CLOSE ON a desk drawer being opened. Aside from rounds of ammo, notes and an aging eggplant parmigiana sandwich, there are half a dozen hand-labeled audio- cassettes and a small collection of miniaturized bugging devices. Jackson and Lukich watch Nico take out the notes, hand them to Lieutenant Strozah. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 35. LIEUTENANT STROZAH The tapes too. NICO (mocking) That's my Lawrence Welk collection! LIEUTENANT STROZAH I want everything you got on this one. Reluctantly, Nico hands over the tapes. The Lieutenant eyes the bugs and wires. LIEUTENANT STROZAH I know you don't give a shit about yourself, Toscani. (a glance to Jax) But you're gonna put Jackson's ass in a sling, too, with these illegal wires. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 35A. * 136A OTHER SIDE OF SQUAD ROOM Agent Halloran edges up to Jackson, who's grabbing coffee on the far side of the squad room, and watching from there as Nico gives Strozah more of a hard time. AGENT HALLORAN What's the story on your partner, Jackson? Did he learn this style or was he born with a brick up his ass? Jackson checks Halloran out. He's black too and, despite herself, there's a certain rapport. JACKSON He has ethics. Unlike certain others on this case. Halloran watches the illegal bugs and tapes come out of Nico's drawer. AGENT HALLORAN His 'ethics' are gonna cost him his badge and his gun. This "white" talk gives Jackson a pain. She slips into her jive mode. JACKSON You don't wanna catch him without no gun. Halloran's look asks why not? JACKSON 'Cause what he do with his hands... make bullet holes look pretty. Across the room, Nico turns over the tapes. AGENT HALLORAN He bad? JACKSON Bad bad. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 36. 137 INT. PRECINCT HOUSE - STAIRWAY - DAY Nico and Jackson come down the stairs. Jackson has had ample excitement for her last week on the force. JACKSON Is that enough? Can we do something normal now -- like eat lunch? NICO Anything you say, Jax. How about Salvano's? JACKSON Let it be, Nico. 138 EXT. PRECINCT HOUSE - DAY Nico and Jackson's car pulls out into traffic. 139 INT. UNMARKED CAR - PARKED (ALLEY BEHIND SALVANO'S) Jackson and Nico are eating some fast good. Nico reaches to his jacket pocket; takes out a cassette. JACKSON What... you kept his tape, too? Nico already has it in the PLAYER. We hear FRAGMENTS of the telephone tap from the body shop in Spanish and English. Jackson looks frustrated. Nico listens care- fully to what appears to be the taped PHONE CONVERSATION. NICO Poetry, ain't it? 140 EXT. REAR SALVANO'S RESTAURANT - DAY (POV FROM CAR) The pimp (busboy) comes out and dumps a load of garbage. 141 INT. UNMARKED CAR - DAY Nico and Jackson case the restaurant from down the alley. 142 EXT. REAR SALVANO'S - NICO'S POV - DAY From the restaurant door, Salvano and Chi Chi emerge. They get into a black Cadillac and pull out. * NICO (O.S.) And now for some dessert. 143 SERIES OF SHOTS As Nico's car tails Salvano's through various streets. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 37. 144 EXT. OAK STREET Salvano comes out of a fancy flower shop with a bimbo on his arm. He kisses her goodbye and puts her in a cab. NICO (O.S.) And that must be Mrs. Sal. So nice to see married couples still in love. 144A NICO AND JACKSON are hidden, waiting. 144B CHI CHI emerges from a dry cleaner's with a suit on a hanger. * 145 EXT. ST. ELIZABETH'S PARISH CHURCH - DAY Salvano's Caddy pulls up outside the same church where we * saw Nico's son get baptized. Salvano and Chi Chi get out, look both ways up and down the street. Salvano, holding * flowers, makes eye contact with a car down the block. * 146 EXT. STREET UP BLOCK FROM CHURCH - DAY Nico's car backs out of sight around the corner. 147 SIDEWALK IN FRONT OF CHURCH Salvano and Chi Chi, seeing nothing, enter the church. 148 INT. CHURCH - DAY A smattering of older women and men praying. Salvano and Chi Chi stop at the head of the aisle, genuflect to the altar, move in, take seats toward the front. 149 BACK OF CHURCH Nico and Jackson slip in the front door, glide silently into the shadows at the rear of the church. JACKSON This is your mother's church, isn't it? NICO Yeah. But I bet she's never seen these boys in the choir. 150 NICO'S POV Salvano's head is bowed, but Chi Chi is looking around quite carefully. Nico and Jackson fade into the shadows behind the huge pillars. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 37A. 151 SALVANO AND CHI CHI After a few moments, the pair rises. They cross them- selves, start out for the front door. As they walk, they continue to look for something. 152 INT. CHURCH - DAY * Nico and Jackson emerge into a courtyard which reveals a day care center and a rectory. They head toward the front of the building. Jackson, planning on picking up their tail on Salvano, is stoped by Nico. He wants to stay and look around. 38. FATHER GENARRO (O.S.) Nicola! That can't be you in church without the family! Nico turns to see Father Genarro, perspiring in a baggy sweatshirt, a handball glove on his hand. The courtyard alongside the church is marked off as an athletic area. NICO Father Genarro. The priest seizes Nico's hand warmly, smiles at Jackson. FATHER GENARRO This must be your partner in crime. (shakes her hand) I'm Father Genarro. I saw you at the baptismal party. (with a wink to Nico) What

pleasure,--though

How many times the word 'pleasure,--though' appears in the text?

with Lucy. Jackson, standing in the doorway, has seen all this. 64 INT. UNMARKED CAR - MOVING - DAY Nico at the wheel has just pulled away from the bakery. Jackson, in the passenger seat, studies her partner for a few moments, shaking her head at the contradictions in this man. Educated, classy, an elegant dresser -- yet underneath an out-and-out wild man. JACKSON I don't get you, Toscani. (beat) What the hell are you doing being a shitheel cop? With your background? For a long moment Nico says nothing. Then, quietly, look- ing straight ahead: NICO When I was overseas, I saw some things. Things that eat your guts out. Things that stay in front of your eyes like they were burned in and branded. He turns to Jackson. NICO You can walk away from them, Jax. You can quit, but you know it's still going on. You try something anyway -- (smiles a moment) -- I know I'm not going to change the world. I can't stop the tonnage coming in, I can't fight the boys behind the desks pushing their buttons -- ANGLE INCLUDING MEAN STREETS OUTSIDE NICO But maybe here, huh? (indicates street) Maybe in my own city, my own neighborhood, on my own block -- maybe here I can do something. He turns a corner. NICO That's why I'm a shitheel cop. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 20A. * 64A INT. POLICE STATION - DAY Behind the desk, a few detectives man the phones. A Latin attorney, ABANDANO, is at the counter. COP (O.S.) You can see your client. As soon as she's through eating her dinner. 65 INT. POLICE LOCKUP - "CAGE" AND HALLWAY - EVENING Hookers, female addicts, etc. in the downtown "cage." Nico has the girl in the red dress and lizard shoes (CARLA DECARLO) out in the hallway adjacent to the lock- up. Nico is Mr. Charm, offering her a heart-shaped box of chocolates. NICO Carla... Carla -- I just want the name of your boyfriend -- CARLA I got 200 boyfriends. The hooker, Carla DeCarlo, slaps the box away, cursing in Spanish. 21. CARLA Pinchi cabron, cabeza colon! Some of the chocolates tumble onto the lockup floor, the detainees snap them up, start munching. The girl con- tinues to spit curses at Nico, gesturing with her hands with Latin flamboyance. Nico grabs her by the elbow, as a jailer opens the lockup door. More curses are being flung at Nico from various females in the cage. Nico heaves Carla in among them. Carla flops down on a bench next to a tall black hooker. MOVE IN ON the black hooker. It's Nico's partner, Jackson, dolled up like a street- walker, playing her undercover role to the hilt. JACKSON (to Nico) Why can't you sons-a-bitches ever treat someone with a little respect? NICO (walking away) Take it easy, sister. JACKSON I ain't your goddamn sister. We ain't got the same mother, motherfucka. Carla fires one final parting salvo of obscenities, then sags back among the women. Carla starts to cry. Jackson comforts her; Carla responds, lets herself be comforted. CUT TO: 66 EXT. DOWNTOWN - FINANCIAL DISTRICT - DAY Jackson, back in her normal daytime wear, exits a building. She gets into Nico's car. 67 INT. CAR - DAY Jackson checks her makeup in the rearview mirror. Nico sits behind the wheel. The two are on some kind of stakeout. JACKSON The lawyer's name is Abandano. He's on the third floor. I got a look at him. I couldn't get how he's connected, but according to Carla, he's a lousy lay. NICO Maybe we can bust him for that. Jackson spots something, gestures subtly out window -- ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 22. 68 EXT. DOWNTOWN BUILDING - DAY A short, slick-looking Latin man in a business suit emerges from the building. JACKSON That's our stud. Nico and Jackson leave their car and follow him on foot. 69 EXT. FINANCIAL DISTRICT - BANK - DAY ABANDANO meets a striking-looking middle-aged woman in front of a stately financial institution. They go in. Jackson remains out on the street, while Nico follows the couple in. 70 LATER Jackson has been waiting, sipping some coffee. Nico emerges from the bank, signaling to his partner to follow him. Abandano and the woman exit from the bank's revol- ving doors and immediately jump into a cab. Nico and Jackson look at each other and step in front of another cab. Nico opens the cab door, flips his badge open, then asks the occupant to leave. Jackson gets in the front seat next to the protesting cabbie. 71 EXT. FEDERAL BUILDING - DAY Abandano and the woman are crossing the plaza as Nico and Jackson run up the block. Near the entrance to the Federal * Building, a small but vocal group of protestors are * gathered, carrying signs and chanting slogans. The frus- * trated cabbie watches them in the background. 72 PLAZA Jackson and Nico watch Abandano and the woman pass the * crowd of demonstrators and enter the building. Jackson acts * indifferent, almost frustrated; Nico keenly senses something. CUT TO: 73 INT. EXPENSIVE RESTAURANT ("BOGOTA") - DAY * The main dining room. No customers, just busboys readying tables for the evening's business. We notice one of the * busboys is the "pimp" Nico found with Lucy. * 74 BOOTH NEAR BACK HALLWAY The owner's table. Stacks of dining checks, a cashbox and calculator, full ashtrays, wine glasses. BAUTISTA SALVANO, a heavyset, swarthy Venezuelan dressed in a tux with the collar open, glowers across the table at a mus- cular, scar-faced Latin busboy -- the kind who looks like he does more for his boss than clean up the tables. The busboy (NARDO) is nervous, apologetic -- ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 23. SALVANO (pissed off) -- I brought you in for your muscles, Nardo, not your mouth. NARDO (scared) I'm sorry, boss. SALVANO Your English is getting good... You're showing it off. Showing it off on the street -- NARDO I keep quiet. I never talk no more -- Salvano glowers at Nardo like he's about to punch him. Instead he reaches over, playfully chokes the busboy -- then releases him, as if all is forgiven. SALVANO Make yourself useful. (indicates empty wine bottle on table) Get downstairs, bring me one of these. (as Nardo stands, starts for back hallway) Then get back to work. 75 INT. RESTAURANT BASEMENT STOREROOM - LATE AFTERNOON Nardo enters at the top of the stairs, radiating relief. He trots down into the empty basement, toward a floor-to- ceiling wine rack. NARDO (to himself) I thought I was dead, man. (whistles with relief) I thought I was fucking dead. He crosses to the wine rack. It's dark, hard to see. He searches for the bottle. Suddenly: a METALLIC sound behind him. Nardo turns -- CHI CHI TESTAMENTE, a wiry, pock-faced Latino, stands in the shadows (it is clear he has been waiting there, hiding) -- holding a small silencer automatic. CHI CHI You were right, cabron. * ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 24. One SHOT between the eyes and Nardo CRASHES backward into the WINE RACK, eyes wide with shock and bewilderment. Chi Chi SHOOTS him AGAIN; Nardo drops like a stone. Coolly, professionally, Chi Chi pumps FOUR more SHOTS into the prone busboy's head. Chi Chi ejects the clip into his palm, unscrews the silencer, holsters the gun. Salvano appears at the top of the stairs. Two busboys are behind him. One of them is the young pimp. The busboys hurry * down, the pimp -- scared shitless but playing it macho-cool. * Salvano comes down the stairs. Chi Chi stands over his work. SALVANO (to busboys) Clean up this mess. CHI CHI * Who knows who else is talking -- * SALVANO * He was a young fool. * 76 BACK IN UPSTAIRS DINING ROOM Salvano and Chi Chi emerge from the basement steps and walk toward their booth. CHI CHI We're crazy waiting for this bullshit 'shipment.' Let me waste the other fucker now. Salvano puts a hand on Chi Chi's shoulder. SALVANO Be patient. This will be done the way it was planned. CUT TO: 77 EXT. BODY AND FENDER SHOP - NIGHT Rusting cyclone fences surround a mud-lot repair yard in a dingy industrial section. Young Lation and black workers finish up for the night; through the dirty, security-barred office window we can see Chi Chi talking on the phone. The lawyer, Abandano, is also there. 78 EXT. ALLEY - REAR OF SHOP - NIGHT Nico finishes connecting a small transmitter which has been hastily wired to the entering phone line. 79 INT. UNMARKED CAR - NIGHT Nico and Jackson in the shadows down the street from the body shop. Nico wears earphones, a small tape recorder on the seat beside him. Jackson does not look happy. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 25. JACKSON Toscani, you're going to have me doing time. NICO Lighten up, Jax. No one's bringing this into court. JACKSON Except against us. NICO I don't give a shit how we do it. I just wanna get there. Jackson gives Nico a dirty look, but stifles her protest. JACKSON I thought you said you were gonna protect me. Cover my butt. Be my guardian angel -- Nico hears something through the earphones. Gestures for silence -- 80 ANGLE THROUGH OFFICE WINDOW Chi Chi listens with increased intensity to something on the phone. He starts writing it down -- 81 BACK TO NICO In unmarked car. He's writing it down too. NICO I got the shipment. * JACKSON What? What's he saying? NICO (scribbling furiously) '... Engine block has cleared customs. Serial number VA-748. Pick up Tuesday, 3 May as authorized.' 82 EXT. BODY SHOP - NIGHT Chi Chi emerges from the office, tucking a scrap of paper into his pocket. Abandano follows. They get into a late-model Lincoln which pulls out onto the street. * 83 EXT. STREET - NIGHT Nico and Jackson's car follows at a discreet distance. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 26. NICO (V.O.) Unit Ten Tango X-ray. I need a vehicle registration I.D. POLICE RADIO (V.O.) Go ahead, please. NICO (V.O.) '86 Lincoln. Illinois 354 Dog '67. * 84 INT. UNMARKED CAR - MOVING - NIGHT Jackson picks up Nico's pad to take down the response. After a moment: POLICE RADIO (V.O.) Vehicle registration follows. Leaseholder: Ramon Testamente, registered alien. Nation of origin: Venezuela. Do you wish criminal record search? NICO (into mike) I want to know when he wipes his * behind. * 85 SERIES OF SHOTS As Nico and Jackson tail the Lincoln out of the industrial zone into a fancier, non-Latin neighborhood. On the sidewalks we glimpse theatergoers, fashionable white couples out on the town. 86 LINCOLN Pulls up to a valet park outside a ton-y restaurant. A sign says: "BOGOTA." * 87 INT. UNMARKED CAR - MOVING Nico and Jackson exchange a glance. JACKSON Salvano? NICO Jackpot. 88 EXT. RESTAURANT - NIGHT Chi Chi and Abandano get out of their car, a valet takes it, Chi Chi enters the restaurant. 89 INT. SALVANO'S RESTAURANT - NIGHT Nico and Jackson enter the main dining room, which we recognize from the scene with Nardo the busboy. 27. The place is packed with fashionable people of all races. A band plays salsa; couples dance. Nico and Jackson pass easily as a hip "uptown" couple. A pretty Latin HOSTESS approaches them. HOSTESS Two for dinner? NICO Two for drinks. They elbow up to the packed bar, standing. Nico squints toward the rear dining room. 90 NICO'S POV - DOWN BAR Looking past numerous patrons, we see Chi Chi whisper something to a waiter and take a seat at a rear table (the same "owner's table" where Salvano sat before.) The waiter hurries off into a back hallway. 91 NICO AND JACKSON - AT BAR Jackson moves to the salsa beat. A BARMAID approaches. JACKSON Gimme something stiff. I need it. BARMAID Who doesn't? Nico's eyes never leave Chi Chi. 92 REAR DINING ROOM From the back hallway Salvano emerges -- in his tux, looking prosperous. He sits down beside Chi Chi and Abandano. A waitress brings two drinks. After a few words, Chi Chi removes the scrap of paper from his pocket, hands it to Salvano. NICO (O.S.) You'll have your engine block next Tuesday, boss. 93 BACK TO NICO AND JACKSON As the Barmaid brings their drinks. Jackson sees her peaceful week to retirement flying out the window. JACKSON Why couldn't it be a week from Tuesday? I could read about it in the paper. Nico grabs her waist, pulls her onto the dance floor, and does a playful twirl. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 28. NICO Cheer up, partner. I'm gonna make you famous. 94 EXT. WHOLESALE MEAT AREA - DAY * Track spurs, greasy streets, parked fork lifts. 94A EXT. ROOF - DAY * Lieutenant Strozah surveys the street traffic. * 95 NICO, JACKSON AND LUKICH The two men, dressed as meat processors in hard hats and bloody white coats, rake cattle guts under the eave of a packing plant. Jackson, dressed like a USDA Inspector and * carrying a clipboard, inspects a few hanging carcasses. JACKSON You missed a few spots, boys. LUKICH I'm takin' it home t'a make kilbasa, boss. Luke casts an impatient glance across the street to a lot with four parked meat trucks. We glimpse two "truckers" keeping low in the shadows of one cab. Down the block a seemingly empty pickup truck is parked in an alley. LUKICH This ain't a bust -- it's a convention. NICO Don't you like company, Luke? (sarcastic) We got all the scouts here -- Drug Enforcement Agency, the Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms -- WALKIE-TALKIE (V.O.) Keep this channel clear, Toscani. We realize Nico, Jackson and Lukich are wired, with mikes out of sight under their coats. Nico glances to the pick- up, near to which three men can be spotted in the alley. Apparently one of them is the walkie-talkie voice. NICO (into mike) This is our channel, dickhead. And our collar. ANOTHER WALKIE-TALKIE (V.O.) That's enough, all of you! Keep this channel clear. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 28A. 96 ANGLE ON MEAT PLANT - DAY Nothing happening. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 29. 97 ANOTHER ANGLE Dead as hell. 98 NICO, LUKICH AND JACKSON Bored, pissed off, tired. Suddenly: 99 BATTERED VAN WITH TWO MEN emerges from a corner, two blocks down. It starts slowly this way. 1ST WALKIE-TALKIE (V.O.) All right. Everyone get their heads outa their ass. The meat truck men duck down out of sight, the pickup men back into the shadows. Nico and Lukich keep raking cow guts. The van passes slowly, checking out the area. JACKSON (sarcastic) '... And so I quit the police department... got myself a steady job -- ' The van accelerates slightly, turns a corner, vanishes. Silence. LUKICH * They spotted me. I'm too good- looking to be a meat slopper. * 1ST WALKIE-TALKIE (V.O.) Will you hot dogs shut up? The van returns. On a cross street. Heading behind the packing plant. NICO * (to Lukich) * You're too ugly. Now a second car appears. The Lincoln. Behind it is an ancient station wagon. Both vehicles take a different cross street, but both heading behind the packing plant. NICO (into hidden mike) Here we go, boys and girls -- (to Jackson) You stay put. * As soon as the two vehicles pass out of sight, Nico and Lukich ditch their rakes, dart into the packing plant. The meat truck men START their TRUCK. 30. The pickup men board their vehicle -- Jackson follows Nico and Luke -- but at a safe distance. 100 INT. PACKING PLANT - DAY Nico and Lukich sprint in a crouch past the blood runoffs, meat cutting tables -- 101 NICO'S POV - RUNNING THROUGH the windows at the rear of the plant, we see the station wagon and the van, pulling up swiftly beside one another, men getting out -- 102 INT. PLANT Nico and Lukich draw their guns, running full-tilt. NICO (into hidden miki) It's going down now. Move! 103 EXT. REAR OF PACKING PLANT - DAY The station wagon men heave their rear door open, the van men start to open their side door. The Lincoln is stopped at a distance. Suddenly -- 104 NICO AND LUKICH burst from the rear door of the packing plant, guns drawn. LUKICH Police! 105 QUICK CUTS - VAN AND STATION WAGON MEN grab for their weapons -- 106 COPS IN MEAT TRUCK AND PICKUP come highballing around both sides of the packing plant -- 107 VAN AND STATION WAGON MEN OPEN FIRE. There is confusion and mayhem; it's not clear who's a cop and who's a criminal. 108 NICO AND LUKICH dive for cover, RETURNING FIRE. The DEA men in one truck also OPEN UP. One of the van men is hit between the eyes. MACHINE GUN FIRE rakes the DEA truck; it spins out of control; flips. Lukich SHOOTS the machine-gunner. LUKICH (shouts; points) Nico! The Lincoln! 31. 109 LINCOLN starts to PEEL OUT. We glimpse Chi Chi in the driver's seat, Salvano on the passenger side. 110 NICO steps in front of the accelerating Lincoln, raises his .45. 111 INT. LINCOLN - DAY Salvano and Chi Chi dive below the dash and continue forward. Salvano, in the passenger seat, raises his GUN; FIRES blindly -- trying to hit Nico. 112 EXT. LINCOLN - DAY Nico UNLOADS his .45 into the windshield and the firewall. The Lincoln keeps coming down the narrow alley. 113 NICO brazenly steps up onto the hood and dives, grabbing onto the roof. 114 INT. LINCOLN - DAY Salvano can't believe it. He screams something in Spanish. He FIRES again, this time through the roof. 115 EXT. LINCOLN - ROOF - DAY Bullet holes appear. Nico narrowly misses being hit. 116 ANOTHER ANGLE - LINCOLN Nico reaches over the side of the car and SMASHES the pas- senger WINDOW with his fist. 117 CLOSEUP - NICO'S HAND Salvano's face is bashed. Nico's huge hand grabs Salvano's throat; he won't let go. 118 CLOSEUP - NICO He hangs on with one hand. 119 CLOSEUP - SALVANO Nico's fingers now dig into Salvano's larynx; he may never talk again. He's gagging. Salvano now points the gun at Chi Chi. Chi Chi makes the decision to stop the car in order to save his boss. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 32. 120 NICO leaps off the roof pulling Salvano past the broken glass, out of the window. 121 SEVERAL POLICE VEHICLES * SCREECH into the lot. Officers pour out, guns drawn, surrounding the Lincoln and the other vehicles. Jackson joins them, weapon in hand. 122 NICO drags Salvano by the neck across the lot to the van, slamming the drug dealer up against the van's side. Lukich, Jackson and Strozah are there, with the DEA cops, * all covering the other men. NICO (to Salvano) How many kilos you got in there, Skivuzo? Salvano couldn't answer if he wanted to. The other cops look at Nico with awe. Lukich whips the van door open, yanks a tarp off the cargo. 123 INT. VAN The engine block sits in a wooden shipping frame, wrapped with industrial plastic. Nico climbs into the van, rips the plastic sheeting off, grabs the wood slats of the shipping frame, tears them off. In the background, ambulances are arriving to care for the wounded cops and criminals. 124 CLOSEUP - ENGINE BLOCK From the cylinder heads emerges a full load, not of drugs, but of plastique tubes labeled U.S. ARMY C-4 HIGH EXPLOSIVE. 125 LUKICH, JACKSON AND OTHER COPS react with surprise and shock. 126 NICO rips open one of tubes and smells it. 127 CLOSE - NICO Confused; frustrated. NICO What kinda fuckin' high is this? CUT TO: ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 33. 128 INT. FBI OFFICE - NIGHT OPENING ON SALVANO, in a chair, looking bruised and swollen, and wearing an expression of fuming indignation. SALVANO -- I'll tell you what this cop is. He's a fucking menace! 129 TWO FBI AGENTS (NEELEY AND HALLORAN) * face Salvano, Chi Chi and the lawyer Abandano (apparently representing Salvano and Chi Chi). Neeley is on the phone. * Pictures of Reagan and Meese are prominent on the wall. SALVANO You see what he did to me?! AGENT HALLORAN Your problem is being handled right now, Mr. Salv -- SALVANO Yeah? Well, it shoulda been handled twelve hours ago. I don't know who's running this outfit, but somebody better get his goddamn wires straight! AGENT NEELEY * (into phone) -- yes, sir... yes, sir, I understand -- SALVANO That maniac should be wearing a number, not a badge. Salvano knows what the call is about. He straightens the tie beneath his bruised neck, assuming the attitude of a respectable citizen who has been unjustly wronged. AGENT NEELEY * (into phone) -- count on it, sir. Right. You'll have our full cooperation. Neeley hangs up. Glances dubiously to Halloran. Then turns * grimly to Salvano, Chi Chi and the lawyer Abandano. AGENT NEELEY * You're free to go. 130 OMITTED 131 INT. FEDERAL BUILDING - LOBBY - NIGHT * The hoods and their lawyer smugly walk past a cleaning woman. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 33A. 132 INT. PRECINCT CAPTAIN'S OFFICE - MORNING OPENING ON Agent Neeley's face. Composed, clean-cut, but * intense, wearing a light-colored business suit. PAN TO Agent Halloran -- the same upright, clean-shaven bureau look. The two men are seated to one side of LIEUTENANT FRED STROZAH. 133 NICO, JACKSON, LUKICH AND DEA AND ATF MEN sit and stand in various postures in front of the Lieutenant's desk. LIEUTENANT STROZAH (to Nico, DEA & AIF) -- This is no reflection on the work you officers have done. I feel, and the whole department feels, extremely proud of your initiative and gallantry. That "spare me the horseshit" look on Nico's face. He's fuming. Strozah sees Nico's bitter expression. It's on the others' faces too. LIEUTENANT STROZAH As all of you are well aware, possession of these explosives is a federal offense and under jurisdiction of the F.B.I. Nico's eyes meet Lieutenant Strozah's. There's respect between the two, but it's plainly under a helluva strain. NICO Sir. With all respect to our brothers in the Bureau -- (biting sarcasm; turns to Neeley) * -- That's no answer. It's no answer to why one of the biggest dealers in the city is out on the street now, free as a bird! Agent Neeley stiffens. * LIEUTENANT STROZAH Keep it in your pants, Nico. These men have a job to do, just like us. Nico stifles his outrage. The other cops exchange glances -- upset and angry. Agent Neeley clears his throat. * AGENT NEELEY * Lieutenant, I think these officers are entitled to a fuller explanation. (MORE) ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 34. AGENT NEELEY (CONT'D) They've risked their lives. I understand one man is in the hospital. He speaks to the officers. AGENT NEELEY * What I'm about to say doesn't leave this room. Is that clear? Assent from everyone. AGENT NEELEY * Mr. Salvano has been working for some time in cooperation with certain federal agencies. 134 CLOSE - NICO'S FACE Stunned and furious at this royal fuck-up. AGENT NEELEY (O.S.) * I'm not at liberty to divulge the nature of Mr. Salvano's involvement -- I just learned of its existence myself a few hours ago. But one thing I can tell you -- 135 BACK TO AGENT NEELEY * AGENT NEELEY * Mr. Salvano's role is crucial to an extremely sensitive ongoing investigation. Any further surveillance, harassment, or unauthorized operations against this individual are forbidden. I must order you gentlemen -- (looking straight at Nico) -- with all respect for your work and your courage, to stand down. Lukich shakes his head; Nico is devastated. Jackson takes it all in. CUT TO: 136 INT. POLICE SQUAD ROOM - MORNING OPENING CLOSE ON a desk drawer being opened. Aside from rounds of ammo, notes and an aging eggplant parmigiana sandwich, there are half a dozen hand-labeled audio- cassettes and a small collection of miniaturized bugging devices. Jackson and Lukich watch Nico take out the notes, hand them to Lieutenant Strozah. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 35. LIEUTENANT STROZAH The tapes too. NICO (mocking) That's my Lawrence Welk collection! LIEUTENANT STROZAH I want everything you got on this one. Reluctantly, Nico hands over the tapes. The Lieutenant eyes the bugs and wires. LIEUTENANT STROZAH I know you don't give a shit about yourself, Toscani. (a glance to Jax) But you're gonna put Jackson's ass in a sling, too, with these illegal wires. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 35A. * 136A OTHER SIDE OF SQUAD ROOM Agent Halloran edges up to Jackson, who's grabbing coffee on the far side of the squad room, and watching from there as Nico gives Strozah more of a hard time. AGENT HALLORAN What's the story on your partner, Jackson? Did he learn this style or was he born with a brick up his ass? Jackson checks Halloran out. He's black too and, despite herself, there's a certain rapport. JACKSON He has ethics. Unlike certain others on this case. Halloran watches the illegal bugs and tapes come out of Nico's drawer. AGENT HALLORAN His 'ethics' are gonna cost him his badge and his gun. This "white" talk gives Jackson a pain. She slips into her jive mode. JACKSON You don't wanna catch him without no gun. Halloran's look asks why not? JACKSON 'Cause what he do with his hands... make bullet holes look pretty. Across the room, Nico turns over the tapes. AGENT HALLORAN He bad? JACKSON Bad bad. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 36. 137 INT. PRECINCT HOUSE - STAIRWAY - DAY Nico and Jackson come down the stairs. Jackson has had ample excitement for her last week on the force. JACKSON Is that enough? Can we do something normal now -- like eat lunch? NICO Anything you say, Jax. How about Salvano's? JACKSON Let it be, Nico. 138 EXT. PRECINCT HOUSE - DAY Nico and Jackson's car pulls out into traffic. 139 INT. UNMARKED CAR - PARKED (ALLEY BEHIND SALVANO'S) Jackson and Nico are eating some fast good. Nico reaches to his jacket pocket; takes out a cassette. JACKSON What... you kept his tape, too? Nico already has it in the PLAYER. We hear FRAGMENTS of the telephone tap from the body shop in Spanish and English. Jackson looks frustrated. Nico listens care- fully to what appears to be the taped PHONE CONVERSATION. NICO Poetry, ain't it? 140 EXT. REAR SALVANO'S RESTAURANT - DAY (POV FROM CAR) The pimp (busboy) comes out and dumps a load of garbage. 141 INT. UNMARKED CAR - DAY Nico and Jackson case the restaurant from down the alley. 142 EXT. REAR SALVANO'S - NICO'S POV - DAY From the restaurant door, Salvano and Chi Chi emerge. They get into a black Cadillac and pull out. * NICO (O.S.) And now for some dessert. 143 SERIES OF SHOTS As Nico's car tails Salvano's through various streets. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 37. 144 EXT. OAK STREET Salvano comes out of a fancy flower shop with a bimbo on his arm. He kisses her goodbye and puts her in a cab. NICO (O.S.) And that must be Mrs. Sal. So nice to see married couples still in love. 144A NICO AND JACKSON are hidden, waiting. 144B CHI CHI emerges from a dry cleaner's with a suit on a hanger. * 145 EXT. ST. ELIZABETH'S PARISH CHURCH - DAY Salvano's Caddy pulls up outside the same church where we * saw Nico's son get baptized. Salvano and Chi Chi get out, look both ways up and down the street. Salvano, holding * flowers, makes eye contact with a car down the block. * 146 EXT. STREET UP BLOCK FROM CHURCH - DAY Nico's car backs out of sight around the corner. 147 SIDEWALK IN FRONT OF CHURCH Salvano and Chi Chi, seeing nothing, enter the church. 148 INT. CHURCH - DAY A smattering of older women and men praying. Salvano and Chi Chi stop at the head of the aisle, genuflect to the altar, move in, take seats toward the front. 149 BACK OF CHURCH Nico and Jackson slip in the front door, glide silently into the shadows at the rear of the church. JACKSON This is your mother's church, isn't it? NICO Yeah. But I bet she's never seen these boys in the choir. 150 NICO'S POV Salvano's head is bowed, but Chi Chi is looking around quite carefully. Nico and Jackson fade into the shadows behind the huge pillars. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 37A. 151 SALVANO AND CHI CHI After a few moments, the pair rises. They cross them- selves, start out for the front door. As they walk, they continue to look for something. 152 INT. CHURCH - DAY * Nico and Jackson emerge into a courtyard which reveals a day care center and a rectory. They head toward the front of the building. Jackson, planning on picking up their tail on Salvano, is stoped by Nico. He wants to stay and look around. 38. FATHER GENARRO (O.S.) Nicola! That can't be you in church without the family! Nico turns to see Father Genarro, perspiring in a baggy sweatshirt, a handball glove on his hand. The courtyard alongside the church is marked off as an athletic area. NICO Father Genarro. The priest seizes Nico's hand warmly, smiles at Jackson. FATHER GENARRO This must be your partner in crime. (shakes her hand) I'm Father Genarro. I saw you at the baptismal party. (with a wink to Nico) What

direct

How many times the word 'direct' appears in the text?

with Lucy. Jackson, standing in the doorway, has seen all this. 64 INT. UNMARKED CAR - MOVING - DAY Nico at the wheel has just pulled away from the bakery. Jackson, in the passenger seat, studies her partner for a few moments, shaking her head at the contradictions in this man. Educated, classy, an elegant dresser -- yet underneath an out-and-out wild man. JACKSON I don't get you, Toscani. (beat) What the hell are you doing being a shitheel cop? With your background? For a long moment Nico says nothing. Then, quietly, look- ing straight ahead: NICO When I was overseas, I saw some things. Things that eat your guts out. Things that stay in front of your eyes like they were burned in and branded. He turns to Jackson. NICO You can walk away from them, Jax. You can quit, but you know it's still going on. You try something anyway -- (smiles a moment) -- I know I'm not going to change the world. I can't stop the tonnage coming in, I can't fight the boys behind the desks pushing their buttons -- ANGLE INCLUDING MEAN STREETS OUTSIDE NICO But maybe here, huh? (indicates street) Maybe in my own city, my own neighborhood, on my own block -- maybe here I can do something. He turns a corner. NICO That's why I'm a shitheel cop. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 20A. * 64A INT. POLICE STATION - DAY Behind the desk, a few detectives man the phones. A Latin attorney, ABANDANO, is at the counter. COP (O.S.) You can see your client. As soon as she's through eating her dinner. 65 INT. POLICE LOCKUP - "CAGE" AND HALLWAY - EVENING Hookers, female addicts, etc. in the downtown "cage." Nico has the girl in the red dress and lizard shoes (CARLA DECARLO) out in the hallway adjacent to the lock- up. Nico is Mr. Charm, offering her a heart-shaped box of chocolates. NICO Carla... Carla -- I just want the name of your boyfriend -- CARLA I got 200 boyfriends. The hooker, Carla DeCarlo, slaps the box away, cursing in Spanish. 21. CARLA Pinchi cabron, cabeza colon! Some of the chocolates tumble onto the lockup floor, the detainees snap them up, start munching. The girl con- tinues to spit curses at Nico, gesturing with her hands with Latin flamboyance. Nico grabs her by the elbow, as a jailer opens the lockup door. More curses are being flung at Nico from various females in the cage. Nico heaves Carla in among them. Carla flops down on a bench next to a tall black hooker. MOVE IN ON the black hooker. It's Nico's partner, Jackson, dolled up like a street- walker, playing her undercover role to the hilt. JACKSON (to Nico) Why can't you sons-a-bitches ever treat someone with a little respect? NICO (walking away) Take it easy, sister. JACKSON I ain't your goddamn sister. We ain't got the same mother, motherfucka. Carla fires one final parting salvo of obscenities, then sags back among the women. Carla starts to cry. Jackson comforts her; Carla responds, lets herself be comforted. CUT TO: 66 EXT. DOWNTOWN - FINANCIAL DISTRICT - DAY Jackson, back in her normal daytime wear, exits a building. She gets into Nico's car. 67 INT. CAR - DAY Jackson checks her makeup in the rearview mirror. Nico sits behind the wheel. The two are on some kind of stakeout. JACKSON The lawyer's name is Abandano. He's on the third floor. I got a look at him. I couldn't get how he's connected, but according to Carla, he's a lousy lay. NICO Maybe we can bust him for that. Jackson spots something, gestures subtly out window -- ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 22. 68 EXT. DOWNTOWN BUILDING - DAY A short, slick-looking Latin man in a business suit emerges from the building. JACKSON That's our stud. Nico and Jackson leave their car and follow him on foot. 69 EXT. FINANCIAL DISTRICT - BANK - DAY ABANDANO meets a striking-looking middle-aged woman in front of a stately financial institution. They go in. Jackson remains out on the street, while Nico follows the couple in. 70 LATER Jackson has been waiting, sipping some coffee. Nico emerges from the bank, signaling to his partner to follow him. Abandano and the woman exit from the bank's revol- ving doors and immediately jump into a cab. Nico and Jackson look at each other and step in front of another cab. Nico opens the cab door, flips his badge open, then asks the occupant to leave. Jackson gets in the front seat next to the protesting cabbie. 71 EXT. FEDERAL BUILDING - DAY Abandano and the woman are crossing the plaza as Nico and Jackson run up the block. Near the entrance to the Federal * Building, a small but vocal group of protestors are * gathered, carrying signs and chanting slogans. The frus- * trated cabbie watches them in the background. 72 PLAZA Jackson and Nico watch Abandano and the woman pass the * crowd of demonstrators and enter the building. Jackson acts * indifferent, almost frustrated; Nico keenly senses something. CUT TO: 73 INT. EXPENSIVE RESTAURANT ("BOGOTA") - DAY * The main dining room. No customers, just busboys readying tables for the evening's business. We notice one of the * busboys is the "pimp" Nico found with Lucy. * 74 BOOTH NEAR BACK HALLWAY The owner's table. Stacks of dining checks, a cashbox and calculator, full ashtrays, wine glasses. BAUTISTA SALVANO, a heavyset, swarthy Venezuelan dressed in a tux with the collar open, glowers across the table at a mus- cular, scar-faced Latin busboy -- the kind who looks like he does more for his boss than clean up the tables. The busboy (NARDO) is nervous, apologetic -- ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 23. SALVANO (pissed off) -- I brought you in for your muscles, Nardo, not your mouth. NARDO (scared) I'm sorry, boss. SALVANO Your English is getting good... You're showing it off. Showing it off on the street -- NARDO I keep quiet. I never talk no more -- Salvano glowers at Nardo like he's about to punch him. Instead he reaches over, playfully chokes the busboy -- then releases him, as if all is forgiven. SALVANO Make yourself useful. (indicates empty wine bottle on table) Get downstairs, bring me one of these. (as Nardo stands, starts for back hallway) Then get back to work. 75 INT. RESTAURANT BASEMENT STOREROOM - LATE AFTERNOON Nardo enters at the top of the stairs, radiating relief. He trots down into the empty basement, toward a floor-to- ceiling wine rack. NARDO (to himself) I thought I was dead, man. (whistles with relief) I thought I was fucking dead. He crosses to the wine rack. It's dark, hard to see. He searches for the bottle. Suddenly: a METALLIC sound behind him. Nardo turns -- CHI CHI TESTAMENTE, a wiry, pock-faced Latino, stands in the shadows (it is clear he has been waiting there, hiding) -- holding a small silencer automatic. CHI CHI You were right, cabron. * ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 24. One SHOT between the eyes and Nardo CRASHES backward into the WINE RACK, eyes wide with shock and bewilderment. Chi Chi SHOOTS him AGAIN; Nardo drops like a stone. Coolly, professionally, Chi Chi pumps FOUR more SHOTS into the prone busboy's head. Chi Chi ejects the clip into his palm, unscrews the silencer, holsters the gun. Salvano appears at the top of the stairs. Two busboys are behind him. One of them is the young pimp. The busboys hurry * down, the pimp -- scared shitless but playing it macho-cool. * Salvano comes down the stairs. Chi Chi stands over his work. SALVANO (to busboys) Clean up this mess. CHI CHI * Who knows who else is talking -- * SALVANO * He was a young fool. * 76 BACK IN UPSTAIRS DINING ROOM Salvano and Chi Chi emerge from the basement steps and walk toward their booth. CHI CHI We're crazy waiting for this bullshit 'shipment.' Let me waste the other fucker now. Salvano puts a hand on Chi Chi's shoulder. SALVANO Be patient. This will be done the way it was planned. CUT TO: 77 EXT. BODY AND FENDER SHOP - NIGHT Rusting cyclone fences surround a mud-lot repair yard in a dingy industrial section. Young Lation and black workers finish up for the night; through the dirty, security-barred office window we can see Chi Chi talking on the phone. The lawyer, Abandano, is also there. 78 EXT. ALLEY - REAR OF SHOP - NIGHT Nico finishes connecting a small transmitter which has been hastily wired to the entering phone line. 79 INT. UNMARKED CAR - NIGHT Nico and Jackson in the shadows down the street from the body shop. Nico wears earphones, a small tape recorder on the seat beside him. Jackson does not look happy. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 25. JACKSON Toscani, you're going to have me doing time. NICO Lighten up, Jax. No one's bringing this into court. JACKSON Except against us. NICO I don't give a shit how we do it. I just wanna get there. Jackson gives Nico a dirty look, but stifles her protest. JACKSON I thought you said you were gonna protect me. Cover my butt. Be my guardian angel -- Nico hears something through the earphones. Gestures for silence -- 80 ANGLE THROUGH OFFICE WINDOW Chi Chi listens with increased intensity to something on the phone. He starts writing it down -- 81 BACK TO NICO In unmarked car. He's writing it down too. NICO I got the shipment. * JACKSON What? What's he saying? NICO (scribbling furiously) '... Engine block has cleared customs. Serial number VA-748. Pick up Tuesday, 3 May as authorized.' 82 EXT. BODY SHOP - NIGHT Chi Chi emerges from the office, tucking a scrap of paper into his pocket. Abandano follows. They get into a late-model Lincoln which pulls out onto the street. * 83 EXT. STREET - NIGHT Nico and Jackson's car follows at a discreet distance. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 26. NICO (V.O.) Unit Ten Tango X-ray. I need a vehicle registration I.D. POLICE RADIO (V.O.) Go ahead, please. NICO (V.O.) '86 Lincoln. Illinois 354 Dog '67. * 84 INT. UNMARKED CAR - MOVING - NIGHT Jackson picks up Nico's pad to take down the response. After a moment: POLICE RADIO (V.O.) Vehicle registration follows. Leaseholder: Ramon Testamente, registered alien. Nation of origin: Venezuela. Do you wish criminal record search? NICO (into mike) I want to know when he wipes his * behind. * 85 SERIES OF SHOTS As Nico and Jackson tail the Lincoln out of the industrial zone into a fancier, non-Latin neighborhood. On the sidewalks we glimpse theatergoers, fashionable white couples out on the town. 86 LINCOLN Pulls up to a valet park outside a ton-y restaurant. A sign says: "BOGOTA." * 87 INT. UNMARKED CAR - MOVING Nico and Jackson exchange a glance. JACKSON Salvano? NICO Jackpot. 88 EXT. RESTAURANT - NIGHT Chi Chi and Abandano get out of their car, a valet takes it, Chi Chi enters the restaurant. 89 INT. SALVANO'S RESTAURANT - NIGHT Nico and Jackson enter the main dining room, which we recognize from the scene with Nardo the busboy. 27. The place is packed with fashionable people of all races. A band plays salsa; couples dance. Nico and Jackson pass easily as a hip "uptown" couple. A pretty Latin HOSTESS approaches them. HOSTESS Two for dinner? NICO Two for drinks. They elbow up to the packed bar, standing. Nico squints toward the rear dining room. 90 NICO'S POV - DOWN BAR Looking past numerous patrons, we see Chi Chi whisper something to a waiter and take a seat at a rear table (the same "owner's table" where Salvano sat before.) The waiter hurries off into a back hallway. 91 NICO AND JACKSON - AT BAR Jackson moves to the salsa beat. A BARMAID approaches. JACKSON Gimme something stiff. I need it. BARMAID Who doesn't? Nico's eyes never leave Chi Chi. 92 REAR DINING ROOM From the back hallway Salvano emerges -- in his tux, looking prosperous. He sits down beside Chi Chi and Abandano. A waitress brings two drinks. After a few words, Chi Chi removes the scrap of paper from his pocket, hands it to Salvano. NICO (O.S.) You'll have your engine block next Tuesday, boss. 93 BACK TO NICO AND JACKSON As the Barmaid brings their drinks. Jackson sees her peaceful week to retirement flying out the window. JACKSON Why couldn't it be a week from Tuesday? I could read about it in the paper. Nico grabs her waist, pulls her onto the dance floor, and does a playful twirl. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 28. NICO Cheer up, partner. I'm gonna make you famous. 94 EXT. WHOLESALE MEAT AREA - DAY * Track spurs, greasy streets, parked fork lifts. 94A EXT. ROOF - DAY * Lieutenant Strozah surveys the street traffic. * 95 NICO, JACKSON AND LUKICH The two men, dressed as meat processors in hard hats and bloody white coats, rake cattle guts under the eave of a packing plant. Jackson, dressed like a USDA Inspector and * carrying a clipboard, inspects a few hanging carcasses. JACKSON You missed a few spots, boys. LUKICH I'm takin' it home t'a make kilbasa, boss. Luke casts an impatient glance across the street to a lot with four parked meat trucks. We glimpse two "truckers" keeping low in the shadows of one cab. Down the block a seemingly empty pickup truck is parked in an alley. LUKICH This ain't a bust -- it's a convention. NICO Don't you like company, Luke? (sarcastic) We got all the scouts here -- Drug Enforcement Agency, the Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms -- WALKIE-TALKIE (V.O.) Keep this channel clear, Toscani. We realize Nico, Jackson and Lukich are wired, with mikes out of sight under their coats. Nico glances to the pick- up, near to which three men can be spotted in the alley. Apparently one of them is the walkie-talkie voice. NICO (into mike) This is our channel, dickhead. And our collar. ANOTHER WALKIE-TALKIE (V.O.) That's enough, all of you! Keep this channel clear. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 28A. 96 ANGLE ON MEAT PLANT - DAY Nothing happening. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 29. 97 ANOTHER ANGLE Dead as hell. 98 NICO, LUKICH AND JACKSON Bored, pissed off, tired. Suddenly: 99 BATTERED VAN WITH TWO MEN emerges from a corner, two blocks down. It starts slowly this way. 1ST WALKIE-TALKIE (V.O.) All right. Everyone get their heads outa their ass. The meat truck men duck down out of sight, the pickup men back into the shadows. Nico and Lukich keep raking cow guts. The van passes slowly, checking out the area. JACKSON (sarcastic) '... And so I quit the police department... got myself a steady job -- ' The van accelerates slightly, turns a corner, vanishes. Silence. LUKICH * They spotted me. I'm too good- looking to be a meat slopper. * 1ST WALKIE-TALKIE (V.O.) Will you hot dogs shut up? The van returns. On a cross street. Heading behind the packing plant. NICO * (to Lukich) * You're too ugly. Now a second car appears. The Lincoln. Behind it is an ancient station wagon. Both vehicles take a different cross street, but both heading behind the packing plant. NICO (into hidden mike) Here we go, boys and girls -- (to Jackson) You stay put. * As soon as the two vehicles pass out of sight, Nico and Lukich ditch their rakes, dart into the packing plant. The meat truck men START their TRUCK. 30. The pickup men board their vehicle -- Jackson follows Nico and Luke -- but at a safe distance. 100 INT. PACKING PLANT - DAY Nico and Lukich sprint in a crouch past the blood runoffs, meat cutting tables -- 101 NICO'S POV - RUNNING THROUGH the windows at the rear of the plant, we see the station wagon and the van, pulling up swiftly beside one another, men getting out -- 102 INT. PLANT Nico and Lukich draw their guns, running full-tilt. NICO (into hidden miki) It's going down now. Move! 103 EXT. REAR OF PACKING PLANT - DAY The station wagon men heave their rear door open, the van men start to open their side door. The Lincoln is stopped at a distance. Suddenly -- 104 NICO AND LUKICH burst from the rear door of the packing plant, guns drawn. LUKICH Police! 105 QUICK CUTS - VAN AND STATION WAGON MEN grab for their weapons -- 106 COPS IN MEAT TRUCK AND PICKUP come highballing around both sides of the packing plant -- 107 VAN AND STATION WAGON MEN OPEN FIRE. There is confusion and mayhem; it's not clear who's a cop and who's a criminal. 108 NICO AND LUKICH dive for cover, RETURNING FIRE. The DEA men in one truck also OPEN UP. One of the van men is hit between the eyes. MACHINE GUN FIRE rakes the DEA truck; it spins out of control; flips. Lukich SHOOTS the machine-gunner. LUKICH (shouts; points) Nico! The Lincoln! 31. 109 LINCOLN starts to PEEL OUT. We glimpse Chi Chi in the driver's seat, Salvano on the passenger side. 110 NICO steps in front of the accelerating Lincoln, raises his .45. 111 INT. LINCOLN - DAY Salvano and Chi Chi dive below the dash and continue forward. Salvano, in the passenger seat, raises his GUN; FIRES blindly -- trying to hit Nico. 112 EXT. LINCOLN - DAY Nico UNLOADS his .45 into the windshield and the firewall. The Lincoln keeps coming down the narrow alley. 113 NICO brazenly steps up onto the hood and dives, grabbing onto the roof. 114 INT. LINCOLN - DAY Salvano can't believe it. He screams something in Spanish. He FIRES again, this time through the roof. 115 EXT. LINCOLN - ROOF - DAY Bullet holes appear. Nico narrowly misses being hit. 116 ANOTHER ANGLE - LINCOLN Nico reaches over the side of the car and SMASHES the pas- senger WINDOW with his fist. 117 CLOSEUP - NICO'S HAND Salvano's face is bashed. Nico's huge hand grabs Salvano's throat; he won't let go. 118 CLOSEUP - NICO He hangs on with one hand. 119 CLOSEUP - SALVANO Nico's fingers now dig into Salvano's larynx; he may never talk again. He's gagging. Salvano now points the gun at Chi Chi. Chi Chi makes the decision to stop the car in order to save his boss. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 32. 120 NICO leaps off the roof pulling Salvano past the broken glass, out of the window. 121 SEVERAL POLICE VEHICLES * SCREECH into the lot. Officers pour out, guns drawn, surrounding the Lincoln and the other vehicles. Jackson joins them, weapon in hand. 122 NICO drags Salvano by the neck across the lot to the van, slamming the drug dealer up against the van's side. Lukich, Jackson and Strozah are there, with the DEA cops, * all covering the other men. NICO (to Salvano) How many kilos you got in there, Skivuzo? Salvano couldn't answer if he wanted to. The other cops look at Nico with awe. Lukich whips the van door open, yanks a tarp off the cargo. 123 INT. VAN The engine block sits in a wooden shipping frame, wrapped with industrial plastic. Nico climbs into the van, rips the plastic sheeting off, grabs the wood slats of the shipping frame, tears them off. In the background, ambulances are arriving to care for the wounded cops and criminals. 124 CLOSEUP - ENGINE BLOCK From the cylinder heads emerges a full load, not of drugs, but of plastique tubes labeled U.S. ARMY C-4 HIGH EXPLOSIVE. 125 LUKICH, JACKSON AND OTHER COPS react with surprise and shock. 126 NICO rips open one of tubes and smells it. 127 CLOSE - NICO Confused; frustrated. NICO What kinda fuckin' high is this? CUT TO: ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 33. 128 INT. FBI OFFICE - NIGHT OPENING ON SALVANO, in a chair, looking bruised and swollen, and wearing an expression of fuming indignation. SALVANO -- I'll tell you what this cop is. He's a fucking menace! 129 TWO FBI AGENTS (NEELEY AND HALLORAN) * face Salvano, Chi Chi and the lawyer Abandano (apparently representing Salvano and Chi Chi). Neeley is on the phone. * Pictures of Reagan and Meese are prominent on the wall. SALVANO You see what he did to me?! AGENT HALLORAN Your problem is being handled right now, Mr. Salv -- SALVANO Yeah? Well, it shoulda been handled twelve hours ago. I don't know who's running this outfit, but somebody better get his goddamn wires straight! AGENT NEELEY * (into phone) -- yes, sir... yes, sir, I understand -- SALVANO That maniac should be wearing a number, not a badge. Salvano knows what the call is about. He straightens the tie beneath his bruised neck, assuming the attitude of a respectable citizen who has been unjustly wronged. AGENT NEELEY * (into phone) -- count on it, sir. Right. You'll have our full cooperation. Neeley hangs up. Glances dubiously to Halloran. Then turns * grimly to Salvano, Chi Chi and the lawyer Abandano. AGENT NEELEY * You're free to go. 130 OMITTED 131 INT. FEDERAL BUILDING - LOBBY - NIGHT * The hoods and their lawyer smugly walk past a cleaning woman. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 33A. 132 INT. PRECINCT CAPTAIN'S OFFICE - MORNING OPENING ON Agent Neeley's face. Composed, clean-cut, but * intense, wearing a light-colored business suit. PAN TO Agent Halloran -- the same upright, clean-shaven bureau look. The two men are seated to one side of LIEUTENANT FRED STROZAH. 133 NICO, JACKSON, LUKICH AND DEA AND ATF MEN sit and stand in various postures in front of the Lieutenant's desk. LIEUTENANT STROZAH (to Nico, DEA & AIF) -- This is no reflection on the work you officers have done. I feel, and the whole department feels, extremely proud of your initiative and gallantry. That "spare me the horseshit" look on Nico's face. He's fuming. Strozah sees Nico's bitter expression. It's on the others' faces too. LIEUTENANT STROZAH As all of you are well aware, possession of these explosives is a federal offense and under jurisdiction of the F.B.I. Nico's eyes meet Lieutenant Strozah's. There's respect between the two, but it's plainly under a helluva strain. NICO Sir. With all respect to our brothers in the Bureau -- (biting sarcasm; turns to Neeley) * -- That's no answer. It's no answer to why one of the biggest dealers in the city is out on the street now, free as a bird! Agent Neeley stiffens. * LIEUTENANT STROZAH Keep it in your pants, Nico. These men have a job to do, just like us. Nico stifles his outrage. The other cops exchange glances -- upset and angry. Agent Neeley clears his throat. * AGENT NEELEY * Lieutenant, I think these officers are entitled to a fuller explanation. (MORE) ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 34. AGENT NEELEY (CONT'D) They've risked their lives. I understand one man is in the hospital. He speaks to the officers. AGENT NEELEY * What I'm about to say doesn't leave this room. Is that clear? Assent from everyone. AGENT NEELEY * Mr. Salvano has been working for some time in cooperation with certain federal agencies. 134 CLOSE - NICO'S FACE Stunned and furious at this royal fuck-up. AGENT NEELEY (O.S.) * I'm not at liberty to divulge the nature of Mr. Salvano's involvement -- I just learned of its existence myself a few hours ago. But one thing I can tell you -- 135 BACK TO AGENT NEELEY * AGENT NEELEY * Mr. Salvano's role is crucial to an extremely sensitive ongoing investigation. Any further surveillance, harassment, or unauthorized operations against this individual are forbidden. I must order you gentlemen -- (looking straight at Nico) -- with all respect for your work and your courage, to stand down. Lukich shakes his head; Nico is devastated. Jackson takes it all in. CUT TO: 136 INT. POLICE SQUAD ROOM - MORNING OPENING CLOSE ON a desk drawer being opened. Aside from rounds of ammo, notes and an aging eggplant parmigiana sandwich, there are half a dozen hand-labeled audio- cassettes and a small collection of miniaturized bugging devices. Jackson and Lukich watch Nico take out the notes, hand them to Lieutenant Strozah. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 35. LIEUTENANT STROZAH The tapes too. NICO (mocking) That's my Lawrence Welk collection! LIEUTENANT STROZAH I want everything you got on this one. Reluctantly, Nico hands over the tapes. The Lieutenant eyes the bugs and wires. LIEUTENANT STROZAH I know you don't give a shit about yourself, Toscani. (a glance to Jax) But you're gonna put Jackson's ass in a sling, too, with these illegal wires. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 35A. * 136A OTHER SIDE OF SQUAD ROOM Agent Halloran edges up to Jackson, who's grabbing coffee on the far side of the squad room, and watching from there as Nico gives Strozah more of a hard time. AGENT HALLORAN What's the story on your partner, Jackson? Did he learn this style or was he born with a brick up his ass? Jackson checks Halloran out. He's black too and, despite herself, there's a certain rapport. JACKSON He has ethics. Unlike certain others on this case. Halloran watches the illegal bugs and tapes come out of Nico's drawer. AGENT HALLORAN His 'ethics' are gonna cost him his badge and his gun. This "white" talk gives Jackson a pain. She slips into her jive mode. JACKSON You don't wanna catch him without no gun. Halloran's look asks why not? JACKSON 'Cause what he do with his hands... make bullet holes look pretty. Across the room, Nico turns over the tapes. AGENT HALLORAN He bad? JACKSON Bad bad. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 36. 137 INT. PRECINCT HOUSE - STAIRWAY - DAY Nico and Jackson come down the stairs. Jackson has had ample excitement for her last week on the force. JACKSON Is that enough? Can we do something normal now -- like eat lunch? NICO Anything you say, Jax. How about Salvano's? JACKSON Let it be, Nico. 138 EXT. PRECINCT HOUSE - DAY Nico and Jackson's car pulls out into traffic. 139 INT. UNMARKED CAR - PARKED (ALLEY BEHIND SALVANO'S) Jackson and Nico are eating some fast good. Nico reaches to his jacket pocket; takes out a cassette. JACKSON What... you kept his tape, too? Nico already has it in the PLAYER. We hear FRAGMENTS of the telephone tap from the body shop in Spanish and English. Jackson looks frustrated. Nico listens care- fully to what appears to be the taped PHONE CONVERSATION. NICO Poetry, ain't it? 140 EXT. REAR SALVANO'S RESTAURANT - DAY (POV FROM CAR) The pimp (busboy) comes out and dumps a load of garbage. 141 INT. UNMARKED CAR - DAY Nico and Jackson case the restaurant from down the alley. 142 EXT. REAR SALVANO'S - NICO'S POV - DAY From the restaurant door, Salvano and Chi Chi emerge. They get into a black Cadillac and pull out. * NICO (O.S.) And now for some dessert. 143 SERIES OF SHOTS As Nico's car tails Salvano's through various streets. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 37. 144 EXT. OAK STREET Salvano comes out of a fancy flower shop with a bimbo on his arm. He kisses her goodbye and puts her in a cab. NICO (O.S.) And that must be Mrs. Sal. So nice to see married couples still in love. 144A NICO AND JACKSON are hidden, waiting. 144B CHI CHI emerges from a dry cleaner's with a suit on a hanger. * 145 EXT. ST. ELIZABETH'S PARISH CHURCH - DAY Salvano's Caddy pulls up outside the same church where we * saw Nico's son get baptized. Salvano and Chi Chi get out, look both ways up and down the street. Salvano, holding * flowers, makes eye contact with a car down the block. * 146 EXT. STREET UP BLOCK FROM CHURCH - DAY Nico's car backs out of sight around the corner. 147 SIDEWALK IN FRONT OF CHURCH Salvano and Chi Chi, seeing nothing, enter the church. 148 INT. CHURCH - DAY A smattering of older women and men praying. Salvano and Chi Chi stop at the head of the aisle, genuflect to the altar, move in, take seats toward the front. 149 BACK OF CHURCH Nico and Jackson slip in the front door, glide silently into the shadows at the rear of the church. JACKSON This is your mother's church, isn't it? NICO Yeah. But I bet she's never seen these boys in the choir. 150 NICO'S POV Salvano's head is bowed, but Chi Chi is looking around quite carefully. Nico and Jackson fade into the shadows behind the huge pillars. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 37A. 151 SALVANO AND CHI CHI After a few moments, the pair rises. They cross them- selves, start out for the front door. As they walk, they continue to look for something. 152 INT. CHURCH - DAY * Nico and Jackson emerge into a courtyard which reveals a day care center and a rectory. They head toward the front of the building. Jackson, planning on picking up their tail on Salvano, is stoped by Nico. He wants to stay and look around. 38. FATHER GENARRO (O.S.) Nicola! That can't be you in church without the family! Nico turns to see Father Genarro, perspiring in a baggy sweatshirt, a handball glove on his hand. The courtyard alongside the church is marked off as an athletic area. NICO Father Genarro. The priest seizes Nico's hand warmly, smiles at Jackson. FATHER GENARRO This must be your partner in crime. (shakes her hand) I'm Father Genarro. I saw you at the baptismal party. (with a wink to Nico) What

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How many times the word 'colon' appears in the text?

with Lucy. Jackson, standing in the doorway, has seen all this. 64 INT. UNMARKED CAR - MOVING - DAY Nico at the wheel has just pulled away from the bakery. Jackson, in the passenger seat, studies her partner for a few moments, shaking her head at the contradictions in this man. Educated, classy, an elegant dresser -- yet underneath an out-and-out wild man. JACKSON I don't get you, Toscani. (beat) What the hell are you doing being a shitheel cop? With your background? For a long moment Nico says nothing. Then, quietly, look- ing straight ahead: NICO When I was overseas, I saw some things. Things that eat your guts out. Things that stay in front of your eyes like they were burned in and branded. He turns to Jackson. NICO You can walk away from them, Jax. You can quit, but you know it's still going on. You try something anyway -- (smiles a moment) -- I know I'm not going to change the world. I can't stop the tonnage coming in, I can't fight the boys behind the desks pushing their buttons -- ANGLE INCLUDING MEAN STREETS OUTSIDE NICO But maybe here, huh? (indicates street) Maybe in my own city, my own neighborhood, on my own block -- maybe here I can do something. He turns a corner. NICO That's why I'm a shitheel cop. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 20A. * 64A INT. POLICE STATION - DAY Behind the desk, a few detectives man the phones. A Latin attorney, ABANDANO, is at the counter. COP (O.S.) You can see your client. As soon as she's through eating her dinner. 65 INT. POLICE LOCKUP - "CAGE" AND HALLWAY - EVENING Hookers, female addicts, etc. in the downtown "cage." Nico has the girl in the red dress and lizard shoes (CARLA DECARLO) out in the hallway adjacent to the lock- up. Nico is Mr. Charm, offering her a heart-shaped box of chocolates. NICO Carla... Carla -- I just want the name of your boyfriend -- CARLA I got 200 boyfriends. The hooker, Carla DeCarlo, slaps the box away, cursing in Spanish. 21. CARLA Pinchi cabron, cabeza colon! Some of the chocolates tumble onto the lockup floor, the detainees snap them up, start munching. The girl con- tinues to spit curses at Nico, gesturing with her hands with Latin flamboyance. Nico grabs her by the elbow, as a jailer opens the lockup door. More curses are being flung at Nico from various females in the cage. Nico heaves Carla in among them. Carla flops down on a bench next to a tall black hooker. MOVE IN ON the black hooker. It's Nico's partner, Jackson, dolled up like a street- walker, playing her undercover role to the hilt. JACKSON (to Nico) Why can't you sons-a-bitches ever treat someone with a little respect? NICO (walking away) Take it easy, sister. JACKSON I ain't your goddamn sister. We ain't got the same mother, motherfucka. Carla fires one final parting salvo of obscenities, then sags back among the women. Carla starts to cry. Jackson comforts her; Carla responds, lets herself be comforted. CUT TO: 66 EXT. DOWNTOWN - FINANCIAL DISTRICT - DAY Jackson, back in her normal daytime wear, exits a building. She gets into Nico's car. 67 INT. CAR - DAY Jackson checks her makeup in the rearview mirror. Nico sits behind the wheel. The two are on some kind of stakeout. JACKSON The lawyer's name is Abandano. He's on the third floor. I got a look at him. I couldn't get how he's connected, but according to Carla, he's a lousy lay. NICO Maybe we can bust him for that. Jackson spots something, gestures subtly out window -- ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 22. 68 EXT. DOWNTOWN BUILDING - DAY A short, slick-looking Latin man in a business suit emerges from the building. JACKSON That's our stud. Nico and Jackson leave their car and follow him on foot. 69 EXT. FINANCIAL DISTRICT - BANK - DAY ABANDANO meets a striking-looking middle-aged woman in front of a stately financial institution. They go in. Jackson remains out on the street, while Nico follows the couple in. 70 LATER Jackson has been waiting, sipping some coffee. Nico emerges from the bank, signaling to his partner to follow him. Abandano and the woman exit from the bank's revol- ving doors and immediately jump into a cab. Nico and Jackson look at each other and step in front of another cab. Nico opens the cab door, flips his badge open, then asks the occupant to leave. Jackson gets in the front seat next to the protesting cabbie. 71 EXT. FEDERAL BUILDING - DAY Abandano and the woman are crossing the plaza as Nico and Jackson run up the block. Near the entrance to the Federal * Building, a small but vocal group of protestors are * gathered, carrying signs and chanting slogans. The frus- * trated cabbie watches them in the background. 72 PLAZA Jackson and Nico watch Abandano and the woman pass the * crowd of demonstrators and enter the building. Jackson acts * indifferent, almost frustrated; Nico keenly senses something. CUT TO: 73 INT. EXPENSIVE RESTAURANT ("BOGOTA") - DAY * The main dining room. No customers, just busboys readying tables for the evening's business. We notice one of the * busboys is the "pimp" Nico found with Lucy. * 74 BOOTH NEAR BACK HALLWAY The owner's table. Stacks of dining checks, a cashbox and calculator, full ashtrays, wine glasses. BAUTISTA SALVANO, a heavyset, swarthy Venezuelan dressed in a tux with the collar open, glowers across the table at a mus- cular, scar-faced Latin busboy -- the kind who looks like he does more for his boss than clean up the tables. The busboy (NARDO) is nervous, apologetic -- ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 23. SALVANO (pissed off) -- I brought you in for your muscles, Nardo, not your mouth. NARDO (scared) I'm sorry, boss. SALVANO Your English is getting good... You're showing it off. Showing it off on the street -- NARDO I keep quiet. I never talk no more -- Salvano glowers at Nardo like he's about to punch him. Instead he reaches over, playfully chokes the busboy -- then releases him, as if all is forgiven. SALVANO Make yourself useful. (indicates empty wine bottle on table) Get downstairs, bring me one of these. (as Nardo stands, starts for back hallway) Then get back to work. 75 INT. RESTAURANT BASEMENT STOREROOM - LATE AFTERNOON Nardo enters at the top of the stairs, radiating relief. He trots down into the empty basement, toward a floor-to- ceiling wine rack. NARDO (to himself) I thought I was dead, man. (whistles with relief) I thought I was fucking dead. He crosses to the wine rack. It's dark, hard to see. He searches for the bottle. Suddenly: a METALLIC sound behind him. Nardo turns -- CHI CHI TESTAMENTE, a wiry, pock-faced Latino, stands in the shadows (it is clear he has been waiting there, hiding) -- holding a small silencer automatic. CHI CHI You were right, cabron. * ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 24. One SHOT between the eyes and Nardo CRASHES backward into the WINE RACK, eyes wide with shock and bewilderment. Chi Chi SHOOTS him AGAIN; Nardo drops like a stone. Coolly, professionally, Chi Chi pumps FOUR more SHOTS into the prone busboy's head. Chi Chi ejects the clip into his palm, unscrews the silencer, holsters the gun. Salvano appears at the top of the stairs. Two busboys are behind him. One of them is the young pimp. The busboys hurry * down, the pimp -- scared shitless but playing it macho-cool. * Salvano comes down the stairs. Chi Chi stands over his work. SALVANO (to busboys) Clean up this mess. CHI CHI * Who knows who else is talking -- * SALVANO * He was a young fool. * 76 BACK IN UPSTAIRS DINING ROOM Salvano and Chi Chi emerge from the basement steps and walk toward their booth. CHI CHI We're crazy waiting for this bullshit 'shipment.' Let me waste the other fucker now. Salvano puts a hand on Chi Chi's shoulder. SALVANO Be patient. This will be done the way it was planned. CUT TO: 77 EXT. BODY AND FENDER SHOP - NIGHT Rusting cyclone fences surround a mud-lot repair yard in a dingy industrial section. Young Lation and black workers finish up for the night; through the dirty, security-barred office window we can see Chi Chi talking on the phone. The lawyer, Abandano, is also there. 78 EXT. ALLEY - REAR OF SHOP - NIGHT Nico finishes connecting a small transmitter which has been hastily wired to the entering phone line. 79 INT. UNMARKED CAR - NIGHT Nico and Jackson in the shadows down the street from the body shop. Nico wears earphones, a small tape recorder on the seat beside him. Jackson does not look happy. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 25. JACKSON Toscani, you're going to have me doing time. NICO Lighten up, Jax. No one's bringing this into court. JACKSON Except against us. NICO I don't give a shit how we do it. I just wanna get there. Jackson gives Nico a dirty look, but stifles her protest. JACKSON I thought you said you were gonna protect me. Cover my butt. Be my guardian angel -- Nico hears something through the earphones. Gestures for silence -- 80 ANGLE THROUGH OFFICE WINDOW Chi Chi listens with increased intensity to something on the phone. He starts writing it down -- 81 BACK TO NICO In unmarked car. He's writing it down too. NICO I got the shipment. * JACKSON What? What's he saying? NICO (scribbling furiously) '... Engine block has cleared customs. Serial number VA-748. Pick up Tuesday, 3 May as authorized.' 82 EXT. BODY SHOP - NIGHT Chi Chi emerges from the office, tucking a scrap of paper into his pocket. Abandano follows. They get into a late-model Lincoln which pulls out onto the street. * 83 EXT. STREET - NIGHT Nico and Jackson's car follows at a discreet distance. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 26. NICO (V.O.) Unit Ten Tango X-ray. I need a vehicle registration I.D. POLICE RADIO (V.O.) Go ahead, please. NICO (V.O.) '86 Lincoln. Illinois 354 Dog '67. * 84 INT. UNMARKED CAR - MOVING - NIGHT Jackson picks up Nico's pad to take down the response. After a moment: POLICE RADIO (V.O.) Vehicle registration follows. Leaseholder: Ramon Testamente, registered alien. Nation of origin: Venezuela. Do you wish criminal record search? NICO (into mike) I want to know when he wipes his * behind. * 85 SERIES OF SHOTS As Nico and Jackson tail the Lincoln out of the industrial zone into a fancier, non-Latin neighborhood. On the sidewalks we glimpse theatergoers, fashionable white couples out on the town. 86 LINCOLN Pulls up to a valet park outside a ton-y restaurant. A sign says: "BOGOTA." * 87 INT. UNMARKED CAR - MOVING Nico and Jackson exchange a glance. JACKSON Salvano? NICO Jackpot. 88 EXT. RESTAURANT - NIGHT Chi Chi and Abandano get out of their car, a valet takes it, Chi Chi enters the restaurant. 89 INT. SALVANO'S RESTAURANT - NIGHT Nico and Jackson enter the main dining room, which we recognize from the scene with Nardo the busboy. 27. The place is packed with fashionable people of all races. A band plays salsa; couples dance. Nico and Jackson pass easily as a hip "uptown" couple. A pretty Latin HOSTESS approaches them. HOSTESS Two for dinner? NICO Two for drinks. They elbow up to the packed bar, standing. Nico squints toward the rear dining room. 90 NICO'S POV - DOWN BAR Looking past numerous patrons, we see Chi Chi whisper something to a waiter and take a seat at a rear table (the same "owner's table" where Salvano sat before.) The waiter hurries off into a back hallway. 91 NICO AND JACKSON - AT BAR Jackson moves to the salsa beat. A BARMAID approaches. JACKSON Gimme something stiff. I need it. BARMAID Who doesn't? Nico's eyes never leave Chi Chi. 92 REAR DINING ROOM From the back hallway Salvano emerges -- in his tux, looking prosperous. He sits down beside Chi Chi and Abandano. A waitress brings two drinks. After a few words, Chi Chi removes the scrap of paper from his pocket, hands it to Salvano. NICO (O.S.) You'll have your engine block next Tuesday, boss. 93 BACK TO NICO AND JACKSON As the Barmaid brings their drinks. Jackson sees her peaceful week to retirement flying out the window. JACKSON Why couldn't it be a week from Tuesday? I could read about it in the paper. Nico grabs her waist, pulls her onto the dance floor, and does a playful twirl. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 28. NICO Cheer up, partner. I'm gonna make you famous. 94 EXT. WHOLESALE MEAT AREA - DAY * Track spurs, greasy streets, parked fork lifts. 94A EXT. ROOF - DAY * Lieutenant Strozah surveys the street traffic. * 95 NICO, JACKSON AND LUKICH The two men, dressed as meat processors in hard hats and bloody white coats, rake cattle guts under the eave of a packing plant. Jackson, dressed like a USDA Inspector and * carrying a clipboard, inspects a few hanging carcasses. JACKSON You missed a few spots, boys. LUKICH I'm takin' it home t'a make kilbasa, boss. Luke casts an impatient glance across the street to a lot with four parked meat trucks. We glimpse two "truckers" keeping low in the shadows of one cab. Down the block a seemingly empty pickup truck is parked in an alley. LUKICH This ain't a bust -- it's a convention. NICO Don't you like company, Luke? (sarcastic) We got all the scouts here -- Drug Enforcement Agency, the Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms -- WALKIE-TALKIE (V.O.) Keep this channel clear, Toscani. We realize Nico, Jackson and Lukich are wired, with mikes out of sight under their coats. Nico glances to the pick- up, near to which three men can be spotted in the alley. Apparently one of them is the walkie-talkie voice. NICO (into mike) This is our channel, dickhead. And our collar. ANOTHER WALKIE-TALKIE (V.O.) That's enough, all of you! Keep this channel clear. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 28A. 96 ANGLE ON MEAT PLANT - DAY Nothing happening. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 29. 97 ANOTHER ANGLE Dead as hell. 98 NICO, LUKICH AND JACKSON Bored, pissed off, tired. Suddenly: 99 BATTERED VAN WITH TWO MEN emerges from a corner, two blocks down. It starts slowly this way. 1ST WALKIE-TALKIE (V.O.) All right. Everyone get their heads outa their ass. The meat truck men duck down out of sight, the pickup men back into the shadows. Nico and Lukich keep raking cow guts. The van passes slowly, checking out the area. JACKSON (sarcastic) '... And so I quit the police department... got myself a steady job -- ' The van accelerates slightly, turns a corner, vanishes. Silence. LUKICH * They spotted me. I'm too good- looking to be a meat slopper. * 1ST WALKIE-TALKIE (V.O.) Will you hot dogs shut up? The van returns. On a cross street. Heading behind the packing plant. NICO * (to Lukich) * You're too ugly. Now a second car appears. The Lincoln. Behind it is an ancient station wagon. Both vehicles take a different cross street, but both heading behind the packing plant. NICO (into hidden mike) Here we go, boys and girls -- (to Jackson) You stay put. * As soon as the two vehicles pass out of sight, Nico and Lukich ditch their rakes, dart into the packing plant. The meat truck men START their TRUCK. 30. The pickup men board their vehicle -- Jackson follows Nico and Luke -- but at a safe distance. 100 INT. PACKING PLANT - DAY Nico and Lukich sprint in a crouch past the blood runoffs, meat cutting tables -- 101 NICO'S POV - RUNNING THROUGH the windows at the rear of the plant, we see the station wagon and the van, pulling up swiftly beside one another, men getting out -- 102 INT. PLANT Nico and Lukich draw their guns, running full-tilt. NICO (into hidden miki) It's going down now. Move! 103 EXT. REAR OF PACKING PLANT - DAY The station wagon men heave their rear door open, the van men start to open their side door. The Lincoln is stopped at a distance. Suddenly -- 104 NICO AND LUKICH burst from the rear door of the packing plant, guns drawn. LUKICH Police! 105 QUICK CUTS - VAN AND STATION WAGON MEN grab for their weapons -- 106 COPS IN MEAT TRUCK AND PICKUP come highballing around both sides of the packing plant -- 107 VAN AND STATION WAGON MEN OPEN FIRE. There is confusion and mayhem; it's not clear who's a cop and who's a criminal. 108 NICO AND LUKICH dive for cover, RETURNING FIRE. The DEA men in one truck also OPEN UP. One of the van men is hit between the eyes. MACHINE GUN FIRE rakes the DEA truck; it spins out of control; flips. Lukich SHOOTS the machine-gunner. LUKICH (shouts; points) Nico! The Lincoln! 31. 109 LINCOLN starts to PEEL OUT. We glimpse Chi Chi in the driver's seat, Salvano on the passenger side. 110 NICO steps in front of the accelerating Lincoln, raises his .45. 111 INT. LINCOLN - DAY Salvano and Chi Chi dive below the dash and continue forward. Salvano, in the passenger seat, raises his GUN; FIRES blindly -- trying to hit Nico. 112 EXT. LINCOLN - DAY Nico UNLOADS his .45 into the windshield and the firewall. The Lincoln keeps coming down the narrow alley. 113 NICO brazenly steps up onto the hood and dives, grabbing onto the roof. 114 INT. LINCOLN - DAY Salvano can't believe it. He screams something in Spanish. He FIRES again, this time through the roof. 115 EXT. LINCOLN - ROOF - DAY Bullet holes appear. Nico narrowly misses being hit. 116 ANOTHER ANGLE - LINCOLN Nico reaches over the side of the car and SMASHES the pas- senger WINDOW with his fist. 117 CLOSEUP - NICO'S HAND Salvano's face is bashed. Nico's huge hand grabs Salvano's throat; he won't let go. 118 CLOSEUP - NICO He hangs on with one hand. 119 CLOSEUP - SALVANO Nico's fingers now dig into Salvano's larynx; he may never talk again. He's gagging. Salvano now points the gun at Chi Chi. Chi Chi makes the decision to stop the car in order to save his boss. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 32. 120 NICO leaps off the roof pulling Salvano past the broken glass, out of the window. 121 SEVERAL POLICE VEHICLES * SCREECH into the lot. Officers pour out, guns drawn, surrounding the Lincoln and the other vehicles. Jackson joins them, weapon in hand. 122 NICO drags Salvano by the neck across the lot to the van, slamming the drug dealer up against the van's side. Lukich, Jackson and Strozah are there, with the DEA cops, * all covering the other men. NICO (to Salvano) How many kilos you got in there, Skivuzo? Salvano couldn't answer if he wanted to. The other cops look at Nico with awe. Lukich whips the van door open, yanks a tarp off the cargo. 123 INT. VAN The engine block sits in a wooden shipping frame, wrapped with industrial plastic. Nico climbs into the van, rips the plastic sheeting off, grabs the wood slats of the shipping frame, tears them off. In the background, ambulances are arriving to care for the wounded cops and criminals. 124 CLOSEUP - ENGINE BLOCK From the cylinder heads emerges a full load, not of drugs, but of plastique tubes labeled U.S. ARMY C-4 HIGH EXPLOSIVE. 125 LUKICH, JACKSON AND OTHER COPS react with surprise and shock. 126 NICO rips open one of tubes and smells it. 127 CLOSE - NICO Confused; frustrated. NICO What kinda fuckin' high is this? CUT TO: ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 33. 128 INT. FBI OFFICE - NIGHT OPENING ON SALVANO, in a chair, looking bruised and swollen, and wearing an expression of fuming indignation. SALVANO -- I'll tell you what this cop is. He's a fucking menace! 129 TWO FBI AGENTS (NEELEY AND HALLORAN) * face Salvano, Chi Chi and the lawyer Abandano (apparently representing Salvano and Chi Chi). Neeley is on the phone. * Pictures of Reagan and Meese are prominent on the wall. SALVANO You see what he did to me?! AGENT HALLORAN Your problem is being handled right now, Mr. Salv -- SALVANO Yeah? Well, it shoulda been handled twelve hours ago. I don't know who's running this outfit, but somebody better get his goddamn wires straight! AGENT NEELEY * (into phone) -- yes, sir... yes, sir, I understand -- SALVANO That maniac should be wearing a number, not a badge. Salvano knows what the call is about. He straightens the tie beneath his bruised neck, assuming the attitude of a respectable citizen who has been unjustly wronged. AGENT NEELEY * (into phone) -- count on it, sir. Right. You'll have our full cooperation. Neeley hangs up. Glances dubiously to Halloran. Then turns * grimly to Salvano, Chi Chi and the lawyer Abandano. AGENT NEELEY * You're free to go. 130 OMITTED 131 INT. FEDERAL BUILDING - LOBBY - NIGHT * The hoods and their lawyer smugly walk past a cleaning woman. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 33A. 132 INT. PRECINCT CAPTAIN'S OFFICE - MORNING OPENING ON Agent Neeley's face. Composed, clean-cut, but * intense, wearing a light-colored business suit. PAN TO Agent Halloran -- the same upright, clean-shaven bureau look. The two men are seated to one side of LIEUTENANT FRED STROZAH. 133 NICO, JACKSON, LUKICH AND DEA AND ATF MEN sit and stand in various postures in front of the Lieutenant's desk. LIEUTENANT STROZAH (to Nico, DEA & AIF) -- This is no reflection on the work you officers have done. I feel, and the whole department feels, extremely proud of your initiative and gallantry. That "spare me the horseshit" look on Nico's face. He's fuming. Strozah sees Nico's bitter expression. It's on the others' faces too. LIEUTENANT STROZAH As all of you are well aware, possession of these explosives is a federal offense and under jurisdiction of the F.B.I. Nico's eyes meet Lieutenant Strozah's. There's respect between the two, but it's plainly under a helluva strain. NICO Sir. With all respect to our brothers in the Bureau -- (biting sarcasm; turns to Neeley) * -- That's no answer. It's no answer to why one of the biggest dealers in the city is out on the street now, free as a bird! Agent Neeley stiffens. * LIEUTENANT STROZAH Keep it in your pants, Nico. These men have a job to do, just like us. Nico stifles his outrage. The other cops exchange glances -- upset and angry. Agent Neeley clears his throat. * AGENT NEELEY * Lieutenant, I think these officers are entitled to a fuller explanation. (MORE) ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 34. AGENT NEELEY (CONT'D) They've risked their lives. I understand one man is in the hospital. He speaks to the officers. AGENT NEELEY * What I'm about to say doesn't leave this room. Is that clear? Assent from everyone. AGENT NEELEY * Mr. Salvano has been working for some time in cooperation with certain federal agencies. 134 CLOSE - NICO'S FACE Stunned and furious at this royal fuck-up. AGENT NEELEY (O.S.) * I'm not at liberty to divulge the nature of Mr. Salvano's involvement -- I just learned of its existence myself a few hours ago. But one thing I can tell you -- 135 BACK TO AGENT NEELEY * AGENT NEELEY * Mr. Salvano's role is crucial to an extremely sensitive ongoing investigation. Any further surveillance, harassment, or unauthorized operations against this individual are forbidden. I must order you gentlemen -- (looking straight at Nico) -- with all respect for your work and your courage, to stand down. Lukich shakes his head; Nico is devastated. Jackson takes it all in. CUT TO: 136 INT. POLICE SQUAD ROOM - MORNING OPENING CLOSE ON a desk drawer being opened. Aside from rounds of ammo, notes and an aging eggplant parmigiana sandwich, there are half a dozen hand-labeled audio- cassettes and a small collection of miniaturized bugging devices. Jackson and Lukich watch Nico take out the notes, hand them to Lieutenant Strozah. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 35. LIEUTENANT STROZAH The tapes too. NICO (mocking) That's my Lawrence Welk collection! LIEUTENANT STROZAH I want everything you got on this one. Reluctantly, Nico hands over the tapes. The Lieutenant eyes the bugs and wires. LIEUTENANT STROZAH I know you don't give a shit about yourself, Toscani. (a glance to Jax) But you're gonna put Jackson's ass in a sling, too, with these illegal wires. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 35A. * 136A OTHER SIDE OF SQUAD ROOM Agent Halloran edges up to Jackson, who's grabbing coffee on the far side of the squad room, and watching from there as Nico gives Strozah more of a hard time. AGENT HALLORAN What's the story on your partner, Jackson? Did he learn this style or was he born with a brick up his ass? Jackson checks Halloran out. He's black too and, despite herself, there's a certain rapport. JACKSON He has ethics. Unlike certain others on this case. Halloran watches the illegal bugs and tapes come out of Nico's drawer. AGENT HALLORAN His 'ethics' are gonna cost him his badge and his gun. This "white" talk gives Jackson a pain. She slips into her jive mode. JACKSON You don't wanna catch him without no gun. Halloran's look asks why not? JACKSON 'Cause what he do with his hands... make bullet holes look pretty. Across the room, Nico turns over the tapes. AGENT HALLORAN He bad? JACKSON Bad bad. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 36. 137 INT. PRECINCT HOUSE - STAIRWAY - DAY Nico and Jackson come down the stairs. Jackson has had ample excitement for her last week on the force. JACKSON Is that enough? Can we do something normal now -- like eat lunch? NICO Anything you say, Jax. How about Salvano's? JACKSON Let it be, Nico. 138 EXT. PRECINCT HOUSE - DAY Nico and Jackson's car pulls out into traffic. 139 INT. UNMARKED CAR - PARKED (ALLEY BEHIND SALVANO'S) Jackson and Nico are eating some fast good. Nico reaches to his jacket pocket; takes out a cassette. JACKSON What... you kept his tape, too? Nico already has it in the PLAYER. We hear FRAGMENTS of the telephone tap from the body shop in Spanish and English. Jackson looks frustrated. Nico listens care- fully to what appears to be the taped PHONE CONVERSATION. NICO Poetry, ain't it? 140 EXT. REAR SALVANO'S RESTAURANT - DAY (POV FROM CAR) The pimp (busboy) comes out and dumps a load of garbage. 141 INT. UNMARKED CAR - DAY Nico and Jackson case the restaurant from down the alley. 142 EXT. REAR SALVANO'S - NICO'S POV - DAY From the restaurant door, Salvano and Chi Chi emerge. They get into a black Cadillac and pull out. * NICO (O.S.) And now for some dessert. 143 SERIES OF SHOTS As Nico's car tails Salvano's through various streets. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 37. 144 EXT. OAK STREET Salvano comes out of a fancy flower shop with a bimbo on his arm. He kisses her goodbye and puts her in a cab. NICO (O.S.) And that must be Mrs. Sal. So nice to see married couples still in love. 144A NICO AND JACKSON are hidden, waiting. 144B CHI CHI emerges from a dry cleaner's with a suit on a hanger. * 145 EXT. ST. ELIZABETH'S PARISH CHURCH - DAY Salvano's Caddy pulls up outside the same church where we * saw Nico's son get baptized. Salvano and Chi Chi get out, look both ways up and down the street. Salvano, holding * flowers, makes eye contact with a car down the block. * 146 EXT. STREET UP BLOCK FROM CHURCH - DAY Nico's car backs out of sight around the corner. 147 SIDEWALK IN FRONT OF CHURCH Salvano and Chi Chi, seeing nothing, enter the church. 148 INT. CHURCH - DAY A smattering of older women and men praying. Salvano and Chi Chi stop at the head of the aisle, genuflect to the altar, move in, take seats toward the front. 149 BACK OF CHURCH Nico and Jackson slip in the front door, glide silently into the shadows at the rear of the church. JACKSON This is your mother's church, isn't it? NICO Yeah. But I bet she's never seen these boys in the choir. 150 NICO'S POV Salvano's head is bowed, but Chi Chi is looking around quite carefully. Nico and Jackson fade into the shadows behind the huge pillars. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 37A. 151 SALVANO AND CHI CHI After a few moments, the pair rises. They cross them- selves, start out for the front door. As they walk, they continue to look for something. 152 INT. CHURCH - DAY * Nico and Jackson emerge into a courtyard which reveals a day care center and a rectory. They head toward the front of the building. Jackson, planning on picking up their tail on Salvano, is stoped by Nico. He wants to stay and look around. 38. FATHER GENARRO (O.S.) Nicola! That can't be you in church without the family! Nico turns to see Father Genarro, perspiring in a baggy sweatshirt, a handball glove on his hand. The courtyard alongside the church is marked off as an athletic area. NICO Father Genarro. The priest seizes Nico's hand warmly, smiles at Jackson. FATHER GENARRO This must be your partner in crime. (shakes her hand) I'm Father Genarro. I saw you at the baptismal party. (with a wink to Nico) What

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How many times the word 'chocolates' appears in the text?

with Lucy. Jackson, standing in the doorway, has seen all this. 64 INT. UNMARKED CAR - MOVING - DAY Nico at the wheel has just pulled away from the bakery. Jackson, in the passenger seat, studies her partner for a few moments, shaking her head at the contradictions in this man. Educated, classy, an elegant dresser -- yet underneath an out-and-out wild man. JACKSON I don't get you, Toscani. (beat) What the hell are you doing being a shitheel cop? With your background? For a long moment Nico says nothing. Then, quietly, look- ing straight ahead: NICO When I was overseas, I saw some things. Things that eat your guts out. Things that stay in front of your eyes like they were burned in and branded. He turns to Jackson. NICO You can walk away from them, Jax. You can quit, but you know it's still going on. You try something anyway -- (smiles a moment) -- I know I'm not going to change the world. I can't stop the tonnage coming in, I can't fight the boys behind the desks pushing their buttons -- ANGLE INCLUDING MEAN STREETS OUTSIDE NICO But maybe here, huh? (indicates street) Maybe in my own city, my own neighborhood, on my own block -- maybe here I can do something. He turns a corner. NICO That's why I'm a shitheel cop. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 20A. * 64A INT. POLICE STATION - DAY Behind the desk, a few detectives man the phones. A Latin attorney, ABANDANO, is at the counter. COP (O.S.) You can see your client. As soon as she's through eating her dinner. 65 INT. POLICE LOCKUP - "CAGE" AND HALLWAY - EVENING Hookers, female addicts, etc. in the downtown "cage." Nico has the girl in the red dress and lizard shoes (CARLA DECARLO) out in the hallway adjacent to the lock- up. Nico is Mr. Charm, offering her a heart-shaped box of chocolates. NICO Carla... Carla -- I just want the name of your boyfriend -- CARLA I got 200 boyfriends. The hooker, Carla DeCarlo, slaps the box away, cursing in Spanish. 21. CARLA Pinchi cabron, cabeza colon! Some of the chocolates tumble onto the lockup floor, the detainees snap them up, start munching. The girl con- tinues to spit curses at Nico, gesturing with her hands with Latin flamboyance. Nico grabs her by the elbow, as a jailer opens the lockup door. More curses are being flung at Nico from various females in the cage. Nico heaves Carla in among them. Carla flops down on a bench next to a tall black hooker. MOVE IN ON the black hooker. It's Nico's partner, Jackson, dolled up like a street- walker, playing her undercover role to the hilt. JACKSON (to Nico) Why can't you sons-a-bitches ever treat someone with a little respect? NICO (walking away) Take it easy, sister. JACKSON I ain't your goddamn sister. We ain't got the same mother, motherfucka. Carla fires one final parting salvo of obscenities, then sags back among the women. Carla starts to cry. Jackson comforts her; Carla responds, lets herself be comforted. CUT TO: 66 EXT. DOWNTOWN - FINANCIAL DISTRICT - DAY Jackson, back in her normal daytime wear, exits a building. She gets into Nico's car. 67 INT. CAR - DAY Jackson checks her makeup in the rearview mirror. Nico sits behind the wheel. The two are on some kind of stakeout. JACKSON The lawyer's name is Abandano. He's on the third floor. I got a look at him. I couldn't get how he's connected, but according to Carla, he's a lousy lay. NICO Maybe we can bust him for that. Jackson spots something, gestures subtly out window -- ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 22. 68 EXT. DOWNTOWN BUILDING - DAY A short, slick-looking Latin man in a business suit emerges from the building. JACKSON That's our stud. Nico and Jackson leave their car and follow him on foot. 69 EXT. FINANCIAL DISTRICT - BANK - DAY ABANDANO meets a striking-looking middle-aged woman in front of a stately financial institution. They go in. Jackson remains out on the street, while Nico follows the couple in. 70 LATER Jackson has been waiting, sipping some coffee. Nico emerges from the bank, signaling to his partner to follow him. Abandano and the woman exit from the bank's revol- ving doors and immediately jump into a cab. Nico and Jackson look at each other and step in front of another cab. Nico opens the cab door, flips his badge open, then asks the occupant to leave. Jackson gets in the front seat next to the protesting cabbie. 71 EXT. FEDERAL BUILDING - DAY Abandano and the woman are crossing the plaza as Nico and Jackson run up the block. Near the entrance to the Federal * Building, a small but vocal group of protestors are * gathered, carrying signs and chanting slogans. The frus- * trated cabbie watches them in the background. 72 PLAZA Jackson and Nico watch Abandano and the woman pass the * crowd of demonstrators and enter the building. Jackson acts * indifferent, almost frustrated; Nico keenly senses something. CUT TO: 73 INT. EXPENSIVE RESTAURANT ("BOGOTA") - DAY * The main dining room. No customers, just busboys readying tables for the evening's business. We notice one of the * busboys is the "pimp" Nico found with Lucy. * 74 BOOTH NEAR BACK HALLWAY The owner's table. Stacks of dining checks, a cashbox and calculator, full ashtrays, wine glasses. BAUTISTA SALVANO, a heavyset, swarthy Venezuelan dressed in a tux with the collar open, glowers across the table at a mus- cular, scar-faced Latin busboy -- the kind who looks like he does more for his boss than clean up the tables. The busboy (NARDO) is nervous, apologetic -- ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 23. SALVANO (pissed off) -- I brought you in for your muscles, Nardo, not your mouth. NARDO (scared) I'm sorry, boss. SALVANO Your English is getting good... You're showing it off. Showing it off on the street -- NARDO I keep quiet. I never talk no more -- Salvano glowers at Nardo like he's about to punch him. Instead he reaches over, playfully chokes the busboy -- then releases him, as if all is forgiven. SALVANO Make yourself useful. (indicates empty wine bottle on table) Get downstairs, bring me one of these. (as Nardo stands, starts for back hallway) Then get back to work. 75 INT. RESTAURANT BASEMENT STOREROOM - LATE AFTERNOON Nardo enters at the top of the stairs, radiating relief. He trots down into the empty basement, toward a floor-to- ceiling wine rack. NARDO (to himself) I thought I was dead, man. (whistles with relief) I thought I was fucking dead. He crosses to the wine rack. It's dark, hard to see. He searches for the bottle. Suddenly: a METALLIC sound behind him. Nardo turns -- CHI CHI TESTAMENTE, a wiry, pock-faced Latino, stands in the shadows (it is clear he has been waiting there, hiding) -- holding a small silencer automatic. CHI CHI You were right, cabron. * ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 24. One SHOT between the eyes and Nardo CRASHES backward into the WINE RACK, eyes wide with shock and bewilderment. Chi Chi SHOOTS him AGAIN; Nardo drops like a stone. Coolly, professionally, Chi Chi pumps FOUR more SHOTS into the prone busboy's head. Chi Chi ejects the clip into his palm, unscrews the silencer, holsters the gun. Salvano appears at the top of the stairs. Two busboys are behind him. One of them is the young pimp. The busboys hurry * down, the pimp -- scared shitless but playing it macho-cool. * Salvano comes down the stairs. Chi Chi stands over his work. SALVANO (to busboys) Clean up this mess. CHI CHI * Who knows who else is talking -- * SALVANO * He was a young fool. * 76 BACK IN UPSTAIRS DINING ROOM Salvano and Chi Chi emerge from the basement steps and walk toward their booth. CHI CHI We're crazy waiting for this bullshit 'shipment.' Let me waste the other fucker now. Salvano puts a hand on Chi Chi's shoulder. SALVANO Be patient. This will be done the way it was planned. CUT TO: 77 EXT. BODY AND FENDER SHOP - NIGHT Rusting cyclone fences surround a mud-lot repair yard in a dingy industrial section. Young Lation and black workers finish up for the night; through the dirty, security-barred office window we can see Chi Chi talking on the phone. The lawyer, Abandano, is also there. 78 EXT. ALLEY - REAR OF SHOP - NIGHT Nico finishes connecting a small transmitter which has been hastily wired to the entering phone line. 79 INT. UNMARKED CAR - NIGHT Nico and Jackson in the shadows down the street from the body shop. Nico wears earphones, a small tape recorder on the seat beside him. Jackson does not look happy. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 25. JACKSON Toscani, you're going to have me doing time. NICO Lighten up, Jax. No one's bringing this into court. JACKSON Except against us. NICO I don't give a shit how we do it. I just wanna get there. Jackson gives Nico a dirty look, but stifles her protest. JACKSON I thought you said you were gonna protect me. Cover my butt. Be my guardian angel -- Nico hears something through the earphones. Gestures for silence -- 80 ANGLE THROUGH OFFICE WINDOW Chi Chi listens with increased intensity to something on the phone. He starts writing it down -- 81 BACK TO NICO In unmarked car. He's writing it down too. NICO I got the shipment. * JACKSON What? What's he saying? NICO (scribbling furiously) '... Engine block has cleared customs. Serial number VA-748. Pick up Tuesday, 3 May as authorized.' 82 EXT. BODY SHOP - NIGHT Chi Chi emerges from the office, tucking a scrap of paper into his pocket. Abandano follows. They get into a late-model Lincoln which pulls out onto the street. * 83 EXT. STREET - NIGHT Nico and Jackson's car follows at a discreet distance. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 26. NICO (V.O.) Unit Ten Tango X-ray. I need a vehicle registration I.D. POLICE RADIO (V.O.) Go ahead, please. NICO (V.O.) '86 Lincoln. Illinois 354 Dog '67. * 84 INT. UNMARKED CAR - MOVING - NIGHT Jackson picks up Nico's pad to take down the response. After a moment: POLICE RADIO (V.O.) Vehicle registration follows. Leaseholder: Ramon Testamente, registered alien. Nation of origin: Venezuela. Do you wish criminal record search? NICO (into mike) I want to know when he wipes his * behind. * 85 SERIES OF SHOTS As Nico and Jackson tail the Lincoln out of the industrial zone into a fancier, non-Latin neighborhood. On the sidewalks we glimpse theatergoers, fashionable white couples out on the town. 86 LINCOLN Pulls up to a valet park outside a ton-y restaurant. A sign says: "BOGOTA." * 87 INT. UNMARKED CAR - MOVING Nico and Jackson exchange a glance. JACKSON Salvano? NICO Jackpot. 88 EXT. RESTAURANT - NIGHT Chi Chi and Abandano get out of their car, a valet takes it, Chi Chi enters the restaurant. 89 INT. SALVANO'S RESTAURANT - NIGHT Nico and Jackson enter the main dining room, which we recognize from the scene with Nardo the busboy. 27. The place is packed with fashionable people of all races. A band plays salsa; couples dance. Nico and Jackson pass easily as a hip "uptown" couple. A pretty Latin HOSTESS approaches them. HOSTESS Two for dinner? NICO Two for drinks. They elbow up to the packed bar, standing. Nico squints toward the rear dining room. 90 NICO'S POV - DOWN BAR Looking past numerous patrons, we see Chi Chi whisper something to a waiter and take a seat at a rear table (the same "owner's table" where Salvano sat before.) The waiter hurries off into a back hallway. 91 NICO AND JACKSON - AT BAR Jackson moves to the salsa beat. A BARMAID approaches. JACKSON Gimme something stiff. I need it. BARMAID Who doesn't? Nico's eyes never leave Chi Chi. 92 REAR DINING ROOM From the back hallway Salvano emerges -- in his tux, looking prosperous. He sits down beside Chi Chi and Abandano. A waitress brings two drinks. After a few words, Chi Chi removes the scrap of paper from his pocket, hands it to Salvano. NICO (O.S.) You'll have your engine block next Tuesday, boss. 93 BACK TO NICO AND JACKSON As the Barmaid brings their drinks. Jackson sees her peaceful week to retirement flying out the window. JACKSON Why couldn't it be a week from Tuesday? I could read about it in the paper. Nico grabs her waist, pulls her onto the dance floor, and does a playful twirl. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 28. NICO Cheer up, partner. I'm gonna make you famous. 94 EXT. WHOLESALE MEAT AREA - DAY * Track spurs, greasy streets, parked fork lifts. 94A EXT. ROOF - DAY * Lieutenant Strozah surveys the street traffic. * 95 NICO, JACKSON AND LUKICH The two men, dressed as meat processors in hard hats and bloody white coats, rake cattle guts under the eave of a packing plant. Jackson, dressed like a USDA Inspector and * carrying a clipboard, inspects a few hanging carcasses. JACKSON You missed a few spots, boys. LUKICH I'm takin' it home t'a make kilbasa, boss. Luke casts an impatient glance across the street to a lot with four parked meat trucks. We glimpse two "truckers" keeping low in the shadows of one cab. Down the block a seemingly empty pickup truck is parked in an alley. LUKICH This ain't a bust -- it's a convention. NICO Don't you like company, Luke? (sarcastic) We got all the scouts here -- Drug Enforcement Agency, the Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms -- WALKIE-TALKIE (V.O.) Keep this channel clear, Toscani. We realize Nico, Jackson and Lukich are wired, with mikes out of sight under their coats. Nico glances to the pick- up, near to which three men can be spotted in the alley. Apparently one of them is the walkie-talkie voice. NICO (into mike) This is our channel, dickhead. And our collar. ANOTHER WALKIE-TALKIE (V.O.) That's enough, all of you! Keep this channel clear. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 28A. 96 ANGLE ON MEAT PLANT - DAY Nothing happening. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 29. 97 ANOTHER ANGLE Dead as hell. 98 NICO, LUKICH AND JACKSON Bored, pissed off, tired. Suddenly: 99 BATTERED VAN WITH TWO MEN emerges from a corner, two blocks down. It starts slowly this way. 1ST WALKIE-TALKIE (V.O.) All right. Everyone get their heads outa their ass. The meat truck men duck down out of sight, the pickup men back into the shadows. Nico and Lukich keep raking cow guts. The van passes slowly, checking out the area. JACKSON (sarcastic) '... And so I quit the police department... got myself a steady job -- ' The van accelerates slightly, turns a corner, vanishes. Silence. LUKICH * They spotted me. I'm too good- looking to be a meat slopper. * 1ST WALKIE-TALKIE (V.O.) Will you hot dogs shut up? The van returns. On a cross street. Heading behind the packing plant. NICO * (to Lukich) * You're too ugly. Now a second car appears. The Lincoln. Behind it is an ancient station wagon. Both vehicles take a different cross street, but both heading behind the packing plant. NICO (into hidden mike) Here we go, boys and girls -- (to Jackson) You stay put. * As soon as the two vehicles pass out of sight, Nico and Lukich ditch their rakes, dart into the packing plant. The meat truck men START their TRUCK. 30. The pickup men board their vehicle -- Jackson follows Nico and Luke -- but at a safe distance. 100 INT. PACKING PLANT - DAY Nico and Lukich sprint in a crouch past the blood runoffs, meat cutting tables -- 101 NICO'S POV - RUNNING THROUGH the windows at the rear of the plant, we see the station wagon and the van, pulling up swiftly beside one another, men getting out -- 102 INT. PLANT Nico and Lukich draw their guns, running full-tilt. NICO (into hidden miki) It's going down now. Move! 103 EXT. REAR OF PACKING PLANT - DAY The station wagon men heave their rear door open, the van men start to open their side door. The Lincoln is stopped at a distance. Suddenly -- 104 NICO AND LUKICH burst from the rear door of the packing plant, guns drawn. LUKICH Police! 105 QUICK CUTS - VAN AND STATION WAGON MEN grab for their weapons -- 106 COPS IN MEAT TRUCK AND PICKUP come highballing around both sides of the packing plant -- 107 VAN AND STATION WAGON MEN OPEN FIRE. There is confusion and mayhem; it's not clear who's a cop and who's a criminal. 108 NICO AND LUKICH dive for cover, RETURNING FIRE. The DEA men in one truck also OPEN UP. One of the van men is hit between the eyes. MACHINE GUN FIRE rakes the DEA truck; it spins out of control; flips. Lukich SHOOTS the machine-gunner. LUKICH (shouts; points) Nico! The Lincoln! 31. 109 LINCOLN starts to PEEL OUT. We glimpse Chi Chi in the driver's seat, Salvano on the passenger side. 110 NICO steps in front of the accelerating Lincoln, raises his .45. 111 INT. LINCOLN - DAY Salvano and Chi Chi dive below the dash and continue forward. Salvano, in the passenger seat, raises his GUN; FIRES blindly -- trying to hit Nico. 112 EXT. LINCOLN - DAY Nico UNLOADS his .45 into the windshield and the firewall. The Lincoln keeps coming down the narrow alley. 113 NICO brazenly steps up onto the hood and dives, grabbing onto the roof. 114 INT. LINCOLN - DAY Salvano can't believe it. He screams something in Spanish. He FIRES again, this time through the roof. 115 EXT. LINCOLN - ROOF - DAY Bullet holes appear. Nico narrowly misses being hit. 116 ANOTHER ANGLE - LINCOLN Nico reaches over the side of the car and SMASHES the pas- senger WINDOW with his fist. 117 CLOSEUP - NICO'S HAND Salvano's face is bashed. Nico's huge hand grabs Salvano's throat; he won't let go. 118 CLOSEUP - NICO He hangs on with one hand. 119 CLOSEUP - SALVANO Nico's fingers now dig into Salvano's larynx; he may never talk again. He's gagging. Salvano now points the gun at Chi Chi. Chi Chi makes the decision to stop the car in order to save his boss. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 32. 120 NICO leaps off the roof pulling Salvano past the broken glass, out of the window. 121 SEVERAL POLICE VEHICLES * SCREECH into the lot. Officers pour out, guns drawn, surrounding the Lincoln and the other vehicles. Jackson joins them, weapon in hand. 122 NICO drags Salvano by the neck across the lot to the van, slamming the drug dealer up against the van's side. Lukich, Jackson and Strozah are there, with the DEA cops, * all covering the other men. NICO (to Salvano) How many kilos you got in there, Skivuzo? Salvano couldn't answer if he wanted to. The other cops look at Nico with awe. Lukich whips the van door open, yanks a tarp off the cargo. 123 INT. VAN The engine block sits in a wooden shipping frame, wrapped with industrial plastic. Nico climbs into the van, rips the plastic sheeting off, grabs the wood slats of the shipping frame, tears them off. In the background, ambulances are arriving to care for the wounded cops and criminals. 124 CLOSEUP - ENGINE BLOCK From the cylinder heads emerges a full load, not of drugs, but of plastique tubes labeled U.S. ARMY C-4 HIGH EXPLOSIVE. 125 LUKICH, JACKSON AND OTHER COPS react with surprise and shock. 126 NICO rips open one of tubes and smells it. 127 CLOSE - NICO Confused; frustrated. NICO What kinda fuckin' high is this? CUT TO: ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 33. 128 INT. FBI OFFICE - NIGHT OPENING ON SALVANO, in a chair, looking bruised and swollen, and wearing an expression of fuming indignation. SALVANO -- I'll tell you what this cop is. He's a fucking menace! 129 TWO FBI AGENTS (NEELEY AND HALLORAN) * face Salvano, Chi Chi and the lawyer Abandano (apparently representing Salvano and Chi Chi). Neeley is on the phone. * Pictures of Reagan and Meese are prominent on the wall. SALVANO You see what he did to me?! AGENT HALLORAN Your problem is being handled right now, Mr. Salv -- SALVANO Yeah? Well, it shoulda been handled twelve hours ago. I don't know who's running this outfit, but somebody better get his goddamn wires straight! AGENT NEELEY * (into phone) -- yes, sir... yes, sir, I understand -- SALVANO That maniac should be wearing a number, not a badge. Salvano knows what the call is about. He straightens the tie beneath his bruised neck, assuming the attitude of a respectable citizen who has been unjustly wronged. AGENT NEELEY * (into phone) -- count on it, sir. Right. You'll have our full cooperation. Neeley hangs up. Glances dubiously to Halloran. Then turns * grimly to Salvano, Chi Chi and the lawyer Abandano. AGENT NEELEY * You're free to go. 130 OMITTED 131 INT. FEDERAL BUILDING - LOBBY - NIGHT * The hoods and their lawyer smugly walk past a cleaning woman. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 33A. 132 INT. PRECINCT CAPTAIN'S OFFICE - MORNING OPENING ON Agent Neeley's face. Composed, clean-cut, but * intense, wearing a light-colored business suit. PAN TO Agent Halloran -- the same upright, clean-shaven bureau look. The two men are seated to one side of LIEUTENANT FRED STROZAH. 133 NICO, JACKSON, LUKICH AND DEA AND ATF MEN sit and stand in various postures in front of the Lieutenant's desk. LIEUTENANT STROZAH (to Nico, DEA & AIF) -- This is no reflection on the work you officers have done. I feel, and the whole department feels, extremely proud of your initiative and gallantry. That "spare me the horseshit" look on Nico's face. He's fuming. Strozah sees Nico's bitter expression. It's on the others' faces too. LIEUTENANT STROZAH As all of you are well aware, possession of these explosives is a federal offense and under jurisdiction of the F.B.I. Nico's eyes meet Lieutenant Strozah's. There's respect between the two, but it's plainly under a helluva strain. NICO Sir. With all respect to our brothers in the Bureau -- (biting sarcasm; turns to Neeley) * -- That's no answer. It's no answer to why one of the biggest dealers in the city is out on the street now, free as a bird! Agent Neeley stiffens. * LIEUTENANT STROZAH Keep it in your pants, Nico. These men have a job to do, just like us. Nico stifles his outrage. The other cops exchange glances -- upset and angry. Agent Neeley clears his throat. * AGENT NEELEY * Lieutenant, I think these officers are entitled to a fuller explanation. (MORE) ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 34. AGENT NEELEY (CONT'D) They've risked their lives. I understand one man is in the hospital. He speaks to the officers. AGENT NEELEY * What I'm about to say doesn't leave this room. Is that clear? Assent from everyone. AGENT NEELEY * Mr. Salvano has been working for some time in cooperation with certain federal agencies. 134 CLOSE - NICO'S FACE Stunned and furious at this royal fuck-up. AGENT NEELEY (O.S.) * I'm not at liberty to divulge the nature of Mr. Salvano's involvement -- I just learned of its existence myself a few hours ago. But one thing I can tell you -- 135 BACK TO AGENT NEELEY * AGENT NEELEY * Mr. Salvano's role is crucial to an extremely sensitive ongoing investigation. Any further surveillance, harassment, or unauthorized operations against this individual are forbidden. I must order you gentlemen -- (looking straight at Nico) -- with all respect for your work and your courage, to stand down. Lukich shakes his head; Nico is devastated. Jackson takes it all in. CUT TO: 136 INT. POLICE SQUAD ROOM - MORNING OPENING CLOSE ON a desk drawer being opened. Aside from rounds of ammo, notes and an aging eggplant parmigiana sandwich, there are half a dozen hand-labeled audio- cassettes and a small collection of miniaturized bugging devices. Jackson and Lukich watch Nico take out the notes, hand them to Lieutenant Strozah. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 35. LIEUTENANT STROZAH The tapes too. NICO (mocking) That's my Lawrence Welk collection! LIEUTENANT STROZAH I want everything you got on this one. Reluctantly, Nico hands over the tapes. The Lieutenant eyes the bugs and wires. LIEUTENANT STROZAH I know you don't give a shit about yourself, Toscani. (a glance to Jax) But you're gonna put Jackson's ass in a sling, too, with these illegal wires. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 35A. * 136A OTHER SIDE OF SQUAD ROOM Agent Halloran edges up to Jackson, who's grabbing coffee on the far side of the squad room, and watching from there as Nico gives Strozah more of a hard time. AGENT HALLORAN What's the story on your partner, Jackson? Did he learn this style or was he born with a brick up his ass? Jackson checks Halloran out. He's black too and, despite herself, there's a certain rapport. JACKSON He has ethics. Unlike certain others on this case. Halloran watches the illegal bugs and tapes come out of Nico's drawer. AGENT HALLORAN His 'ethics' are gonna cost him his badge and his gun. This "white" talk gives Jackson a pain. She slips into her jive mode. JACKSON You don't wanna catch him without no gun. Halloran's look asks why not? JACKSON 'Cause what he do with his hands... make bullet holes look pretty. Across the room, Nico turns over the tapes. AGENT HALLORAN He bad? JACKSON Bad bad. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 36. 137 INT. PRECINCT HOUSE - STAIRWAY - DAY Nico and Jackson come down the stairs. Jackson has had ample excitement for her last week on the force. JACKSON Is that enough? Can we do something normal now -- like eat lunch? NICO Anything you say, Jax. How about Salvano's? JACKSON Let it be, Nico. 138 EXT. PRECINCT HOUSE - DAY Nico and Jackson's car pulls out into traffic. 139 INT. UNMARKED CAR - PARKED (ALLEY BEHIND SALVANO'S) Jackson and Nico are eating some fast good. Nico reaches to his jacket pocket; takes out a cassette. JACKSON What... you kept his tape, too? Nico already has it in the PLAYER. We hear FRAGMENTS of the telephone tap from the body shop in Spanish and English. Jackson looks frustrated. Nico listens care- fully to what appears to be the taped PHONE CONVERSATION. NICO Poetry, ain't it? 140 EXT. REAR SALVANO'S RESTAURANT - DAY (POV FROM CAR) The pimp (busboy) comes out and dumps a load of garbage. 141 INT. UNMARKED CAR - DAY Nico and Jackson case the restaurant from down the alley. 142 EXT. REAR SALVANO'S - NICO'S POV - DAY From the restaurant door, Salvano and Chi Chi emerge. They get into a black Cadillac and pull out. * NICO (O.S.) And now for some dessert. 143 SERIES OF SHOTS As Nico's car tails Salvano's through various streets. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 37. 144 EXT. OAK STREET Salvano comes out of a fancy flower shop with a bimbo on his arm. He kisses her goodbye and puts her in a cab. NICO (O.S.) And that must be Mrs. Sal. So nice to see married couples still in love. 144A NICO AND JACKSON are hidden, waiting. 144B CHI CHI emerges from a dry cleaner's with a suit on a hanger. * 145 EXT. ST. ELIZABETH'S PARISH CHURCH - DAY Salvano's Caddy pulls up outside the same church where we * saw Nico's son get baptized. Salvano and Chi Chi get out, look both ways up and down the street. Salvano, holding * flowers, makes eye contact with a car down the block. * 146 EXT. STREET UP BLOCK FROM CHURCH - DAY Nico's car backs out of sight around the corner. 147 SIDEWALK IN FRONT OF CHURCH Salvano and Chi Chi, seeing nothing, enter the church. 148 INT. CHURCH - DAY A smattering of older women and men praying. Salvano and Chi Chi stop at the head of the aisle, genuflect to the altar, move in, take seats toward the front. 149 BACK OF CHURCH Nico and Jackson slip in the front door, glide silently into the shadows at the rear of the church. JACKSON This is your mother's church, isn't it? NICO Yeah. But I bet she's never seen these boys in the choir. 150 NICO'S POV Salvano's head is bowed, but Chi Chi is looking around quite carefully. Nico and Jackson fade into the shadows behind the huge pillars. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 37A. 151 SALVANO AND CHI CHI After a few moments, the pair rises. They cross them- selves, start out for the front door. As they walk, they continue to look for something. 152 INT. CHURCH - DAY * Nico and Jackson emerge into a courtyard which reveals a day care center and a rectory. They head toward the front of the building. Jackson, planning on picking up their tail on Salvano, is stoped by Nico. He wants to stay and look around. 38. FATHER GENARRO (O.S.) Nicola! That can't be you in church without the family! Nico turns to see Father Genarro, perspiring in a baggy sweatshirt, a handball glove on his hand. The courtyard alongside the church is marked off as an athletic area. NICO Father Genarro. The priest seizes Nico's hand warmly, smiles at Jackson. FATHER GENARRO This must be your partner in crime. (shakes her hand) I'm Father Genarro. I saw you at the baptismal party. (with a wink to Nico) What

continuing

How many times the word 'continuing' appears in the text?

with Lucy. Jackson, standing in the doorway, has seen all this. 64 INT. UNMARKED CAR - MOVING - DAY Nico at the wheel has just pulled away from the bakery. Jackson, in the passenger seat, studies her partner for a few moments, shaking her head at the contradictions in this man. Educated, classy, an elegant dresser -- yet underneath an out-and-out wild man. JACKSON I don't get you, Toscani. (beat) What the hell are you doing being a shitheel cop? With your background? For a long moment Nico says nothing. Then, quietly, look- ing straight ahead: NICO When I was overseas, I saw some things. Things that eat your guts out. Things that stay in front of your eyes like they were burned in and branded. He turns to Jackson. NICO You can walk away from them, Jax. You can quit, but you know it's still going on. You try something anyway -- (smiles a moment) -- I know I'm not going to change the world. I can't stop the tonnage coming in, I can't fight the boys behind the desks pushing their buttons -- ANGLE INCLUDING MEAN STREETS OUTSIDE NICO But maybe here, huh? (indicates street) Maybe in my own city, my own neighborhood, on my own block -- maybe here I can do something. He turns a corner. NICO That's why I'm a shitheel cop. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 20A. * 64A INT. POLICE STATION - DAY Behind the desk, a few detectives man the phones. A Latin attorney, ABANDANO, is at the counter. COP (O.S.) You can see your client. As soon as she's through eating her dinner. 65 INT. POLICE LOCKUP - "CAGE" AND HALLWAY - EVENING Hookers, female addicts, etc. in the downtown "cage." Nico has the girl in the red dress and lizard shoes (CARLA DECARLO) out in the hallway adjacent to the lock- up. Nico is Mr. Charm, offering her a heart-shaped box of chocolates. NICO Carla... Carla -- I just want the name of your boyfriend -- CARLA I got 200 boyfriends. The hooker, Carla DeCarlo, slaps the box away, cursing in Spanish. 21. CARLA Pinchi cabron, cabeza colon! Some of the chocolates tumble onto the lockup floor, the detainees snap them up, start munching. The girl con- tinues to spit curses at Nico, gesturing with her hands with Latin flamboyance. Nico grabs her by the elbow, as a jailer opens the lockup door. More curses are being flung at Nico from various females in the cage. Nico heaves Carla in among them. Carla flops down on a bench next to a tall black hooker. MOVE IN ON the black hooker. It's Nico's partner, Jackson, dolled up like a street- walker, playing her undercover role to the hilt. JACKSON (to Nico) Why can't you sons-a-bitches ever treat someone with a little respect? NICO (walking away) Take it easy, sister. JACKSON I ain't your goddamn sister. We ain't got the same mother, motherfucka. Carla fires one final parting salvo of obscenities, then sags back among the women. Carla starts to cry. Jackson comforts her; Carla responds, lets herself be comforted. CUT TO: 66 EXT. DOWNTOWN - FINANCIAL DISTRICT - DAY Jackson, back in her normal daytime wear, exits a building. She gets into Nico's car. 67 INT. CAR - DAY Jackson checks her makeup in the rearview mirror. Nico sits behind the wheel. The two are on some kind of stakeout. JACKSON The lawyer's name is Abandano. He's on the third floor. I got a look at him. I couldn't get how he's connected, but according to Carla, he's a lousy lay. NICO Maybe we can bust him for that. Jackson spots something, gestures subtly out window -- ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 22. 68 EXT. DOWNTOWN BUILDING - DAY A short, slick-looking Latin man in a business suit emerges from the building. JACKSON That's our stud. Nico and Jackson leave their car and follow him on foot. 69 EXT. FINANCIAL DISTRICT - BANK - DAY ABANDANO meets a striking-looking middle-aged woman in front of a stately financial institution. They go in. Jackson remains out on the street, while Nico follows the couple in. 70 LATER Jackson has been waiting, sipping some coffee. Nico emerges from the bank, signaling to his partner to follow him. Abandano and the woman exit from the bank's revol- ving doors and immediately jump into a cab. Nico and Jackson look at each other and step in front of another cab. Nico opens the cab door, flips his badge open, then asks the occupant to leave. Jackson gets in the front seat next to the protesting cabbie. 71 EXT. FEDERAL BUILDING - DAY Abandano and the woman are crossing the plaza as Nico and Jackson run up the block. Near the entrance to the Federal * Building, a small but vocal group of protestors are * gathered, carrying signs and chanting slogans. The frus- * trated cabbie watches them in the background. 72 PLAZA Jackson and Nico watch Abandano and the woman pass the * crowd of demonstrators and enter the building. Jackson acts * indifferent, almost frustrated; Nico keenly senses something. CUT TO: 73 INT. EXPENSIVE RESTAURANT ("BOGOTA") - DAY * The main dining room. No customers, just busboys readying tables for the evening's business. We notice one of the * busboys is the "pimp" Nico found with Lucy. * 74 BOOTH NEAR BACK HALLWAY The owner's table. Stacks of dining checks, a cashbox and calculator, full ashtrays, wine glasses. BAUTISTA SALVANO, a heavyset, swarthy Venezuelan dressed in a tux with the collar open, glowers across the table at a mus- cular, scar-faced Latin busboy -- the kind who looks like he does more for his boss than clean up the tables. The busboy (NARDO) is nervous, apologetic -- ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 23. SALVANO (pissed off) -- I brought you in for your muscles, Nardo, not your mouth. NARDO (scared) I'm sorry, boss. SALVANO Your English is getting good... You're showing it off. Showing it off on the street -- NARDO I keep quiet. I never talk no more -- Salvano glowers at Nardo like he's about to punch him. Instead he reaches over, playfully chokes the busboy -- then releases him, as if all is forgiven. SALVANO Make yourself useful. (indicates empty wine bottle on table) Get downstairs, bring me one of these. (as Nardo stands, starts for back hallway) Then get back to work. 75 INT. RESTAURANT BASEMENT STOREROOM - LATE AFTERNOON Nardo enters at the top of the stairs, radiating relief. He trots down into the empty basement, toward a floor-to- ceiling wine rack. NARDO (to himself) I thought I was dead, man. (whistles with relief) I thought I was fucking dead. He crosses to the wine rack. It's dark, hard to see. He searches for the bottle. Suddenly: a METALLIC sound behind him. Nardo turns -- CHI CHI TESTAMENTE, a wiry, pock-faced Latino, stands in the shadows (it is clear he has been waiting there, hiding) -- holding a small silencer automatic. CHI CHI You were right, cabron. * ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 24. One SHOT between the eyes and Nardo CRASHES backward into the WINE RACK, eyes wide with shock and bewilderment. Chi Chi SHOOTS him AGAIN; Nardo drops like a stone. Coolly, professionally, Chi Chi pumps FOUR more SHOTS into the prone busboy's head. Chi Chi ejects the clip into his palm, unscrews the silencer, holsters the gun. Salvano appears at the top of the stairs. Two busboys are behind him. One of them is the young pimp. The busboys hurry * down, the pimp -- scared shitless but playing it macho-cool. * Salvano comes down the stairs. Chi Chi stands over his work. SALVANO (to busboys) Clean up this mess. CHI CHI * Who knows who else is talking -- * SALVANO * He was a young fool. * 76 BACK IN UPSTAIRS DINING ROOM Salvano and Chi Chi emerge from the basement steps and walk toward their booth. CHI CHI We're crazy waiting for this bullshit 'shipment.' Let me waste the other fucker now. Salvano puts a hand on Chi Chi's shoulder. SALVANO Be patient. This will be done the way it was planned. CUT TO: 77 EXT. BODY AND FENDER SHOP - NIGHT Rusting cyclone fences surround a mud-lot repair yard in a dingy industrial section. Young Lation and black workers finish up for the night; through the dirty, security-barred office window we can see Chi Chi talking on the phone. The lawyer, Abandano, is also there. 78 EXT. ALLEY - REAR OF SHOP - NIGHT Nico finishes connecting a small transmitter which has been hastily wired to the entering phone line. 79 INT. UNMARKED CAR - NIGHT Nico and Jackson in the shadows down the street from the body shop. Nico wears earphones, a small tape recorder on the seat beside him. Jackson does not look happy. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 25. JACKSON Toscani, you're going to have me doing time. NICO Lighten up, Jax. No one's bringing this into court. JACKSON Except against us. NICO I don't give a shit how we do it. I just wanna get there. Jackson gives Nico a dirty look, but stifles her protest. JACKSON I thought you said you were gonna protect me. Cover my butt. Be my guardian angel -- Nico hears something through the earphones. Gestures for silence -- 80 ANGLE THROUGH OFFICE WINDOW Chi Chi listens with increased intensity to something on the phone. He starts writing it down -- 81 BACK TO NICO In unmarked car. He's writing it down too. NICO I got the shipment. * JACKSON What? What's he saying? NICO (scribbling furiously) '... Engine block has cleared customs. Serial number VA-748. Pick up Tuesday, 3 May as authorized.' 82 EXT. BODY SHOP - NIGHT Chi Chi emerges from the office, tucking a scrap of paper into his pocket. Abandano follows. They get into a late-model Lincoln which pulls out onto the street. * 83 EXT. STREET - NIGHT Nico and Jackson's car follows at a discreet distance. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 26. NICO (V.O.) Unit Ten Tango X-ray. I need a vehicle registration I.D. POLICE RADIO (V.O.) Go ahead, please. NICO (V.O.) '86 Lincoln. Illinois 354 Dog '67. * 84 INT. UNMARKED CAR - MOVING - NIGHT Jackson picks up Nico's pad to take down the response. After a moment: POLICE RADIO (V.O.) Vehicle registration follows. Leaseholder: Ramon Testamente, registered alien. Nation of origin: Venezuela. Do you wish criminal record search? NICO (into mike) I want to know when he wipes his * behind. * 85 SERIES OF SHOTS As Nico and Jackson tail the Lincoln out of the industrial zone into a fancier, non-Latin neighborhood. On the sidewalks we glimpse theatergoers, fashionable white couples out on the town. 86 LINCOLN Pulls up to a valet park outside a ton-y restaurant. A sign says: "BOGOTA." * 87 INT. UNMARKED CAR - MOVING Nico and Jackson exchange a glance. JACKSON Salvano? NICO Jackpot. 88 EXT. RESTAURANT - NIGHT Chi Chi and Abandano get out of their car, a valet takes it, Chi Chi enters the restaurant. 89 INT. SALVANO'S RESTAURANT - NIGHT Nico and Jackson enter the main dining room, which we recognize from the scene with Nardo the busboy. 27. The place is packed with fashionable people of all races. A band plays salsa; couples dance. Nico and Jackson pass easily as a hip "uptown" couple. A pretty Latin HOSTESS approaches them. HOSTESS Two for dinner? NICO Two for drinks. They elbow up to the packed bar, standing. Nico squints toward the rear dining room. 90 NICO'S POV - DOWN BAR Looking past numerous patrons, we see Chi Chi whisper something to a waiter and take a seat at a rear table (the same "owner's table" where Salvano sat before.) The waiter hurries off into a back hallway. 91 NICO AND JACKSON - AT BAR Jackson moves to the salsa beat. A BARMAID approaches. JACKSON Gimme something stiff. I need it. BARMAID Who doesn't? Nico's eyes never leave Chi Chi. 92 REAR DINING ROOM From the back hallway Salvano emerges -- in his tux, looking prosperous. He sits down beside Chi Chi and Abandano. A waitress brings two drinks. After a few words, Chi Chi removes the scrap of paper from his pocket, hands it to Salvano. NICO (O.S.) You'll have your engine block next Tuesday, boss. 93 BACK TO NICO AND JACKSON As the Barmaid brings their drinks. Jackson sees her peaceful week to retirement flying out the window. JACKSON Why couldn't it be a week from Tuesday? I could read about it in the paper. Nico grabs her waist, pulls her onto the dance floor, and does a playful twirl. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 28. NICO Cheer up, partner. I'm gonna make you famous. 94 EXT. WHOLESALE MEAT AREA - DAY * Track spurs, greasy streets, parked fork lifts. 94A EXT. ROOF - DAY * Lieutenant Strozah surveys the street traffic. * 95 NICO, JACKSON AND LUKICH The two men, dressed as meat processors in hard hats and bloody white coats, rake cattle guts under the eave of a packing plant. Jackson, dressed like a USDA Inspector and * carrying a clipboard, inspects a few hanging carcasses. JACKSON You missed a few spots, boys. LUKICH I'm takin' it home t'a make kilbasa, boss. Luke casts an impatient glance across the street to a lot with four parked meat trucks. We glimpse two "truckers" keeping low in the shadows of one cab. Down the block a seemingly empty pickup truck is parked in an alley. LUKICH This ain't a bust -- it's a convention. NICO Don't you like company, Luke? (sarcastic) We got all the scouts here -- Drug Enforcement Agency, the Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms -- WALKIE-TALKIE (V.O.) Keep this channel clear, Toscani. We realize Nico, Jackson and Lukich are wired, with mikes out of sight under their coats. Nico glances to the pick- up, near to which three men can be spotted in the alley. Apparently one of them is the walkie-talkie voice. NICO (into mike) This is our channel, dickhead. And our collar. ANOTHER WALKIE-TALKIE (V.O.) That's enough, all of you! Keep this channel clear. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 28A. 96 ANGLE ON MEAT PLANT - DAY Nothing happening. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 29. 97 ANOTHER ANGLE Dead as hell. 98 NICO, LUKICH AND JACKSON Bored, pissed off, tired. Suddenly: 99 BATTERED VAN WITH TWO MEN emerges from a corner, two blocks down. It starts slowly this way. 1ST WALKIE-TALKIE (V.O.) All right. Everyone get their heads outa their ass. The meat truck men duck down out of sight, the pickup men back into the shadows. Nico and Lukich keep raking cow guts. The van passes slowly, checking out the area. JACKSON (sarcastic) '... And so I quit the police department... got myself a steady job -- ' The van accelerates slightly, turns a corner, vanishes. Silence. LUKICH * They spotted me. I'm too good- looking to be a meat slopper. * 1ST WALKIE-TALKIE (V.O.) Will you hot dogs shut up? The van returns. On a cross street. Heading behind the packing plant. NICO * (to Lukich) * You're too ugly. Now a second car appears. The Lincoln. Behind it is an ancient station wagon. Both vehicles take a different cross street, but both heading behind the packing plant. NICO (into hidden mike) Here we go, boys and girls -- (to Jackson) You stay put. * As soon as the two vehicles pass out of sight, Nico and Lukich ditch their rakes, dart into the packing plant. The meat truck men START their TRUCK. 30. The pickup men board their vehicle -- Jackson follows Nico and Luke -- but at a safe distance. 100 INT. PACKING PLANT - DAY Nico and Lukich sprint in a crouch past the blood runoffs, meat cutting tables -- 101 NICO'S POV - RUNNING THROUGH the windows at the rear of the plant, we see the station wagon and the van, pulling up swiftly beside one another, men getting out -- 102 INT. PLANT Nico and Lukich draw their guns, running full-tilt. NICO (into hidden miki) It's going down now. Move! 103 EXT. REAR OF PACKING PLANT - DAY The station wagon men heave their rear door open, the van men start to open their side door. The Lincoln is stopped at a distance. Suddenly -- 104 NICO AND LUKICH burst from the rear door of the packing plant, guns drawn. LUKICH Police! 105 QUICK CUTS - VAN AND STATION WAGON MEN grab for their weapons -- 106 COPS IN MEAT TRUCK AND PICKUP come highballing around both sides of the packing plant -- 107 VAN AND STATION WAGON MEN OPEN FIRE. There is confusion and mayhem; it's not clear who's a cop and who's a criminal. 108 NICO AND LUKICH dive for cover, RETURNING FIRE. The DEA men in one truck also OPEN UP. One of the van men is hit between the eyes. MACHINE GUN FIRE rakes the DEA truck; it spins out of control; flips. Lukich SHOOTS the machine-gunner. LUKICH (shouts; points) Nico! The Lincoln! 31. 109 LINCOLN starts to PEEL OUT. We glimpse Chi Chi in the driver's seat, Salvano on the passenger side. 110 NICO steps in front of the accelerating Lincoln, raises his .45. 111 INT. LINCOLN - DAY Salvano and Chi Chi dive below the dash and continue forward. Salvano, in the passenger seat, raises his GUN; FIRES blindly -- trying to hit Nico. 112 EXT. LINCOLN - DAY Nico UNLOADS his .45 into the windshield and the firewall. The Lincoln keeps coming down the narrow alley. 113 NICO brazenly steps up onto the hood and dives, grabbing onto the roof. 114 INT. LINCOLN - DAY Salvano can't believe it. He screams something in Spanish. He FIRES again, this time through the roof. 115 EXT. LINCOLN - ROOF - DAY Bullet holes appear. Nico narrowly misses being hit. 116 ANOTHER ANGLE - LINCOLN Nico reaches over the side of the car and SMASHES the pas- senger WINDOW with his fist. 117 CLOSEUP - NICO'S HAND Salvano's face is bashed. Nico's huge hand grabs Salvano's throat; he won't let go. 118 CLOSEUP - NICO He hangs on with one hand. 119 CLOSEUP - SALVANO Nico's fingers now dig into Salvano's larynx; he may never talk again. He's gagging. Salvano now points the gun at Chi Chi. Chi Chi makes the decision to stop the car in order to save his boss. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 32. 120 NICO leaps off the roof pulling Salvano past the broken glass, out of the window. 121 SEVERAL POLICE VEHICLES * SCREECH into the lot. Officers pour out, guns drawn, surrounding the Lincoln and the other vehicles. Jackson joins them, weapon in hand. 122 NICO drags Salvano by the neck across the lot to the van, slamming the drug dealer up against the van's side. Lukich, Jackson and Strozah are there, with the DEA cops, * all covering the other men. NICO (to Salvano) How many kilos you got in there, Skivuzo? Salvano couldn't answer if he wanted to. The other cops look at Nico with awe. Lukich whips the van door open, yanks a tarp off the cargo. 123 INT. VAN The engine block sits in a wooden shipping frame, wrapped with industrial plastic. Nico climbs into the van, rips the plastic sheeting off, grabs the wood slats of the shipping frame, tears them off. In the background, ambulances are arriving to care for the wounded cops and criminals. 124 CLOSEUP - ENGINE BLOCK From the cylinder heads emerges a full load, not of drugs, but of plastique tubes labeled U.S. ARMY C-4 HIGH EXPLOSIVE. 125 LUKICH, JACKSON AND OTHER COPS react with surprise and shock. 126 NICO rips open one of tubes and smells it. 127 CLOSE - NICO Confused; frustrated. NICO What kinda fuckin' high is this? CUT TO: ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 33. 128 INT. FBI OFFICE - NIGHT OPENING ON SALVANO, in a chair, looking bruised and swollen, and wearing an expression of fuming indignation. SALVANO -- I'll tell you what this cop is. He's a fucking menace! 129 TWO FBI AGENTS (NEELEY AND HALLORAN) * face Salvano, Chi Chi and the lawyer Abandano (apparently representing Salvano and Chi Chi). Neeley is on the phone. * Pictures of Reagan and Meese are prominent on the wall. SALVANO You see what he did to me?! AGENT HALLORAN Your problem is being handled right now, Mr. Salv -- SALVANO Yeah? Well, it shoulda been handled twelve hours ago. I don't know who's running this outfit, but somebody better get his goddamn wires straight! AGENT NEELEY * (into phone) -- yes, sir... yes, sir, I understand -- SALVANO That maniac should be wearing a number, not a badge. Salvano knows what the call is about. He straightens the tie beneath his bruised neck, assuming the attitude of a respectable citizen who has been unjustly wronged. AGENT NEELEY * (into phone) -- count on it, sir. Right. You'll have our full cooperation. Neeley hangs up. Glances dubiously to Halloran. Then turns * grimly to Salvano, Chi Chi and the lawyer Abandano. AGENT NEELEY * You're free to go. 130 OMITTED 131 INT. FEDERAL BUILDING - LOBBY - NIGHT * The hoods and their lawyer smugly walk past a cleaning woman. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 33A. 132 INT. PRECINCT CAPTAIN'S OFFICE - MORNING OPENING ON Agent Neeley's face. Composed, clean-cut, but * intense, wearing a light-colored business suit. PAN TO Agent Halloran -- the same upright, clean-shaven bureau look. The two men are seated to one side of LIEUTENANT FRED STROZAH. 133 NICO, JACKSON, LUKICH AND DEA AND ATF MEN sit and stand in various postures in front of the Lieutenant's desk. LIEUTENANT STROZAH (to Nico, DEA & AIF) -- This is no reflection on the work you officers have done. I feel, and the whole department feels, extremely proud of your initiative and gallantry. That "spare me the horseshit" look on Nico's face. He's fuming. Strozah sees Nico's bitter expression. It's on the others' faces too. LIEUTENANT STROZAH As all of you are well aware, possession of these explosives is a federal offense and under jurisdiction of the F.B.I. Nico's eyes meet Lieutenant Strozah's. There's respect between the two, but it's plainly under a helluva strain. NICO Sir. With all respect to our brothers in the Bureau -- (biting sarcasm; turns to Neeley) * -- That's no answer. It's no answer to why one of the biggest dealers in the city is out on the street now, free as a bird! Agent Neeley stiffens. * LIEUTENANT STROZAH Keep it in your pants, Nico. These men have a job to do, just like us. Nico stifles his outrage. The other cops exchange glances -- upset and angry. Agent Neeley clears his throat. * AGENT NEELEY * Lieutenant, I think these officers are entitled to a fuller explanation. (MORE) ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 34. AGENT NEELEY (CONT'D) They've risked their lives. I understand one man is in the hospital. He speaks to the officers. AGENT NEELEY * What I'm about to say doesn't leave this room. Is that clear? Assent from everyone. AGENT NEELEY * Mr. Salvano has been working for some time in cooperation with certain federal agencies. 134 CLOSE - NICO'S FACE Stunned and furious at this royal fuck-up. AGENT NEELEY (O.S.) * I'm not at liberty to divulge the nature of Mr. Salvano's involvement -- I just learned of its existence myself a few hours ago. But one thing I can tell you -- 135 BACK TO AGENT NEELEY * AGENT NEELEY * Mr. Salvano's role is crucial to an extremely sensitive ongoing investigation. Any further surveillance, harassment, or unauthorized operations against this individual are forbidden. I must order you gentlemen -- (looking straight at Nico) -- with all respect for your work and your courage, to stand down. Lukich shakes his head; Nico is devastated. Jackson takes it all in. CUT TO: 136 INT. POLICE SQUAD ROOM - MORNING OPENING CLOSE ON a desk drawer being opened. Aside from rounds of ammo, notes and an aging eggplant parmigiana sandwich, there are half a dozen hand-labeled audio- cassettes and a small collection of miniaturized bugging devices. Jackson and Lukich watch Nico take out the notes, hand them to Lieutenant Strozah. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 35. LIEUTENANT STROZAH The tapes too. NICO (mocking) That's my Lawrence Welk collection! LIEUTENANT STROZAH I want everything you got on this one. Reluctantly, Nico hands over the tapes. The Lieutenant eyes the bugs and wires. LIEUTENANT STROZAH I know you don't give a shit about yourself, Toscani. (a glance to Jax) But you're gonna put Jackson's ass in a sling, too, with these illegal wires. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 35A. * 136A OTHER SIDE OF SQUAD ROOM Agent Halloran edges up to Jackson, who's grabbing coffee on the far side of the squad room, and watching from there as Nico gives Strozah more of a hard time. AGENT HALLORAN What's the story on your partner, Jackson? Did he learn this style or was he born with a brick up his ass? Jackson checks Halloran out. He's black too and, despite herself, there's a certain rapport. JACKSON He has ethics. Unlike certain others on this case. Halloran watches the illegal bugs and tapes come out of Nico's drawer. AGENT HALLORAN His 'ethics' are gonna cost him his badge and his gun. This "white" talk gives Jackson a pain. She slips into her jive mode. JACKSON You don't wanna catch him without no gun. Halloran's look asks why not? JACKSON 'Cause what he do with his hands... make bullet holes look pretty. Across the room, Nico turns over the tapes. AGENT HALLORAN He bad? JACKSON Bad bad. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 36. 137 INT. PRECINCT HOUSE - STAIRWAY - DAY Nico and Jackson come down the stairs. Jackson has had ample excitement for her last week on the force. JACKSON Is that enough? Can we do something normal now -- like eat lunch? NICO Anything you say, Jax. How about Salvano's? JACKSON Let it be, Nico. 138 EXT. PRECINCT HOUSE - DAY Nico and Jackson's car pulls out into traffic. 139 INT. UNMARKED CAR - PARKED (ALLEY BEHIND SALVANO'S) Jackson and Nico are eating some fast good. Nico reaches to his jacket pocket; takes out a cassette. JACKSON What... you kept his tape, too? Nico already has it in the PLAYER. We hear FRAGMENTS of the telephone tap from the body shop in Spanish and English. Jackson looks frustrated. Nico listens care- fully to what appears to be the taped PHONE CONVERSATION. NICO Poetry, ain't it? 140 EXT. REAR SALVANO'S RESTAURANT - DAY (POV FROM CAR) The pimp (busboy) comes out and dumps a load of garbage. 141 INT. UNMARKED CAR - DAY Nico and Jackson case the restaurant from down the alley. 142 EXT. REAR SALVANO'S - NICO'S POV - DAY From the restaurant door, Salvano and Chi Chi emerge. They get into a black Cadillac and pull out. * NICO (O.S.) And now for some dessert. 143 SERIES OF SHOTS As Nico's car tails Salvano's through various streets. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 37. 144 EXT. OAK STREET Salvano comes out of a fancy flower shop with a bimbo on his arm. He kisses her goodbye and puts her in a cab. NICO (O.S.) And that must be Mrs. Sal. So nice to see married couples still in love. 144A NICO AND JACKSON are hidden, waiting. 144B CHI CHI emerges from a dry cleaner's with a suit on a hanger. * 145 EXT. ST. ELIZABETH'S PARISH CHURCH - DAY Salvano's Caddy pulls up outside the same church where we * saw Nico's son get baptized. Salvano and Chi Chi get out, look both ways up and down the street. Salvano, holding * flowers, makes eye contact with a car down the block. * 146 EXT. STREET UP BLOCK FROM CHURCH - DAY Nico's car backs out of sight around the corner. 147 SIDEWALK IN FRONT OF CHURCH Salvano and Chi Chi, seeing nothing, enter the church. 148 INT. CHURCH - DAY A smattering of older women and men praying. Salvano and Chi Chi stop at the head of the aisle, genuflect to the altar, move in, take seats toward the front. 149 BACK OF CHURCH Nico and Jackson slip in the front door, glide silently into the shadows at the rear of the church. JACKSON This is your mother's church, isn't it? NICO Yeah. But I bet she's never seen these boys in the choir. 150 NICO'S POV Salvano's head is bowed, but Chi Chi is looking around quite carefully. Nico and Jackson fade into the shadows behind the huge pillars. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 37A. 151 SALVANO AND CHI CHI After a few moments, the pair rises. They cross them- selves, start out for the front door. As they walk, they continue to look for something. 152 INT. CHURCH - DAY * Nico and Jackson emerge into a courtyard which reveals a day care center and a rectory. They head toward the front of the building. Jackson, planning on picking up their tail on Salvano, is stoped by Nico. He wants to stay and look around. 38. FATHER GENARRO (O.S.) Nicola! That can't be you in church without the family! Nico turns to see Father Genarro, perspiring in a baggy sweatshirt, a handball glove on his hand. The courtyard alongside the church is marked off as an athletic area. NICO Father Genarro. The priest seizes Nico's hand warmly, smiles at Jackson. FATHER GENARRO This must be your partner in crime. (shakes her hand) I'm Father Genarro. I saw you at the baptismal party. (with a wink to Nico) What

evening

How many times the word 'evening' appears in the text?

with Lucy. Jackson, standing in the doorway, has seen all this. 64 INT. UNMARKED CAR - MOVING - DAY Nico at the wheel has just pulled away from the bakery. Jackson, in the passenger seat, studies her partner for a few moments, shaking her head at the contradictions in this man. Educated, classy, an elegant dresser -- yet underneath an out-and-out wild man. JACKSON I don't get you, Toscani. (beat) What the hell are you doing being a shitheel cop? With your background? For a long moment Nico says nothing. Then, quietly, look- ing straight ahead: NICO When I was overseas, I saw some things. Things that eat your guts out. Things that stay in front of your eyes like they were burned in and branded. He turns to Jackson. NICO You can walk away from them, Jax. You can quit, but you know it's still going on. You try something anyway -- (smiles a moment) -- I know I'm not going to change the world. I can't stop the tonnage coming in, I can't fight the boys behind the desks pushing their buttons -- ANGLE INCLUDING MEAN STREETS OUTSIDE NICO But maybe here, huh? (indicates street) Maybe in my own city, my own neighborhood, on my own block -- maybe here I can do something. He turns a corner. NICO That's why I'm a shitheel cop. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 20A. * 64A INT. POLICE STATION - DAY Behind the desk, a few detectives man the phones. A Latin attorney, ABANDANO, is at the counter. COP (O.S.) You can see your client. As soon as she's through eating her dinner. 65 INT. POLICE LOCKUP - "CAGE" AND HALLWAY - EVENING Hookers, female addicts, etc. in the downtown "cage." Nico has the girl in the red dress and lizard shoes (CARLA DECARLO) out in the hallway adjacent to the lock- up. Nico is Mr. Charm, offering her a heart-shaped box of chocolates. NICO Carla... Carla -- I just want the name of your boyfriend -- CARLA I got 200 boyfriends. The hooker, Carla DeCarlo, slaps the box away, cursing in Spanish. 21. CARLA Pinchi cabron, cabeza colon! Some of the chocolates tumble onto the lockup floor, the detainees snap them up, start munching. The girl con- tinues to spit curses at Nico, gesturing with her hands with Latin flamboyance. Nico grabs her by the elbow, as a jailer opens the lockup door. More curses are being flung at Nico from various females in the cage. Nico heaves Carla in among them. Carla flops down on a bench next to a tall black hooker. MOVE IN ON the black hooker. It's Nico's partner, Jackson, dolled up like a street- walker, playing her undercover role to the hilt. JACKSON (to Nico) Why can't you sons-a-bitches ever treat someone with a little respect? NICO (walking away) Take it easy, sister. JACKSON I ain't your goddamn sister. We ain't got the same mother, motherfucka. Carla fires one final parting salvo of obscenities, then sags back among the women. Carla starts to cry. Jackson comforts her; Carla responds, lets herself be comforted. CUT TO: 66 EXT. DOWNTOWN - FINANCIAL DISTRICT - DAY Jackson, back in her normal daytime wear, exits a building. She gets into Nico's car. 67 INT. CAR - DAY Jackson checks her makeup in the rearview mirror. Nico sits behind the wheel. The two are on some kind of stakeout. JACKSON The lawyer's name is Abandano. He's on the third floor. I got a look at him. I couldn't get how he's connected, but according to Carla, he's a lousy lay. NICO Maybe we can bust him for that. Jackson spots something, gestures subtly out window -- ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 22. 68 EXT. DOWNTOWN BUILDING - DAY A short, slick-looking Latin man in a business suit emerges from the building. JACKSON That's our stud. Nico and Jackson leave their car and follow him on foot. 69 EXT. FINANCIAL DISTRICT - BANK - DAY ABANDANO meets a striking-looking middle-aged woman in front of a stately financial institution. They go in. Jackson remains out on the street, while Nico follows the couple in. 70 LATER Jackson has been waiting, sipping some coffee. Nico emerges from the bank, signaling to his partner to follow him. Abandano and the woman exit from the bank's revol- ving doors and immediately jump into a cab. Nico and Jackson look at each other and step in front of another cab. Nico opens the cab door, flips his badge open, then asks the occupant to leave. Jackson gets in the front seat next to the protesting cabbie. 71 EXT. FEDERAL BUILDING - DAY Abandano and the woman are crossing the plaza as Nico and Jackson run up the block. Near the entrance to the Federal * Building, a small but vocal group of protestors are * gathered, carrying signs and chanting slogans. The frus- * trated cabbie watches them in the background. 72 PLAZA Jackson and Nico watch Abandano and the woman pass the * crowd of demonstrators and enter the building. Jackson acts * indifferent, almost frustrated; Nico keenly senses something. CUT TO: 73 INT. EXPENSIVE RESTAURANT ("BOGOTA") - DAY * The main dining room. No customers, just busboys readying tables for the evening's business. We notice one of the * busboys is the "pimp" Nico found with Lucy. * 74 BOOTH NEAR BACK HALLWAY The owner's table. Stacks of dining checks, a cashbox and calculator, full ashtrays, wine glasses. BAUTISTA SALVANO, a heavyset, swarthy Venezuelan dressed in a tux with the collar open, glowers across the table at a mus- cular, scar-faced Latin busboy -- the kind who looks like he does more for his boss than clean up the tables. The busboy (NARDO) is nervous, apologetic -- ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 23. SALVANO (pissed off) -- I brought you in for your muscles, Nardo, not your mouth. NARDO (scared) I'm sorry, boss. SALVANO Your English is getting good... You're showing it off. Showing it off on the street -- NARDO I keep quiet. I never talk no more -- Salvano glowers at Nardo like he's about to punch him. Instead he reaches over, playfully chokes the busboy -- then releases him, as if all is forgiven. SALVANO Make yourself useful. (indicates empty wine bottle on table) Get downstairs, bring me one of these. (as Nardo stands, starts for back hallway) Then get back to work. 75 INT. RESTAURANT BASEMENT STOREROOM - LATE AFTERNOON Nardo enters at the top of the stairs, radiating relief. He trots down into the empty basement, toward a floor-to- ceiling wine rack. NARDO (to himself) I thought I was dead, man. (whistles with relief) I thought I was fucking dead. He crosses to the wine rack. It's dark, hard to see. He searches for the bottle. Suddenly: a METALLIC sound behind him. Nardo turns -- CHI CHI TESTAMENTE, a wiry, pock-faced Latino, stands in the shadows (it is clear he has been waiting there, hiding) -- holding a small silencer automatic. CHI CHI You were right, cabron. * ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 24. One SHOT between the eyes and Nardo CRASHES backward into the WINE RACK, eyes wide with shock and bewilderment. Chi Chi SHOOTS him AGAIN; Nardo drops like a stone. Coolly, professionally, Chi Chi pumps FOUR more SHOTS into the prone busboy's head. Chi Chi ejects the clip into his palm, unscrews the silencer, holsters the gun. Salvano appears at the top of the stairs. Two busboys are behind him. One of them is the young pimp. The busboys hurry * down, the pimp -- scared shitless but playing it macho-cool. * Salvano comes down the stairs. Chi Chi stands over his work. SALVANO (to busboys) Clean up this mess. CHI CHI * Who knows who else is talking -- * SALVANO * He was a young fool. * 76 BACK IN UPSTAIRS DINING ROOM Salvano and Chi Chi emerge from the basement steps and walk toward their booth. CHI CHI We're crazy waiting for this bullshit 'shipment.' Let me waste the other fucker now. Salvano puts a hand on Chi Chi's shoulder. SALVANO Be patient. This will be done the way it was planned. CUT TO: 77 EXT. BODY AND FENDER SHOP - NIGHT Rusting cyclone fences surround a mud-lot repair yard in a dingy industrial section. Young Lation and black workers finish up for the night; through the dirty, security-barred office window we can see Chi Chi talking on the phone. The lawyer, Abandano, is also there. 78 EXT. ALLEY - REAR OF SHOP - NIGHT Nico finishes connecting a small transmitter which has been hastily wired to the entering phone line. 79 INT. UNMARKED CAR - NIGHT Nico and Jackson in the shadows down the street from the body shop. Nico wears earphones, a small tape recorder on the seat beside him. Jackson does not look happy. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 25. JACKSON Toscani, you're going to have me doing time. NICO Lighten up, Jax. No one's bringing this into court. JACKSON Except against us. NICO I don't give a shit how we do it. I just wanna get there. Jackson gives Nico a dirty look, but stifles her protest. JACKSON I thought you said you were gonna protect me. Cover my butt. Be my guardian angel -- Nico hears something through the earphones. Gestures for silence -- 80 ANGLE THROUGH OFFICE WINDOW Chi Chi listens with increased intensity to something on the phone. He starts writing it down -- 81 BACK TO NICO In unmarked car. He's writing it down too. NICO I got the shipment. * JACKSON What? What's he saying? NICO (scribbling furiously) '... Engine block has cleared customs. Serial number VA-748. Pick up Tuesday, 3 May as authorized.' 82 EXT. BODY SHOP - NIGHT Chi Chi emerges from the office, tucking a scrap of paper into his pocket. Abandano follows. They get into a late-model Lincoln which pulls out onto the street. * 83 EXT. STREET - NIGHT Nico and Jackson's car follows at a discreet distance. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 26. NICO (V.O.) Unit Ten Tango X-ray. I need a vehicle registration I.D. POLICE RADIO (V.O.) Go ahead, please. NICO (V.O.) '86 Lincoln. Illinois 354 Dog '67. * 84 INT. UNMARKED CAR - MOVING - NIGHT Jackson picks up Nico's pad to take down the response. After a moment: POLICE RADIO (V.O.) Vehicle registration follows. Leaseholder: Ramon Testamente, registered alien. Nation of origin: Venezuela. Do you wish criminal record search? NICO (into mike) I want to know when he wipes his * behind. * 85 SERIES OF SHOTS As Nico and Jackson tail the Lincoln out of the industrial zone into a fancier, non-Latin neighborhood. On the sidewalks we glimpse theatergoers, fashionable white couples out on the town. 86 LINCOLN Pulls up to a valet park outside a ton-y restaurant. A sign says: "BOGOTA." * 87 INT. UNMARKED CAR - MOVING Nico and Jackson exchange a glance. JACKSON Salvano? NICO Jackpot. 88 EXT. RESTAURANT - NIGHT Chi Chi and Abandano get out of their car, a valet takes it, Chi Chi enters the restaurant. 89 INT. SALVANO'S RESTAURANT - NIGHT Nico and Jackson enter the main dining room, which we recognize from the scene with Nardo the busboy. 27. The place is packed with fashionable people of all races. A band plays salsa; couples dance. Nico and Jackson pass easily as a hip "uptown" couple. A pretty Latin HOSTESS approaches them. HOSTESS Two for dinner? NICO Two for drinks. They elbow up to the packed bar, standing. Nico squints toward the rear dining room. 90 NICO'S POV - DOWN BAR Looking past numerous patrons, we see Chi Chi whisper something to a waiter and take a seat at a rear table (the same "owner's table" where Salvano sat before.) The waiter hurries off into a back hallway. 91 NICO AND JACKSON - AT BAR Jackson moves to the salsa beat. A BARMAID approaches. JACKSON Gimme something stiff. I need it. BARMAID Who doesn't? Nico's eyes never leave Chi Chi. 92 REAR DINING ROOM From the back hallway Salvano emerges -- in his tux, looking prosperous. He sits down beside Chi Chi and Abandano. A waitress brings two drinks. After a few words, Chi Chi removes the scrap of paper from his pocket, hands it to Salvano. NICO (O.S.) You'll have your engine block next Tuesday, boss. 93 BACK TO NICO AND JACKSON As the Barmaid brings their drinks. Jackson sees her peaceful week to retirement flying out the window. JACKSON Why couldn't it be a week from Tuesday? I could read about it in the paper. Nico grabs her waist, pulls her onto the dance floor, and does a playful twirl. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 28. NICO Cheer up, partner. I'm gonna make you famous. 94 EXT. WHOLESALE MEAT AREA - DAY * Track spurs, greasy streets, parked fork lifts. 94A EXT. ROOF - DAY * Lieutenant Strozah surveys the street traffic. * 95 NICO, JACKSON AND LUKICH The two men, dressed as meat processors in hard hats and bloody white coats, rake cattle guts under the eave of a packing plant. Jackson, dressed like a USDA Inspector and * carrying a clipboard, inspects a few hanging carcasses. JACKSON You missed a few spots, boys. LUKICH I'm takin' it home t'a make kilbasa, boss. Luke casts an impatient glance across the street to a lot with four parked meat trucks. We glimpse two "truckers" keeping low in the shadows of one cab. Down the block a seemingly empty pickup truck is parked in an alley. LUKICH This ain't a bust -- it's a convention. NICO Don't you like company, Luke? (sarcastic) We got all the scouts here -- Drug Enforcement Agency, the Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms -- WALKIE-TALKIE (V.O.) Keep this channel clear, Toscani. We realize Nico, Jackson and Lukich are wired, with mikes out of sight under their coats. Nico glances to the pick- up, near to which three men can be spotted in the alley. Apparently one of them is the walkie-talkie voice. NICO (into mike) This is our channel, dickhead. And our collar. ANOTHER WALKIE-TALKIE (V.O.) That's enough, all of you! Keep this channel clear. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 28A. 96 ANGLE ON MEAT PLANT - DAY Nothing happening. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 29. 97 ANOTHER ANGLE Dead as hell. 98 NICO, LUKICH AND JACKSON Bored, pissed off, tired. Suddenly: 99 BATTERED VAN WITH TWO MEN emerges from a corner, two blocks down. It starts slowly this way. 1ST WALKIE-TALKIE (V.O.) All right. Everyone get their heads outa their ass. The meat truck men duck down out of sight, the pickup men back into the shadows. Nico and Lukich keep raking cow guts. The van passes slowly, checking out the area. JACKSON (sarcastic) '... And so I quit the police department... got myself a steady job -- ' The van accelerates slightly, turns a corner, vanishes. Silence. LUKICH * They spotted me. I'm too good- looking to be a meat slopper. * 1ST WALKIE-TALKIE (V.O.) Will you hot dogs shut up? The van returns. On a cross street. Heading behind the packing plant. NICO * (to Lukich) * You're too ugly. Now a second car appears. The Lincoln. Behind it is an ancient station wagon. Both vehicles take a different cross street, but both heading behind the packing plant. NICO (into hidden mike) Here we go, boys and girls -- (to Jackson) You stay put. * As soon as the two vehicles pass out of sight, Nico and Lukich ditch their rakes, dart into the packing plant. The meat truck men START their TRUCK. 30. The pickup men board their vehicle -- Jackson follows Nico and Luke -- but at a safe distance. 100 INT. PACKING PLANT - DAY Nico and Lukich sprint in a crouch past the blood runoffs, meat cutting tables -- 101 NICO'S POV - RUNNING THROUGH the windows at the rear of the plant, we see the station wagon and the van, pulling up swiftly beside one another, men getting out -- 102 INT. PLANT Nico and Lukich draw their guns, running full-tilt. NICO (into hidden miki) It's going down now. Move! 103 EXT. REAR OF PACKING PLANT - DAY The station wagon men heave their rear door open, the van men start to open their side door. The Lincoln is stopped at a distance. Suddenly -- 104 NICO AND LUKICH burst from the rear door of the packing plant, guns drawn. LUKICH Police! 105 QUICK CUTS - VAN AND STATION WAGON MEN grab for their weapons -- 106 COPS IN MEAT TRUCK AND PICKUP come highballing around both sides of the packing plant -- 107 VAN AND STATION WAGON MEN OPEN FIRE. There is confusion and mayhem; it's not clear who's a cop and who's a criminal. 108 NICO AND LUKICH dive for cover, RETURNING FIRE. The DEA men in one truck also OPEN UP. One of the van men is hit between the eyes. MACHINE GUN FIRE rakes the DEA truck; it spins out of control; flips. Lukich SHOOTS the machine-gunner. LUKICH (shouts; points) Nico! The Lincoln! 31. 109 LINCOLN starts to PEEL OUT. We glimpse Chi Chi in the driver's seat, Salvano on the passenger side. 110 NICO steps in front of the accelerating Lincoln, raises his .45. 111 INT. LINCOLN - DAY Salvano and Chi Chi dive below the dash and continue forward. Salvano, in the passenger seat, raises his GUN; FIRES blindly -- trying to hit Nico. 112 EXT. LINCOLN - DAY Nico UNLOADS his .45 into the windshield and the firewall. The Lincoln keeps coming down the narrow alley. 113 NICO brazenly steps up onto the hood and dives, grabbing onto the roof. 114 INT. LINCOLN - DAY Salvano can't believe it. He screams something in Spanish. He FIRES again, this time through the roof. 115 EXT. LINCOLN - ROOF - DAY Bullet holes appear. Nico narrowly misses being hit. 116 ANOTHER ANGLE - LINCOLN Nico reaches over the side of the car and SMASHES the pas- senger WINDOW with his fist. 117 CLOSEUP - NICO'S HAND Salvano's face is bashed. Nico's huge hand grabs Salvano's throat; he won't let go. 118 CLOSEUP - NICO He hangs on with one hand. 119 CLOSEUP - SALVANO Nico's fingers now dig into Salvano's larynx; he may never talk again. He's gagging. Salvano now points the gun at Chi Chi. Chi Chi makes the decision to stop the car in order to save his boss. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 32. 120 NICO leaps off the roof pulling Salvano past the broken glass, out of the window. 121 SEVERAL POLICE VEHICLES * SCREECH into the lot. Officers pour out, guns drawn, surrounding the Lincoln and the other vehicles. Jackson joins them, weapon in hand. 122 NICO drags Salvano by the neck across the lot to the van, slamming the drug dealer up against the van's side. Lukich, Jackson and Strozah are there, with the DEA cops, * all covering the other men. NICO (to Salvano) How many kilos you got in there, Skivuzo? Salvano couldn't answer if he wanted to. The other cops look at Nico with awe. Lukich whips the van door open, yanks a tarp off the cargo. 123 INT. VAN The engine block sits in a wooden shipping frame, wrapped with industrial plastic. Nico climbs into the van, rips the plastic sheeting off, grabs the wood slats of the shipping frame, tears them off. In the background, ambulances are arriving to care for the wounded cops and criminals. 124 CLOSEUP - ENGINE BLOCK From the cylinder heads emerges a full load, not of drugs, but of plastique tubes labeled U.S. ARMY C-4 HIGH EXPLOSIVE. 125 LUKICH, JACKSON AND OTHER COPS react with surprise and shock. 126 NICO rips open one of tubes and smells it. 127 CLOSE - NICO Confused; frustrated. NICO What kinda fuckin' high is this? CUT TO: ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 33. 128 INT. FBI OFFICE - NIGHT OPENING ON SALVANO, in a chair, looking bruised and swollen, and wearing an expression of fuming indignation. SALVANO -- I'll tell you what this cop is. He's a fucking menace! 129 TWO FBI AGENTS (NEELEY AND HALLORAN) * face Salvano, Chi Chi and the lawyer Abandano (apparently representing Salvano and Chi Chi). Neeley is on the phone. * Pictures of Reagan and Meese are prominent on the wall. SALVANO You see what he did to me?! AGENT HALLORAN Your problem is being handled right now, Mr. Salv -- SALVANO Yeah? Well, it shoulda been handled twelve hours ago. I don't know who's running this outfit, but somebody better get his goddamn wires straight! AGENT NEELEY * (into phone) -- yes, sir... yes, sir, I understand -- SALVANO That maniac should be wearing a number, not a badge. Salvano knows what the call is about. He straightens the tie beneath his bruised neck, assuming the attitude of a respectable citizen who has been unjustly wronged. AGENT NEELEY * (into phone) -- count on it, sir. Right. You'll have our full cooperation. Neeley hangs up. Glances dubiously to Halloran. Then turns * grimly to Salvano, Chi Chi and the lawyer Abandano. AGENT NEELEY * You're free to go. 130 OMITTED 131 INT. FEDERAL BUILDING - LOBBY - NIGHT * The hoods and their lawyer smugly walk past a cleaning woman. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 33A. 132 INT. PRECINCT CAPTAIN'S OFFICE - MORNING OPENING ON Agent Neeley's face. Composed, clean-cut, but * intense, wearing a light-colored business suit. PAN TO Agent Halloran -- the same upright, clean-shaven bureau look. The two men are seated to one side of LIEUTENANT FRED STROZAH. 133 NICO, JACKSON, LUKICH AND DEA AND ATF MEN sit and stand in various postures in front of the Lieutenant's desk. LIEUTENANT STROZAH (to Nico, DEA & AIF) -- This is no reflection on the work you officers have done. I feel, and the whole department feels, extremely proud of your initiative and gallantry. That "spare me the horseshit" look on Nico's face. He's fuming. Strozah sees Nico's bitter expression. It's on the others' faces too. LIEUTENANT STROZAH As all of you are well aware, possession of these explosives is a federal offense and under jurisdiction of the F.B.I. Nico's eyes meet Lieutenant Strozah's. There's respect between the two, but it's plainly under a helluva strain. NICO Sir. With all respect to our brothers in the Bureau -- (biting sarcasm; turns to Neeley) * -- That's no answer. It's no answer to why one of the biggest dealers in the city is out on the street now, free as a bird! Agent Neeley stiffens. * LIEUTENANT STROZAH Keep it in your pants, Nico. These men have a job to do, just like us. Nico stifles his outrage. The other cops exchange glances -- upset and angry. Agent Neeley clears his throat. * AGENT NEELEY * Lieutenant, I think these officers are entitled to a fuller explanation. (MORE) ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 34. AGENT NEELEY (CONT'D) They've risked their lives. I understand one man is in the hospital. He speaks to the officers. AGENT NEELEY * What I'm about to say doesn't leave this room. Is that clear? Assent from everyone. AGENT NEELEY * Mr. Salvano has been working for some time in cooperation with certain federal agencies. 134 CLOSE - NICO'S FACE Stunned and furious at this royal fuck-up. AGENT NEELEY (O.S.) * I'm not at liberty to divulge the nature of Mr. Salvano's involvement -- I just learned of its existence myself a few hours ago. But one thing I can tell you -- 135 BACK TO AGENT NEELEY * AGENT NEELEY * Mr. Salvano's role is crucial to an extremely sensitive ongoing investigation. Any further surveillance, harassment, or unauthorized operations against this individual are forbidden. I must order you gentlemen -- (looking straight at Nico) -- with all respect for your work and your courage, to stand down. Lukich shakes his head; Nico is devastated. Jackson takes it all in. CUT TO: 136 INT. POLICE SQUAD ROOM - MORNING OPENING CLOSE ON a desk drawer being opened. Aside from rounds of ammo, notes and an aging eggplant parmigiana sandwich, there are half a dozen hand-labeled audio- cassettes and a small collection of miniaturized bugging devices. Jackson and Lukich watch Nico take out the notes, hand them to Lieutenant Strozah. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 35. LIEUTENANT STROZAH The tapes too. NICO (mocking) That's my Lawrence Welk collection! LIEUTENANT STROZAH I want everything you got on this one. Reluctantly, Nico hands over the tapes. The Lieutenant eyes the bugs and wires. LIEUTENANT STROZAH I know you don't give a shit about yourself, Toscani. (a glance to Jax) But you're gonna put Jackson's ass in a sling, too, with these illegal wires. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 35A. * 136A OTHER SIDE OF SQUAD ROOM Agent Halloran edges up to Jackson, who's grabbing coffee on the far side of the squad room, and watching from there as Nico gives Strozah more of a hard time. AGENT HALLORAN What's the story on your partner, Jackson? Did he learn this style or was he born with a brick up his ass? Jackson checks Halloran out. He's black too and, despite herself, there's a certain rapport. JACKSON He has ethics. Unlike certain others on this case. Halloran watches the illegal bugs and tapes come out of Nico's drawer. AGENT HALLORAN His 'ethics' are gonna cost him his badge and his gun. This "white" talk gives Jackson a pain. She slips into her jive mode. JACKSON You don't wanna catch him without no gun. Halloran's look asks why not? JACKSON 'Cause what he do with his hands... make bullet holes look pretty. Across the room, Nico turns over the tapes. AGENT HALLORAN He bad? JACKSON Bad bad. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 36. 137 INT. PRECINCT HOUSE - STAIRWAY - DAY Nico and Jackson come down the stairs. Jackson has had ample excitement for her last week on the force. JACKSON Is that enough? Can we do something normal now -- like eat lunch? NICO Anything you say, Jax. How about Salvano's? JACKSON Let it be, Nico. 138 EXT. PRECINCT HOUSE - DAY Nico and Jackson's car pulls out into traffic. 139 INT. UNMARKED CAR - PARKED (ALLEY BEHIND SALVANO'S) Jackson and Nico are eating some fast good. Nico reaches to his jacket pocket; takes out a cassette. JACKSON What... you kept his tape, too? Nico already has it in the PLAYER. We hear FRAGMENTS of the telephone tap from the body shop in Spanish and English. Jackson looks frustrated. Nico listens care- fully to what appears to be the taped PHONE CONVERSATION. NICO Poetry, ain't it? 140 EXT. REAR SALVANO'S RESTAURANT - DAY (POV FROM CAR) The pimp (busboy) comes out and dumps a load of garbage. 141 INT. UNMARKED CAR - DAY Nico and Jackson case the restaurant from down the alley. 142 EXT. REAR SALVANO'S - NICO'S POV - DAY From the restaurant door, Salvano and Chi Chi emerge. They get into a black Cadillac and pull out. * NICO (O.S.) And now for some dessert. 143 SERIES OF SHOTS As Nico's car tails Salvano's through various streets. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 37. 144 EXT. OAK STREET Salvano comes out of a fancy flower shop with a bimbo on his arm. He kisses her goodbye and puts her in a cab. NICO (O.S.) And that must be Mrs. Sal. So nice to see married couples still in love. 144A NICO AND JACKSON are hidden, waiting. 144B CHI CHI emerges from a dry cleaner's with a suit on a hanger. * 145 EXT. ST. ELIZABETH'S PARISH CHURCH - DAY Salvano's Caddy pulls up outside the same church where we * saw Nico's son get baptized. Salvano and Chi Chi get out, look both ways up and down the street. Salvano, holding * flowers, makes eye contact with a car down the block. * 146 EXT. STREET UP BLOCK FROM CHURCH - DAY Nico's car backs out of sight around the corner. 147 SIDEWALK IN FRONT OF CHURCH Salvano and Chi Chi, seeing nothing, enter the church. 148 INT. CHURCH - DAY A smattering of older women and men praying. Salvano and Chi Chi stop at the head of the aisle, genuflect to the altar, move in, take seats toward the front. 149 BACK OF CHURCH Nico and Jackson slip in the front door, glide silently into the shadows at the rear of the church. JACKSON This is your mother's church, isn't it? NICO Yeah. But I bet she's never seen these boys in the choir. 150 NICO'S POV Salvano's head is bowed, but Chi Chi is looking around quite carefully. Nico and Jackson fade into the shadows behind the huge pillars. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 37A. 151 SALVANO AND CHI CHI After a few moments, the pair rises. They cross them- selves, start out for the front door. As they walk, they continue to look for something. 152 INT. CHURCH - DAY * Nico and Jackson emerge into a courtyard which reveals a day care center and a rectory. They head toward the front of the building. Jackson, planning on picking up their tail on Salvano, is stoped by Nico. He wants to stay and look around. 38. FATHER GENARRO (O.S.) Nicola! That can't be you in church without the family! Nico turns to see Father Genarro, perspiring in a baggy sweatshirt, a handball glove on his hand. The courtyard alongside the church is marked off as an athletic area. NICO Father Genarro. The priest seizes Nico's hand warmly, smiles at Jackson. FATHER GENARRO This must be your partner in crime. (shakes her hand) I'm Father Genarro. I saw you at the baptismal party. (with a wink to Nico) What

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How many times the word 'stud' appears in the text?

with Lucy. Jackson, standing in the doorway, has seen all this. 64 INT. UNMARKED CAR - MOVING - DAY Nico at the wheel has just pulled away from the bakery. Jackson, in the passenger seat, studies her partner for a few moments, shaking her head at the contradictions in this man. Educated, classy, an elegant dresser -- yet underneath an out-and-out wild man. JACKSON I don't get you, Toscani. (beat) What the hell are you doing being a shitheel cop? With your background? For a long moment Nico says nothing. Then, quietly, look- ing straight ahead: NICO When I was overseas, I saw some things. Things that eat your guts out. Things that stay in front of your eyes like they were burned in and branded. He turns to Jackson. NICO You can walk away from them, Jax. You can quit, but you know it's still going on. You try something anyway -- (smiles a moment) -- I know I'm not going to change the world. I can't stop the tonnage coming in, I can't fight the boys behind the desks pushing their buttons -- ANGLE INCLUDING MEAN STREETS OUTSIDE NICO But maybe here, huh? (indicates street) Maybe in my own city, my own neighborhood, on my own block -- maybe here I can do something. He turns a corner. NICO That's why I'm a shitheel cop. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 20A. * 64A INT. POLICE STATION - DAY Behind the desk, a few detectives man the phones. A Latin attorney, ABANDANO, is at the counter. COP (O.S.) You can see your client. As soon as she's through eating her dinner. 65 INT. POLICE LOCKUP - "CAGE" AND HALLWAY - EVENING Hookers, female addicts, etc. in the downtown "cage." Nico has the girl in the red dress and lizard shoes (CARLA DECARLO) out in the hallway adjacent to the lock- up. Nico is Mr. Charm, offering her a heart-shaped box of chocolates. NICO Carla... Carla -- I just want the name of your boyfriend -- CARLA I got 200 boyfriends. The hooker, Carla DeCarlo, slaps the box away, cursing in Spanish. 21. CARLA Pinchi cabron, cabeza colon! Some of the chocolates tumble onto the lockup floor, the detainees snap them up, start munching. The girl con- tinues to spit curses at Nico, gesturing with her hands with Latin flamboyance. Nico grabs her by the elbow, as a jailer opens the lockup door. More curses are being flung at Nico from various females in the cage. Nico heaves Carla in among them. Carla flops down on a bench next to a tall black hooker. MOVE IN ON the black hooker. It's Nico's partner, Jackson, dolled up like a street- walker, playing her undercover role to the hilt. JACKSON (to Nico) Why can't you sons-a-bitches ever treat someone with a little respect? NICO (walking away) Take it easy, sister. JACKSON I ain't your goddamn sister. We ain't got the same mother, motherfucka. Carla fires one final parting salvo of obscenities, then sags back among the women. Carla starts to cry. Jackson comforts her; Carla responds, lets herself be comforted. CUT TO: 66 EXT. DOWNTOWN - FINANCIAL DISTRICT - DAY Jackson, back in her normal daytime wear, exits a building. She gets into Nico's car. 67 INT. CAR - DAY Jackson checks her makeup in the rearview mirror. Nico sits behind the wheel. The two are on some kind of stakeout. JACKSON The lawyer's name is Abandano. He's on the third floor. I got a look at him. I couldn't get how he's connected, but according to Carla, he's a lousy lay. NICO Maybe we can bust him for that. Jackson spots something, gestures subtly out window -- ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 22. 68 EXT. DOWNTOWN BUILDING - DAY A short, slick-looking Latin man in a business suit emerges from the building. JACKSON That's our stud. Nico and Jackson leave their car and follow him on foot. 69 EXT. FINANCIAL DISTRICT - BANK - DAY ABANDANO meets a striking-looking middle-aged woman in front of a stately financial institution. They go in. Jackson remains out on the street, while Nico follows the couple in. 70 LATER Jackson has been waiting, sipping some coffee. Nico emerges from the bank, signaling to his partner to follow him. Abandano and the woman exit from the bank's revol- ving doors and immediately jump into a cab. Nico and Jackson look at each other and step in front of another cab. Nico opens the cab door, flips his badge open, then asks the occupant to leave. Jackson gets in the front seat next to the protesting cabbie. 71 EXT. FEDERAL BUILDING - DAY Abandano and the woman are crossing the plaza as Nico and Jackson run up the block. Near the entrance to the Federal * Building, a small but vocal group of protestors are * gathered, carrying signs and chanting slogans. The frus- * trated cabbie watches them in the background. 72 PLAZA Jackson and Nico watch Abandano and the woman pass the * crowd of demonstrators and enter the building. Jackson acts * indifferent, almost frustrated; Nico keenly senses something. CUT TO: 73 INT. EXPENSIVE RESTAURANT ("BOGOTA") - DAY * The main dining room. No customers, just busboys readying tables for the evening's business. We notice one of the * busboys is the "pimp" Nico found with Lucy. * 74 BOOTH NEAR BACK HALLWAY The owner's table. Stacks of dining checks, a cashbox and calculator, full ashtrays, wine glasses. BAUTISTA SALVANO, a heavyset, swarthy Venezuelan dressed in a tux with the collar open, glowers across the table at a mus- cular, scar-faced Latin busboy -- the kind who looks like he does more for his boss than clean up the tables. The busboy (NARDO) is nervous, apologetic -- ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 23. SALVANO (pissed off) -- I brought you in for your muscles, Nardo, not your mouth. NARDO (scared) I'm sorry, boss. SALVANO Your English is getting good... You're showing it off. Showing it off on the street -- NARDO I keep quiet. I never talk no more -- Salvano glowers at Nardo like he's about to punch him. Instead he reaches over, playfully chokes the busboy -- then releases him, as if all is forgiven. SALVANO Make yourself useful. (indicates empty wine bottle on table) Get downstairs, bring me one of these. (as Nardo stands, starts for back hallway) Then get back to work. 75 INT. RESTAURANT BASEMENT STOREROOM - LATE AFTERNOON Nardo enters at the top of the stairs, radiating relief. He trots down into the empty basement, toward a floor-to- ceiling wine rack. NARDO (to himself) I thought I was dead, man. (whistles with relief) I thought I was fucking dead. He crosses to the wine rack. It's dark, hard to see. He searches for the bottle. Suddenly: a METALLIC sound behind him. Nardo turns -- CHI CHI TESTAMENTE, a wiry, pock-faced Latino, stands in the shadows (it is clear he has been waiting there, hiding) -- holding a small silencer automatic. CHI CHI You were right, cabron. * ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 24. One SHOT between the eyes and Nardo CRASHES backward into the WINE RACK, eyes wide with shock and bewilderment. Chi Chi SHOOTS him AGAIN; Nardo drops like a stone. Coolly, professionally, Chi Chi pumps FOUR more SHOTS into the prone busboy's head. Chi Chi ejects the clip into his palm, unscrews the silencer, holsters the gun. Salvano appears at the top of the stairs. Two busboys are behind him. One of them is the young pimp. The busboys hurry * down, the pimp -- scared shitless but playing it macho-cool. * Salvano comes down the stairs. Chi Chi stands over his work. SALVANO (to busboys) Clean up this mess. CHI CHI * Who knows who else is talking -- * SALVANO * He was a young fool. * 76 BACK IN UPSTAIRS DINING ROOM Salvano and Chi Chi emerge from the basement steps and walk toward their booth. CHI CHI We're crazy waiting for this bullshit 'shipment.' Let me waste the other fucker now. Salvano puts a hand on Chi Chi's shoulder. SALVANO Be patient. This will be done the way it was planned. CUT TO: 77 EXT. BODY AND FENDER SHOP - NIGHT Rusting cyclone fences surround a mud-lot repair yard in a dingy industrial section. Young Lation and black workers finish up for the night; through the dirty, security-barred office window we can see Chi Chi talking on the phone. The lawyer, Abandano, is also there. 78 EXT. ALLEY - REAR OF SHOP - NIGHT Nico finishes connecting a small transmitter which has been hastily wired to the entering phone line. 79 INT. UNMARKED CAR - NIGHT Nico and Jackson in the shadows down the street from the body shop. Nico wears earphones, a small tape recorder on the seat beside him. Jackson does not look happy. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 25. JACKSON Toscani, you're going to have me doing time. NICO Lighten up, Jax. No one's bringing this into court. JACKSON Except against us. NICO I don't give a shit how we do it. I just wanna get there. Jackson gives Nico a dirty look, but stifles her protest. JACKSON I thought you said you were gonna protect me. Cover my butt. Be my guardian angel -- Nico hears something through the earphones. Gestures for silence -- 80 ANGLE THROUGH OFFICE WINDOW Chi Chi listens with increased intensity to something on the phone. He starts writing it down -- 81 BACK TO NICO In unmarked car. He's writing it down too. NICO I got the shipment. * JACKSON What? What's he saying? NICO (scribbling furiously) '... Engine block has cleared customs. Serial number VA-748. Pick up Tuesday, 3 May as authorized.' 82 EXT. BODY SHOP - NIGHT Chi Chi emerges from the office, tucking a scrap of paper into his pocket. Abandano follows. They get into a late-model Lincoln which pulls out onto the street. * 83 EXT. STREET - NIGHT Nico and Jackson's car follows at a discreet distance. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 26. NICO (V.O.) Unit Ten Tango X-ray. I need a vehicle registration I.D. POLICE RADIO (V.O.) Go ahead, please. NICO (V.O.) '86 Lincoln. Illinois 354 Dog '67. * 84 INT. UNMARKED CAR - MOVING - NIGHT Jackson picks up Nico's pad to take down the response. After a moment: POLICE RADIO (V.O.) Vehicle registration follows. Leaseholder: Ramon Testamente, registered alien. Nation of origin: Venezuela. Do you wish criminal record search? NICO (into mike) I want to know when he wipes his * behind. * 85 SERIES OF SHOTS As Nico and Jackson tail the Lincoln out of the industrial zone into a fancier, non-Latin neighborhood. On the sidewalks we glimpse theatergoers, fashionable white couples out on the town. 86 LINCOLN Pulls up to a valet park outside a ton-y restaurant. A sign says: "BOGOTA." * 87 INT. UNMARKED CAR - MOVING Nico and Jackson exchange a glance. JACKSON Salvano? NICO Jackpot. 88 EXT. RESTAURANT - NIGHT Chi Chi and Abandano get out of their car, a valet takes it, Chi Chi enters the restaurant. 89 INT. SALVANO'S RESTAURANT - NIGHT Nico and Jackson enter the main dining room, which we recognize from the scene with Nardo the busboy. 27. The place is packed with fashionable people of all races. A band plays salsa; couples dance. Nico and Jackson pass easily as a hip "uptown" couple. A pretty Latin HOSTESS approaches them. HOSTESS Two for dinner? NICO Two for drinks. They elbow up to the packed bar, standing. Nico squints toward the rear dining room. 90 NICO'S POV - DOWN BAR Looking past numerous patrons, we see Chi Chi whisper something to a waiter and take a seat at a rear table (the same "owner's table" where Salvano sat before.) The waiter hurries off into a back hallway. 91 NICO AND JACKSON - AT BAR Jackson moves to the salsa beat. A BARMAID approaches. JACKSON Gimme something stiff. I need it. BARMAID Who doesn't? Nico's eyes never leave Chi Chi. 92 REAR DINING ROOM From the back hallway Salvano emerges -- in his tux, looking prosperous. He sits down beside Chi Chi and Abandano. A waitress brings two drinks. After a few words, Chi Chi removes the scrap of paper from his pocket, hands it to Salvano. NICO (O.S.) You'll have your engine block next Tuesday, boss. 93 BACK TO NICO AND JACKSON As the Barmaid brings their drinks. Jackson sees her peaceful week to retirement flying out the window. JACKSON Why couldn't it be a week from Tuesday? I could read about it in the paper. Nico grabs her waist, pulls her onto the dance floor, and does a playful twirl. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 28. NICO Cheer up, partner. I'm gonna make you famous. 94 EXT. WHOLESALE MEAT AREA - DAY * Track spurs, greasy streets, parked fork lifts. 94A EXT. ROOF - DAY * Lieutenant Strozah surveys the street traffic. * 95 NICO, JACKSON AND LUKICH The two men, dressed as meat processors in hard hats and bloody white coats, rake cattle guts under the eave of a packing plant. Jackson, dressed like a USDA Inspector and * carrying a clipboard, inspects a few hanging carcasses. JACKSON You missed a few spots, boys. LUKICH I'm takin' it home t'a make kilbasa, boss. Luke casts an impatient glance across the street to a lot with four parked meat trucks. We glimpse two "truckers" keeping low in the shadows of one cab. Down the block a seemingly empty pickup truck is parked in an alley. LUKICH This ain't a bust -- it's a convention. NICO Don't you like company, Luke? (sarcastic) We got all the scouts here -- Drug Enforcement Agency, the Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms -- WALKIE-TALKIE (V.O.) Keep this channel clear, Toscani. We realize Nico, Jackson and Lukich are wired, with mikes out of sight under their coats. Nico glances to the pick- up, near to which three men can be spotted in the alley. Apparently one of them is the walkie-talkie voice. NICO (into mike) This is our channel, dickhead. And our collar. ANOTHER WALKIE-TALKIE (V.O.) That's enough, all of you! Keep this channel clear. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 28A. 96 ANGLE ON MEAT PLANT - DAY Nothing happening. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 29. 97 ANOTHER ANGLE Dead as hell. 98 NICO, LUKICH AND JACKSON Bored, pissed off, tired. Suddenly: 99 BATTERED VAN WITH TWO MEN emerges from a corner, two blocks down. It starts slowly this way. 1ST WALKIE-TALKIE (V.O.) All right. Everyone get their heads outa their ass. The meat truck men duck down out of sight, the pickup men back into the shadows. Nico and Lukich keep raking cow guts. The van passes slowly, checking out the area. JACKSON (sarcastic) '... And so I quit the police department... got myself a steady job -- ' The van accelerates slightly, turns a corner, vanishes. Silence. LUKICH * They spotted me. I'm too good- looking to be a meat slopper. * 1ST WALKIE-TALKIE (V.O.) Will you hot dogs shut up? The van returns. On a cross street. Heading behind the packing plant. NICO * (to Lukich) * You're too ugly. Now a second car appears. The Lincoln. Behind it is an ancient station wagon. Both vehicles take a different cross street, but both heading behind the packing plant. NICO (into hidden mike) Here we go, boys and girls -- (to Jackson) You stay put. * As soon as the two vehicles pass out of sight, Nico and Lukich ditch their rakes, dart into the packing plant. The meat truck men START their TRUCK. 30. The pickup men board their vehicle -- Jackson follows Nico and Luke -- but at a safe distance. 100 INT. PACKING PLANT - DAY Nico and Lukich sprint in a crouch past the blood runoffs, meat cutting tables -- 101 NICO'S POV - RUNNING THROUGH the windows at the rear of the plant, we see the station wagon and the van, pulling up swiftly beside one another, men getting out -- 102 INT. PLANT Nico and Lukich draw their guns, running full-tilt. NICO (into hidden miki) It's going down now. Move! 103 EXT. REAR OF PACKING PLANT - DAY The station wagon men heave their rear door open, the van men start to open their side door. The Lincoln is stopped at a distance. Suddenly -- 104 NICO AND LUKICH burst from the rear door of the packing plant, guns drawn. LUKICH Police! 105 QUICK CUTS - VAN AND STATION WAGON MEN grab for their weapons -- 106 COPS IN MEAT TRUCK AND PICKUP come highballing around both sides of the packing plant -- 107 VAN AND STATION WAGON MEN OPEN FIRE. There is confusion and mayhem; it's not clear who's a cop and who's a criminal. 108 NICO AND LUKICH dive for cover, RETURNING FIRE. The DEA men in one truck also OPEN UP. One of the van men is hit between the eyes. MACHINE GUN FIRE rakes the DEA truck; it spins out of control; flips. Lukich SHOOTS the machine-gunner. LUKICH (shouts; points) Nico! The Lincoln! 31. 109 LINCOLN starts to PEEL OUT. We glimpse Chi Chi in the driver's seat, Salvano on the passenger side. 110 NICO steps in front of the accelerating Lincoln, raises his .45. 111 INT. LINCOLN - DAY Salvano and Chi Chi dive below the dash and continue forward. Salvano, in the passenger seat, raises his GUN; FIRES blindly -- trying to hit Nico. 112 EXT. LINCOLN - DAY Nico UNLOADS his .45 into the windshield and the firewall. The Lincoln keeps coming down the narrow alley. 113 NICO brazenly steps up onto the hood and dives, grabbing onto the roof. 114 INT. LINCOLN - DAY Salvano can't believe it. He screams something in Spanish. He FIRES again, this time through the roof. 115 EXT. LINCOLN - ROOF - DAY Bullet holes appear. Nico narrowly misses being hit. 116 ANOTHER ANGLE - LINCOLN Nico reaches over the side of the car and SMASHES the pas- senger WINDOW with his fist. 117 CLOSEUP - NICO'S HAND Salvano's face is bashed. Nico's huge hand grabs Salvano's throat; he won't let go. 118 CLOSEUP - NICO He hangs on with one hand. 119 CLOSEUP - SALVANO Nico's fingers now dig into Salvano's larynx; he may never talk again. He's gagging. Salvano now points the gun at Chi Chi. Chi Chi makes the decision to stop the car in order to save his boss. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 32. 120 NICO leaps off the roof pulling Salvano past the broken glass, out of the window. 121 SEVERAL POLICE VEHICLES * SCREECH into the lot. Officers pour out, guns drawn, surrounding the Lincoln and the other vehicles. Jackson joins them, weapon in hand. 122 NICO drags Salvano by the neck across the lot to the van, slamming the drug dealer up against the van's side. Lukich, Jackson and Strozah are there, with the DEA cops, * all covering the other men. NICO (to Salvano) How many kilos you got in there, Skivuzo? Salvano couldn't answer if he wanted to. The other cops look at Nico with awe. Lukich whips the van door open, yanks a tarp off the cargo. 123 INT. VAN The engine block sits in a wooden shipping frame, wrapped with industrial plastic. Nico climbs into the van, rips the plastic sheeting off, grabs the wood slats of the shipping frame, tears them off. In the background, ambulances are arriving to care for the wounded cops and criminals. 124 CLOSEUP - ENGINE BLOCK From the cylinder heads emerges a full load, not of drugs, but of plastique tubes labeled U.S. ARMY C-4 HIGH EXPLOSIVE. 125 LUKICH, JACKSON AND OTHER COPS react with surprise and shock. 126 NICO rips open one of tubes and smells it. 127 CLOSE - NICO Confused; frustrated. NICO What kinda fuckin' high is this? CUT TO: ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 33. 128 INT. FBI OFFICE - NIGHT OPENING ON SALVANO, in a chair, looking bruised and swollen, and wearing an expression of fuming indignation. SALVANO -- I'll tell you what this cop is. He's a fucking menace! 129 TWO FBI AGENTS (NEELEY AND HALLORAN) * face Salvano, Chi Chi and the lawyer Abandano (apparently representing Salvano and Chi Chi). Neeley is on the phone. * Pictures of Reagan and Meese are prominent on the wall. SALVANO You see what he did to me?! AGENT HALLORAN Your problem is being handled right now, Mr. Salv -- SALVANO Yeah? Well, it shoulda been handled twelve hours ago. I don't know who's running this outfit, but somebody better get his goddamn wires straight! AGENT NEELEY * (into phone) -- yes, sir... yes, sir, I understand -- SALVANO That maniac should be wearing a number, not a badge. Salvano knows what the call is about. He straightens the tie beneath his bruised neck, assuming the attitude of a respectable citizen who has been unjustly wronged. AGENT NEELEY * (into phone) -- count on it, sir. Right. You'll have our full cooperation. Neeley hangs up. Glances dubiously to Halloran. Then turns * grimly to Salvano, Chi Chi and the lawyer Abandano. AGENT NEELEY * You're free to go. 130 OMITTED 131 INT. FEDERAL BUILDING - LOBBY - NIGHT * The hoods and their lawyer smugly walk past a cleaning woman. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 33A. 132 INT. PRECINCT CAPTAIN'S OFFICE - MORNING OPENING ON Agent Neeley's face. Composed, clean-cut, but * intense, wearing a light-colored business suit. PAN TO Agent Halloran -- the same upright, clean-shaven bureau look. The two men are seated to one side of LIEUTENANT FRED STROZAH. 133 NICO, JACKSON, LUKICH AND DEA AND ATF MEN sit and stand in various postures in front of the Lieutenant's desk. LIEUTENANT STROZAH (to Nico, DEA & AIF) -- This is no reflection on the work you officers have done. I feel, and the whole department feels, extremely proud of your initiative and gallantry. That "spare me the horseshit" look on Nico's face. He's fuming. Strozah sees Nico's bitter expression. It's on the others' faces too. LIEUTENANT STROZAH As all of you are well aware, possession of these explosives is a federal offense and under jurisdiction of the F.B.I. Nico's eyes meet Lieutenant Strozah's. There's respect between the two, but it's plainly under a helluva strain. NICO Sir. With all respect to our brothers in the Bureau -- (biting sarcasm; turns to Neeley) * -- That's no answer. It's no answer to why one of the biggest dealers in the city is out on the street now, free as a bird! Agent Neeley stiffens. * LIEUTENANT STROZAH Keep it in your pants, Nico. These men have a job to do, just like us. Nico stifles his outrage. The other cops exchange glances -- upset and angry. Agent Neeley clears his throat. * AGENT NEELEY * Lieutenant, I think these officers are entitled to a fuller explanation. (MORE) ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 34. AGENT NEELEY (CONT'D) They've risked their lives. I understand one man is in the hospital. He speaks to the officers. AGENT NEELEY * What I'm about to say doesn't leave this room. Is that clear? Assent from everyone. AGENT NEELEY * Mr. Salvano has been working for some time in cooperation with certain federal agencies. 134 CLOSE - NICO'S FACE Stunned and furious at this royal fuck-up. AGENT NEELEY (O.S.) * I'm not at liberty to divulge the nature of Mr. Salvano's involvement -- I just learned of its existence myself a few hours ago. But one thing I can tell you -- 135 BACK TO AGENT NEELEY * AGENT NEELEY * Mr. Salvano's role is crucial to an extremely sensitive ongoing investigation. Any further surveillance, harassment, or unauthorized operations against this individual are forbidden. I must order you gentlemen -- (looking straight at Nico) -- with all respect for your work and your courage, to stand down. Lukich shakes his head; Nico is devastated. Jackson takes it all in. CUT TO: 136 INT. POLICE SQUAD ROOM - MORNING OPENING CLOSE ON a desk drawer being opened. Aside from rounds of ammo, notes and an aging eggplant parmigiana sandwich, there are half a dozen hand-labeled audio- cassettes and a small collection of miniaturized bugging devices. Jackson and Lukich watch Nico take out the notes, hand them to Lieutenant Strozah. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 35. LIEUTENANT STROZAH The tapes too. NICO (mocking) That's my Lawrence Welk collection! LIEUTENANT STROZAH I want everything you got on this one. Reluctantly, Nico hands over the tapes. The Lieutenant eyes the bugs and wires. LIEUTENANT STROZAH I know you don't give a shit about yourself, Toscani. (a glance to Jax) But you're gonna put Jackson's ass in a sling, too, with these illegal wires. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 35A. * 136A OTHER SIDE OF SQUAD ROOM Agent Halloran edges up to Jackson, who's grabbing coffee on the far side of the squad room, and watching from there as Nico gives Strozah more of a hard time. AGENT HALLORAN What's the story on your partner, Jackson? Did he learn this style or was he born with a brick up his ass? Jackson checks Halloran out. He's black too and, despite herself, there's a certain rapport. JACKSON He has ethics. Unlike certain others on this case. Halloran watches the illegal bugs and tapes come out of Nico's drawer. AGENT HALLORAN His 'ethics' are gonna cost him his badge and his gun. This "white" talk gives Jackson a pain. She slips into her jive mode. JACKSON You don't wanna catch him without no gun. Halloran's look asks why not? JACKSON 'Cause what he do with his hands... make bullet holes look pretty. Across the room, Nico turns over the tapes. AGENT HALLORAN He bad? JACKSON Bad bad. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 36. 137 INT. PRECINCT HOUSE - STAIRWAY - DAY Nico and Jackson come down the stairs. Jackson has had ample excitement for her last week on the force. JACKSON Is that enough? Can we do something normal now -- like eat lunch? NICO Anything you say, Jax. How about Salvano's? JACKSON Let it be, Nico. 138 EXT. PRECINCT HOUSE - DAY Nico and Jackson's car pulls out into traffic. 139 INT. UNMARKED CAR - PARKED (ALLEY BEHIND SALVANO'S) Jackson and Nico are eating some fast good. Nico reaches to his jacket pocket; takes out a cassette. JACKSON What... you kept his tape, too? Nico already has it in the PLAYER. We hear FRAGMENTS of the telephone tap from the body shop in Spanish and English. Jackson looks frustrated. Nico listens care- fully to what appears to be the taped PHONE CONVERSATION. NICO Poetry, ain't it? 140 EXT. REAR SALVANO'S RESTAURANT - DAY (POV FROM CAR) The pimp (busboy) comes out and dumps a load of garbage. 141 INT. UNMARKED CAR - DAY Nico and Jackson case the restaurant from down the alley. 142 EXT. REAR SALVANO'S - NICO'S POV - DAY From the restaurant door, Salvano and Chi Chi emerge. They get into a black Cadillac and pull out. * NICO (O.S.) And now for some dessert. 143 SERIES OF SHOTS As Nico's car tails Salvano's through various streets. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 37. 144 EXT. OAK STREET Salvano comes out of a fancy flower shop with a bimbo on his arm. He kisses her goodbye and puts her in a cab. NICO (O.S.) And that must be Mrs. Sal. So nice to see married couples still in love. 144A NICO AND JACKSON are hidden, waiting. 144B CHI CHI emerges from a dry cleaner's with a suit on a hanger. * 145 EXT. ST. ELIZABETH'S PARISH CHURCH - DAY Salvano's Caddy pulls up outside the same church where we * saw Nico's son get baptized. Salvano and Chi Chi get out, look both ways up and down the street. Salvano, holding * flowers, makes eye contact with a car down the block. * 146 EXT. STREET UP BLOCK FROM CHURCH - DAY Nico's car backs out of sight around the corner. 147 SIDEWALK IN FRONT OF CHURCH Salvano and Chi Chi, seeing nothing, enter the church. 148 INT. CHURCH - DAY A smattering of older women and men praying. Salvano and Chi Chi stop at the head of the aisle, genuflect to the altar, move in, take seats toward the front. 149 BACK OF CHURCH Nico and Jackson slip in the front door, glide silently into the shadows at the rear of the church. JACKSON This is your mother's church, isn't it? NICO Yeah. But I bet she's never seen these boys in the choir. 150 NICO'S POV Salvano's head is bowed, but Chi Chi is looking around quite carefully. Nico and Jackson fade into the shadows behind the huge pillars. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 37A. 151 SALVANO AND CHI CHI After a few moments, the pair rises. They cross them- selves, start out for the front door. As they walk, they continue to look for something. 152 INT. CHURCH - DAY * Nico and Jackson emerge into a courtyard which reveals a day care center and a rectory. They head toward the front of the building. Jackson, planning on picking up their tail on Salvano, is stoped by Nico. He wants to stay and look around. 38. FATHER GENARRO (O.S.) Nicola! That can't be you in church without the family! Nico turns to see Father Genarro, perspiring in a baggy sweatshirt, a handball glove on his hand. The courtyard alongside the church is marked off as an athletic area. NICO Father Genarro. The priest seizes Nico's hand warmly, smiles at Jackson. FATHER GENARRO This must be your partner in crime. (shakes her hand) I'm Father Genarro. I saw you at the baptismal party. (with a wink to Nico) What

cashbox

How many times the word 'cashbox' appears in the text?

with Lucy. Jackson, standing in the doorway, has seen all this. 64 INT. UNMARKED CAR - MOVING - DAY Nico at the wheel has just pulled away from the bakery. Jackson, in the passenger seat, studies her partner for a few moments, shaking her head at the contradictions in this man. Educated, classy, an elegant dresser -- yet underneath an out-and-out wild man. JACKSON I don't get you, Toscani. (beat) What the hell are you doing being a shitheel cop? With your background? For a long moment Nico says nothing. Then, quietly, look- ing straight ahead: NICO When I was overseas, I saw some things. Things that eat your guts out. Things that stay in front of your eyes like they were burned in and branded. He turns to Jackson. NICO You can walk away from them, Jax. You can quit, but you know it's still going on. You try something anyway -- (smiles a moment) -- I know I'm not going to change the world. I can't stop the tonnage coming in, I can't fight the boys behind the desks pushing their buttons -- ANGLE INCLUDING MEAN STREETS OUTSIDE NICO But maybe here, huh? (indicates street) Maybe in my own city, my own neighborhood, on my own block -- maybe here I can do something. He turns a corner. NICO That's why I'm a shitheel cop. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 20A. * 64A INT. POLICE STATION - DAY Behind the desk, a few detectives man the phones. A Latin attorney, ABANDANO, is at the counter. COP (O.S.) You can see your client. As soon as she's through eating her dinner. 65 INT. POLICE LOCKUP - "CAGE" AND HALLWAY - EVENING Hookers, female addicts, etc. in the downtown "cage." Nico has the girl in the red dress and lizard shoes (CARLA DECARLO) out in the hallway adjacent to the lock- up. Nico is Mr. Charm, offering her a heart-shaped box of chocolates. NICO Carla... Carla -- I just want the name of your boyfriend -- CARLA I got 200 boyfriends. The hooker, Carla DeCarlo, slaps the box away, cursing in Spanish. 21. CARLA Pinchi cabron, cabeza colon! Some of the chocolates tumble onto the lockup floor, the detainees snap them up, start munching. The girl con- tinues to spit curses at Nico, gesturing with her hands with Latin flamboyance. Nico grabs her by the elbow, as a jailer opens the lockup door. More curses are being flung at Nico from various females in the cage. Nico heaves Carla in among them. Carla flops down on a bench next to a tall black hooker. MOVE IN ON the black hooker. It's Nico's partner, Jackson, dolled up like a street- walker, playing her undercover role to the hilt. JACKSON (to Nico) Why can't you sons-a-bitches ever treat someone with a little respect? NICO (walking away) Take it easy, sister. JACKSON I ain't your goddamn sister. We ain't got the same mother, motherfucka. Carla fires one final parting salvo of obscenities, then sags back among the women. Carla starts to cry. Jackson comforts her; Carla responds, lets herself be comforted. CUT TO: 66 EXT. DOWNTOWN - FINANCIAL DISTRICT - DAY Jackson, back in her normal daytime wear, exits a building. She gets into Nico's car. 67 INT. CAR - DAY Jackson checks her makeup in the rearview mirror. Nico sits behind the wheel. The two are on some kind of stakeout. JACKSON The lawyer's name is Abandano. He's on the third floor. I got a look at him. I couldn't get how he's connected, but according to Carla, he's a lousy lay. NICO Maybe we can bust him for that. Jackson spots something, gestures subtly out window -- ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 22. 68 EXT. DOWNTOWN BUILDING - DAY A short, slick-looking Latin man in a business suit emerges from the building. JACKSON That's our stud. Nico and Jackson leave their car and follow him on foot. 69 EXT. FINANCIAL DISTRICT - BANK - DAY ABANDANO meets a striking-looking middle-aged woman in front of a stately financial institution. They go in. Jackson remains out on the street, while Nico follows the couple in. 70 LATER Jackson has been waiting, sipping some coffee. Nico emerges from the bank, signaling to his partner to follow him. Abandano and the woman exit from the bank's revol- ving doors and immediately jump into a cab. Nico and Jackson look at each other and step in front of another cab. Nico opens the cab door, flips his badge open, then asks the occupant to leave. Jackson gets in the front seat next to the protesting cabbie. 71 EXT. FEDERAL BUILDING - DAY Abandano and the woman are crossing the plaza as Nico and Jackson run up the block. Near the entrance to the Federal * Building, a small but vocal group of protestors are * gathered, carrying signs and chanting slogans. The frus- * trated cabbie watches them in the background. 72 PLAZA Jackson and Nico watch Abandano and the woman pass the * crowd of demonstrators and enter the building. Jackson acts * indifferent, almost frustrated; Nico keenly senses something. CUT TO: 73 INT. EXPENSIVE RESTAURANT ("BOGOTA") - DAY * The main dining room. No customers, just busboys readying tables for the evening's business. We notice one of the * busboys is the "pimp" Nico found with Lucy. * 74 BOOTH NEAR BACK HALLWAY The owner's table. Stacks of dining checks, a cashbox and calculator, full ashtrays, wine glasses. BAUTISTA SALVANO, a heavyset, swarthy Venezuelan dressed in a tux with the collar open, glowers across the table at a mus- cular, scar-faced Latin busboy -- the kind who looks like he does more for his boss than clean up the tables. The busboy (NARDO) is nervous, apologetic -- ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 23. SALVANO (pissed off) -- I brought you in for your muscles, Nardo, not your mouth. NARDO (scared) I'm sorry, boss. SALVANO Your English is getting good... You're showing it off. Showing it off on the street -- NARDO I keep quiet. I never talk no more -- Salvano glowers at Nardo like he's about to punch him. Instead he reaches over, playfully chokes the busboy -- then releases him, as if all is forgiven. SALVANO Make yourself useful. (indicates empty wine bottle on table) Get downstairs, bring me one of these. (as Nardo stands, starts for back hallway) Then get back to work. 75 INT. RESTAURANT BASEMENT STOREROOM - LATE AFTERNOON Nardo enters at the top of the stairs, radiating relief. He trots down into the empty basement, toward a floor-to- ceiling wine rack. NARDO (to himself) I thought I was dead, man. (whistles with relief) I thought I was fucking dead. He crosses to the wine rack. It's dark, hard to see. He searches for the bottle. Suddenly: a METALLIC sound behind him. Nardo turns -- CHI CHI TESTAMENTE, a wiry, pock-faced Latino, stands in the shadows (it is clear he has been waiting there, hiding) -- holding a small silencer automatic. CHI CHI You were right, cabron. * ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 24. One SHOT between the eyes and Nardo CRASHES backward into the WINE RACK, eyes wide with shock and bewilderment. Chi Chi SHOOTS him AGAIN; Nardo drops like a stone. Coolly, professionally, Chi Chi pumps FOUR more SHOTS into the prone busboy's head. Chi Chi ejects the clip into his palm, unscrews the silencer, holsters the gun. Salvano appears at the top of the stairs. Two busboys are behind him. One of them is the young pimp. The busboys hurry * down, the pimp -- scared shitless but playing it macho-cool. * Salvano comes down the stairs. Chi Chi stands over his work. SALVANO (to busboys) Clean up this mess. CHI CHI * Who knows who else is talking -- * SALVANO * He was a young fool. * 76 BACK IN UPSTAIRS DINING ROOM Salvano and Chi Chi emerge from the basement steps and walk toward their booth. CHI CHI We're crazy waiting for this bullshit 'shipment.' Let me waste the other fucker now. Salvano puts a hand on Chi Chi's shoulder. SALVANO Be patient. This will be done the way it was planned. CUT TO: 77 EXT. BODY AND FENDER SHOP - NIGHT Rusting cyclone fences surround a mud-lot repair yard in a dingy industrial section. Young Lation and black workers finish up for the night; through the dirty, security-barred office window we can see Chi Chi talking on the phone. The lawyer, Abandano, is also there. 78 EXT. ALLEY - REAR OF SHOP - NIGHT Nico finishes connecting a small transmitter which has been hastily wired to the entering phone line. 79 INT. UNMARKED CAR - NIGHT Nico and Jackson in the shadows down the street from the body shop. Nico wears earphones, a small tape recorder on the seat beside him. Jackson does not look happy. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 25. JACKSON Toscani, you're going to have me doing time. NICO Lighten up, Jax. No one's bringing this into court. JACKSON Except against us. NICO I don't give a shit how we do it. I just wanna get there. Jackson gives Nico a dirty look, but stifles her protest. JACKSON I thought you said you were gonna protect me. Cover my butt. Be my guardian angel -- Nico hears something through the earphones. Gestures for silence -- 80 ANGLE THROUGH OFFICE WINDOW Chi Chi listens with increased intensity to something on the phone. He starts writing it down -- 81 BACK TO NICO In unmarked car. He's writing it down too. NICO I got the shipment. * JACKSON What? What's he saying? NICO (scribbling furiously) '... Engine block has cleared customs. Serial number VA-748. Pick up Tuesday, 3 May as authorized.' 82 EXT. BODY SHOP - NIGHT Chi Chi emerges from the office, tucking a scrap of paper into his pocket. Abandano follows. They get into a late-model Lincoln which pulls out onto the street. * 83 EXT. STREET - NIGHT Nico and Jackson's car follows at a discreet distance. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 26. NICO (V.O.) Unit Ten Tango X-ray. I need a vehicle registration I.D. POLICE RADIO (V.O.) Go ahead, please. NICO (V.O.) '86 Lincoln. Illinois 354 Dog '67. * 84 INT. UNMARKED CAR - MOVING - NIGHT Jackson picks up Nico's pad to take down the response. After a moment: POLICE RADIO (V.O.) Vehicle registration follows. Leaseholder: Ramon Testamente, registered alien. Nation of origin: Venezuela. Do you wish criminal record search? NICO (into mike) I want to know when he wipes his * behind. * 85 SERIES OF SHOTS As Nico and Jackson tail the Lincoln out of the industrial zone into a fancier, non-Latin neighborhood. On the sidewalks we glimpse theatergoers, fashionable white couples out on the town. 86 LINCOLN Pulls up to a valet park outside a ton-y restaurant. A sign says: "BOGOTA." * 87 INT. UNMARKED CAR - MOVING Nico and Jackson exchange a glance. JACKSON Salvano? NICO Jackpot. 88 EXT. RESTAURANT - NIGHT Chi Chi and Abandano get out of their car, a valet takes it, Chi Chi enters the restaurant. 89 INT. SALVANO'S RESTAURANT - NIGHT Nico and Jackson enter the main dining room, which we recognize from the scene with Nardo the busboy. 27. The place is packed with fashionable people of all races. A band plays salsa; couples dance. Nico and Jackson pass easily as a hip "uptown" couple. A pretty Latin HOSTESS approaches them. HOSTESS Two for dinner? NICO Two for drinks. They elbow up to the packed bar, standing. Nico squints toward the rear dining room. 90 NICO'S POV - DOWN BAR Looking past numerous patrons, we see Chi Chi whisper something to a waiter and take a seat at a rear table (the same "owner's table" where Salvano sat before.) The waiter hurries off into a back hallway. 91 NICO AND JACKSON - AT BAR Jackson moves to the salsa beat. A BARMAID approaches. JACKSON Gimme something stiff. I need it. BARMAID Who doesn't? Nico's eyes never leave Chi Chi. 92 REAR DINING ROOM From the back hallway Salvano emerges -- in his tux, looking prosperous. He sits down beside Chi Chi and Abandano. A waitress brings two drinks. After a few words, Chi Chi removes the scrap of paper from his pocket, hands it to Salvano. NICO (O.S.) You'll have your engine block next Tuesday, boss. 93 BACK TO NICO AND JACKSON As the Barmaid brings their drinks. Jackson sees her peaceful week to retirement flying out the window. JACKSON Why couldn't it be a week from Tuesday? I could read about it in the paper. Nico grabs her waist, pulls her onto the dance floor, and does a playful twirl. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 28. NICO Cheer up, partner. I'm gonna make you famous. 94 EXT. WHOLESALE MEAT AREA - DAY * Track spurs, greasy streets, parked fork lifts. 94A EXT. ROOF - DAY * Lieutenant Strozah surveys the street traffic. * 95 NICO, JACKSON AND LUKICH The two men, dressed as meat processors in hard hats and bloody white coats, rake cattle guts under the eave of a packing plant. Jackson, dressed like a USDA Inspector and * carrying a clipboard, inspects a few hanging carcasses. JACKSON You missed a few spots, boys. LUKICH I'm takin' it home t'a make kilbasa, boss. Luke casts an impatient glance across the street to a lot with four parked meat trucks. We glimpse two "truckers" keeping low in the shadows of one cab. Down the block a seemingly empty pickup truck is parked in an alley. LUKICH This ain't a bust -- it's a convention. NICO Don't you like company, Luke? (sarcastic) We got all the scouts here -- Drug Enforcement Agency, the Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms -- WALKIE-TALKIE (V.O.) Keep this channel clear, Toscani. We realize Nico, Jackson and Lukich are wired, with mikes out of sight under their coats. Nico glances to the pick- up, near to which three men can be spotted in the alley. Apparently one of them is the walkie-talkie voice. NICO (into mike) This is our channel, dickhead. And our collar. ANOTHER WALKIE-TALKIE (V.O.) That's enough, all of you! Keep this channel clear. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 28A. 96 ANGLE ON MEAT PLANT - DAY Nothing happening. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 29. 97 ANOTHER ANGLE Dead as hell. 98 NICO, LUKICH AND JACKSON Bored, pissed off, tired. Suddenly: 99 BATTERED VAN WITH TWO MEN emerges from a corner, two blocks down. It starts slowly this way. 1ST WALKIE-TALKIE (V.O.) All right. Everyone get their heads outa their ass. The meat truck men duck down out of sight, the pickup men back into the shadows. Nico and Lukich keep raking cow guts. The van passes slowly, checking out the area. JACKSON (sarcastic) '... And so I quit the police department... got myself a steady job -- ' The van accelerates slightly, turns a corner, vanishes. Silence. LUKICH * They spotted me. I'm too good- looking to be a meat slopper. * 1ST WALKIE-TALKIE (V.O.) Will you hot dogs shut up? The van returns. On a cross street. Heading behind the packing plant. NICO * (to Lukich) * You're too ugly. Now a second car appears. The Lincoln. Behind it is an ancient station wagon. Both vehicles take a different cross street, but both heading behind the packing plant. NICO (into hidden mike) Here we go, boys and girls -- (to Jackson) You stay put. * As soon as the two vehicles pass out of sight, Nico and Lukich ditch their rakes, dart into the packing plant. The meat truck men START their TRUCK. 30. The pickup men board their vehicle -- Jackson follows Nico and Luke -- but at a safe distance. 100 INT. PACKING PLANT - DAY Nico and Lukich sprint in a crouch past the blood runoffs, meat cutting tables -- 101 NICO'S POV - RUNNING THROUGH the windows at the rear of the plant, we see the station wagon and the van, pulling up swiftly beside one another, men getting out -- 102 INT. PLANT Nico and Lukich draw their guns, running full-tilt. NICO (into hidden miki) It's going down now. Move! 103 EXT. REAR OF PACKING PLANT - DAY The station wagon men heave their rear door open, the van men start to open their side door. The Lincoln is stopped at a distance. Suddenly -- 104 NICO AND LUKICH burst from the rear door of the packing plant, guns drawn. LUKICH Police! 105 QUICK CUTS - VAN AND STATION WAGON MEN grab for their weapons -- 106 COPS IN MEAT TRUCK AND PICKUP come highballing around both sides of the packing plant -- 107 VAN AND STATION WAGON MEN OPEN FIRE. There is confusion and mayhem; it's not clear who's a cop and who's a criminal. 108 NICO AND LUKICH dive for cover, RETURNING FIRE. The DEA men in one truck also OPEN UP. One of the van men is hit between the eyes. MACHINE GUN FIRE rakes the DEA truck; it spins out of control; flips. Lukich SHOOTS the machine-gunner. LUKICH (shouts; points) Nico! The Lincoln! 31. 109 LINCOLN starts to PEEL OUT. We glimpse Chi Chi in the driver's seat, Salvano on the passenger side. 110 NICO steps in front of the accelerating Lincoln, raises his .45. 111 INT. LINCOLN - DAY Salvano and Chi Chi dive below the dash and continue forward. Salvano, in the passenger seat, raises his GUN; FIRES blindly -- trying to hit Nico. 112 EXT. LINCOLN - DAY Nico UNLOADS his .45 into the windshield and the firewall. The Lincoln keeps coming down the narrow alley. 113 NICO brazenly steps up onto the hood and dives, grabbing onto the roof. 114 INT. LINCOLN - DAY Salvano can't believe it. He screams something in Spanish. He FIRES again, this time through the roof. 115 EXT. LINCOLN - ROOF - DAY Bullet holes appear. Nico narrowly misses being hit. 116 ANOTHER ANGLE - LINCOLN Nico reaches over the side of the car and SMASHES the pas- senger WINDOW with his fist. 117 CLOSEUP - NICO'S HAND Salvano's face is bashed. Nico's huge hand grabs Salvano's throat; he won't let go. 118 CLOSEUP - NICO He hangs on with one hand. 119 CLOSEUP - SALVANO Nico's fingers now dig into Salvano's larynx; he may never talk again. He's gagging. Salvano now points the gun at Chi Chi. Chi Chi makes the decision to stop the car in order to save his boss. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 32. 120 NICO leaps off the roof pulling Salvano past the broken glass, out of the window. 121 SEVERAL POLICE VEHICLES * SCREECH into the lot. Officers pour out, guns drawn, surrounding the Lincoln and the other vehicles. Jackson joins them, weapon in hand. 122 NICO drags Salvano by the neck across the lot to the van, slamming the drug dealer up against the van's side. Lukich, Jackson and Strozah are there, with the DEA cops, * all covering the other men. NICO (to Salvano) How many kilos you got in there, Skivuzo? Salvano couldn't answer if he wanted to. The other cops look at Nico with awe. Lukich whips the van door open, yanks a tarp off the cargo. 123 INT. VAN The engine block sits in a wooden shipping frame, wrapped with industrial plastic. Nico climbs into the van, rips the plastic sheeting off, grabs the wood slats of the shipping frame, tears them off. In the background, ambulances are arriving to care for the wounded cops and criminals. 124 CLOSEUP - ENGINE BLOCK From the cylinder heads emerges a full load, not of drugs, but of plastique tubes labeled U.S. ARMY C-4 HIGH EXPLOSIVE. 125 LUKICH, JACKSON AND OTHER COPS react with surprise and shock. 126 NICO rips open one of tubes and smells it. 127 CLOSE - NICO Confused; frustrated. NICO What kinda fuckin' high is this? CUT TO: ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 33. 128 INT. FBI OFFICE - NIGHT OPENING ON SALVANO, in a chair, looking bruised and swollen, and wearing an expression of fuming indignation. SALVANO -- I'll tell you what this cop is. He's a fucking menace! 129 TWO FBI AGENTS (NEELEY AND HALLORAN) * face Salvano, Chi Chi and the lawyer Abandano (apparently representing Salvano and Chi Chi). Neeley is on the phone. * Pictures of Reagan and Meese are prominent on the wall. SALVANO You see what he did to me?! AGENT HALLORAN Your problem is being handled right now, Mr. Salv -- SALVANO Yeah? Well, it shoulda been handled twelve hours ago. I don't know who's running this outfit, but somebody better get his goddamn wires straight! AGENT NEELEY * (into phone) -- yes, sir... yes, sir, I understand -- SALVANO That maniac should be wearing a number, not a badge. Salvano knows what the call is about. He straightens the tie beneath his bruised neck, assuming the attitude of a respectable citizen who has been unjustly wronged. AGENT NEELEY * (into phone) -- count on it, sir. Right. You'll have our full cooperation. Neeley hangs up. Glances dubiously to Halloran. Then turns * grimly to Salvano, Chi Chi and the lawyer Abandano. AGENT NEELEY * You're free to go. 130 OMITTED 131 INT. FEDERAL BUILDING - LOBBY - NIGHT * The hoods and their lawyer smugly walk past a cleaning woman. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 33A. 132 INT. PRECINCT CAPTAIN'S OFFICE - MORNING OPENING ON Agent Neeley's face. Composed, clean-cut, but * intense, wearing a light-colored business suit. PAN TO Agent Halloran -- the same upright, clean-shaven bureau look. The two men are seated to one side of LIEUTENANT FRED STROZAH. 133 NICO, JACKSON, LUKICH AND DEA AND ATF MEN sit and stand in various postures in front of the Lieutenant's desk. LIEUTENANT STROZAH (to Nico, DEA & AIF) -- This is no reflection on the work you officers have done. I feel, and the whole department feels, extremely proud of your initiative and gallantry. That "spare me the horseshit" look on Nico's face. He's fuming. Strozah sees Nico's bitter expression. It's on the others' faces too. LIEUTENANT STROZAH As all of you are well aware, possession of these explosives is a federal offense and under jurisdiction of the F.B.I. Nico's eyes meet Lieutenant Strozah's. There's respect between the two, but it's plainly under a helluva strain. NICO Sir. With all respect to our brothers in the Bureau -- (biting sarcasm; turns to Neeley) * -- That's no answer. It's no answer to why one of the biggest dealers in the city is out on the street now, free as a bird! Agent Neeley stiffens. * LIEUTENANT STROZAH Keep it in your pants, Nico. These men have a job to do, just like us. Nico stifles his outrage. The other cops exchange glances -- upset and angry. Agent Neeley clears his throat. * AGENT NEELEY * Lieutenant, I think these officers are entitled to a fuller explanation. (MORE) ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 34. AGENT NEELEY (CONT'D) They've risked their lives. I understand one man is in the hospital. He speaks to the officers. AGENT NEELEY * What I'm about to say doesn't leave this room. Is that clear? Assent from everyone. AGENT NEELEY * Mr. Salvano has been working for some time in cooperation with certain federal agencies. 134 CLOSE - NICO'S FACE Stunned and furious at this royal fuck-up. AGENT NEELEY (O.S.) * I'm not at liberty to divulge the nature of Mr. Salvano's involvement -- I just learned of its existence myself a few hours ago. But one thing I can tell you -- 135 BACK TO AGENT NEELEY * AGENT NEELEY * Mr. Salvano's role is crucial to an extremely sensitive ongoing investigation. Any further surveillance, harassment, or unauthorized operations against this individual are forbidden. I must order you gentlemen -- (looking straight at Nico) -- with all respect for your work and your courage, to stand down. Lukich shakes his head; Nico is devastated. Jackson takes it all in. CUT TO: 136 INT. POLICE SQUAD ROOM - MORNING OPENING CLOSE ON a desk drawer being opened. Aside from rounds of ammo, notes and an aging eggplant parmigiana sandwich, there are half a dozen hand-labeled audio- cassettes and a small collection of miniaturized bugging devices. Jackson and Lukich watch Nico take out the notes, hand them to Lieutenant Strozah. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 35. LIEUTENANT STROZAH The tapes too. NICO (mocking) That's my Lawrence Welk collection! LIEUTENANT STROZAH I want everything you got on this one. Reluctantly, Nico hands over the tapes. The Lieutenant eyes the bugs and wires. LIEUTENANT STROZAH I know you don't give a shit about yourself, Toscani. (a glance to Jax) But you're gonna put Jackson's ass in a sling, too, with these illegal wires. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 35A. * 136A OTHER SIDE OF SQUAD ROOM Agent Halloran edges up to Jackson, who's grabbing coffee on the far side of the squad room, and watching from there as Nico gives Strozah more of a hard time. AGENT HALLORAN What's the story on your partner, Jackson? Did he learn this style or was he born with a brick up his ass? Jackson checks Halloran out. He's black too and, despite herself, there's a certain rapport. JACKSON He has ethics. Unlike certain others on this case. Halloran watches the illegal bugs and tapes come out of Nico's drawer. AGENT HALLORAN His 'ethics' are gonna cost him his badge and his gun. This "white" talk gives Jackson a pain. She slips into her jive mode. JACKSON You don't wanna catch him without no gun. Halloran's look asks why not? JACKSON 'Cause what he do with his hands... make bullet holes look pretty. Across the room, Nico turns over the tapes. AGENT HALLORAN He bad? JACKSON Bad bad. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 36. 137 INT. PRECINCT HOUSE - STAIRWAY - DAY Nico and Jackson come down the stairs. Jackson has had ample excitement for her last week on the force. JACKSON Is that enough? Can we do something normal now -- like eat lunch? NICO Anything you say, Jax. How about Salvano's? JACKSON Let it be, Nico. 138 EXT. PRECINCT HOUSE - DAY Nico and Jackson's car pulls out into traffic. 139 INT. UNMARKED CAR - PARKED (ALLEY BEHIND SALVANO'S) Jackson and Nico are eating some fast good. Nico reaches to his jacket pocket; takes out a cassette. JACKSON What... you kept his tape, too? Nico already has it in the PLAYER. We hear FRAGMENTS of the telephone tap from the body shop in Spanish and English. Jackson looks frustrated. Nico listens care- fully to what appears to be the taped PHONE CONVERSATION. NICO Poetry, ain't it? 140 EXT. REAR SALVANO'S RESTAURANT - DAY (POV FROM CAR) The pimp (busboy) comes out and dumps a load of garbage. 141 INT. UNMARKED CAR - DAY Nico and Jackson case the restaurant from down the alley. 142 EXT. REAR SALVANO'S - NICO'S POV - DAY From the restaurant door, Salvano and Chi Chi emerge. They get into a black Cadillac and pull out. * NICO (O.S.) And now for some dessert. 143 SERIES OF SHOTS As Nico's car tails Salvano's through various streets. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 37. 144 EXT. OAK STREET Salvano comes out of a fancy flower shop with a bimbo on his arm. He kisses her goodbye and puts her in a cab. NICO (O.S.) And that must be Mrs. Sal. So nice to see married couples still in love. 144A NICO AND JACKSON are hidden, waiting. 144B CHI CHI emerges from a dry cleaner's with a suit on a hanger. * 145 EXT. ST. ELIZABETH'S PARISH CHURCH - DAY Salvano's Caddy pulls up outside the same church where we * saw Nico's son get baptized. Salvano and Chi Chi get out, look both ways up and down the street. Salvano, holding * flowers, makes eye contact with a car down the block. * 146 EXT. STREET UP BLOCK FROM CHURCH - DAY Nico's car backs out of sight around the corner. 147 SIDEWALK IN FRONT OF CHURCH Salvano and Chi Chi, seeing nothing, enter the church. 148 INT. CHURCH - DAY A smattering of older women and men praying. Salvano and Chi Chi stop at the head of the aisle, genuflect to the altar, move in, take seats toward the front. 149 BACK OF CHURCH Nico and Jackson slip in the front door, glide silently into the shadows at the rear of the church. JACKSON This is your mother's church, isn't it? NICO Yeah. But I bet she's never seen these boys in the choir. 150 NICO'S POV Salvano's head is bowed, but Chi Chi is looking around quite carefully. Nico and Jackson fade into the shadows behind the huge pillars. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 37A. 151 SALVANO AND CHI CHI After a few moments, the pair rises. They cross them- selves, start out for the front door. As they walk, they continue to look for something. 152 INT. CHURCH - DAY * Nico and Jackson emerge into a courtyard which reveals a day care center and a rectory. They head toward the front of the building. Jackson, planning on picking up their tail on Salvano, is stoped by Nico. He wants to stay and look around. 38. FATHER GENARRO (O.S.) Nicola! That can't be you in church without the family! Nico turns to see Father Genarro, perspiring in a baggy sweatshirt, a handball glove on his hand. The courtyard alongside the church is marked off as an athletic area. NICO Father Genarro. The priest seizes Nico's hand warmly, smiles at Jackson. FATHER GENARRO This must be your partner in crime. (shakes her hand) I'm Father Genarro. I saw you at the baptismal party. (with a wink to Nico) What

while

How many times the word 'while' appears in the text?

with Lucy. Jackson, standing in the doorway, has seen all this. 64 INT. UNMARKED CAR - MOVING - DAY Nico at the wheel has just pulled away from the bakery. Jackson, in the passenger seat, studies her partner for a few moments, shaking her head at the contradictions in this man. Educated, classy, an elegant dresser -- yet underneath an out-and-out wild man. JACKSON I don't get you, Toscani. (beat) What the hell are you doing being a shitheel cop? With your background? For a long moment Nico says nothing. Then, quietly, look- ing straight ahead: NICO When I was overseas, I saw some things. Things that eat your guts out. Things that stay in front of your eyes like they were burned in and branded. He turns to Jackson. NICO You can walk away from them, Jax. You can quit, but you know it's still going on. You try something anyway -- (smiles a moment) -- I know I'm not going to change the world. I can't stop the tonnage coming in, I can't fight the boys behind the desks pushing their buttons -- ANGLE INCLUDING MEAN STREETS OUTSIDE NICO But maybe here, huh? (indicates street) Maybe in my own city, my own neighborhood, on my own block -- maybe here I can do something. He turns a corner. NICO That's why I'm a shitheel cop. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 20A. * 64A INT. POLICE STATION - DAY Behind the desk, a few detectives man the phones. A Latin attorney, ABANDANO, is at the counter. COP (O.S.) You can see your client. As soon as she's through eating her dinner. 65 INT. POLICE LOCKUP - "CAGE" AND HALLWAY - EVENING Hookers, female addicts, etc. in the downtown "cage." Nico has the girl in the red dress and lizard shoes (CARLA DECARLO) out in the hallway adjacent to the lock- up. Nico is Mr. Charm, offering her a heart-shaped box of chocolates. NICO Carla... Carla -- I just want the name of your boyfriend -- CARLA I got 200 boyfriends. The hooker, Carla DeCarlo, slaps the box away, cursing in Spanish. 21. CARLA Pinchi cabron, cabeza colon! Some of the chocolates tumble onto the lockup floor, the detainees snap them up, start munching. The girl con- tinues to spit curses at Nico, gesturing with her hands with Latin flamboyance. Nico grabs her by the elbow, as a jailer opens the lockup door. More curses are being flung at Nico from various females in the cage. Nico heaves Carla in among them. Carla flops down on a bench next to a tall black hooker. MOVE IN ON the black hooker. It's Nico's partner, Jackson, dolled up like a street- walker, playing her undercover role to the hilt. JACKSON (to Nico) Why can't you sons-a-bitches ever treat someone with a little respect? NICO (walking away) Take it easy, sister. JACKSON I ain't your goddamn sister. We ain't got the same mother, motherfucka. Carla fires one final parting salvo of obscenities, then sags back among the women. Carla starts to cry. Jackson comforts her; Carla responds, lets herself be comforted. CUT TO: 66 EXT. DOWNTOWN - FINANCIAL DISTRICT - DAY Jackson, back in her normal daytime wear, exits a building. She gets into Nico's car. 67 INT. CAR - DAY Jackson checks her makeup in the rearview mirror. Nico sits behind the wheel. The two are on some kind of stakeout. JACKSON The lawyer's name is Abandano. He's on the third floor. I got a look at him. I couldn't get how he's connected, but according to Carla, he's a lousy lay. NICO Maybe we can bust him for that. Jackson spots something, gestures subtly out window -- ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 22. 68 EXT. DOWNTOWN BUILDING - DAY A short, slick-looking Latin man in a business suit emerges from the building. JACKSON That's our stud. Nico and Jackson leave their car and follow him on foot. 69 EXT. FINANCIAL DISTRICT - BANK - DAY ABANDANO meets a striking-looking middle-aged woman in front of a stately financial institution. They go in. Jackson remains out on the street, while Nico follows the couple in. 70 LATER Jackson has been waiting, sipping some coffee. Nico emerges from the bank, signaling to his partner to follow him. Abandano and the woman exit from the bank's revol- ving doors and immediately jump into a cab. Nico and Jackson look at each other and step in front of another cab. Nico opens the cab door, flips his badge open, then asks the occupant to leave. Jackson gets in the front seat next to the protesting cabbie. 71 EXT. FEDERAL BUILDING - DAY Abandano and the woman are crossing the plaza as Nico and Jackson run up the block. Near the entrance to the Federal * Building, a small but vocal group of protestors are * gathered, carrying signs and chanting slogans. The frus- * trated cabbie watches them in the background. 72 PLAZA Jackson and Nico watch Abandano and the woman pass the * crowd of demonstrators and enter the building. Jackson acts * indifferent, almost frustrated; Nico keenly senses something. CUT TO: 73 INT. EXPENSIVE RESTAURANT ("BOGOTA") - DAY * The main dining room. No customers, just busboys readying tables for the evening's business. We notice one of the * busboys is the "pimp" Nico found with Lucy. * 74 BOOTH NEAR BACK HALLWAY The owner's table. Stacks of dining checks, a cashbox and calculator, full ashtrays, wine glasses. BAUTISTA SALVANO, a heavyset, swarthy Venezuelan dressed in a tux with the collar open, glowers across the table at a mus- cular, scar-faced Latin busboy -- the kind who looks like he does more for his boss than clean up the tables. The busboy (NARDO) is nervous, apologetic -- ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 23. SALVANO (pissed off) -- I brought you in for your muscles, Nardo, not your mouth. NARDO (scared) I'm sorry, boss. SALVANO Your English is getting good... You're showing it off. Showing it off on the street -- NARDO I keep quiet. I never talk no more -- Salvano glowers at Nardo like he's about to punch him. Instead he reaches over, playfully chokes the busboy -- then releases him, as if all is forgiven. SALVANO Make yourself useful. (indicates empty wine bottle on table) Get downstairs, bring me one of these. (as Nardo stands, starts for back hallway) Then get back to work. 75 INT. RESTAURANT BASEMENT STOREROOM - LATE AFTERNOON Nardo enters at the top of the stairs, radiating relief. He trots down into the empty basement, toward a floor-to- ceiling wine rack. NARDO (to himself) I thought I was dead, man. (whistles with relief) I thought I was fucking dead. He crosses to the wine rack. It's dark, hard to see. He searches for the bottle. Suddenly: a METALLIC sound behind him. Nardo turns -- CHI CHI TESTAMENTE, a wiry, pock-faced Latino, stands in the shadows (it is clear he has been waiting there, hiding) -- holding a small silencer automatic. CHI CHI You were right, cabron. * ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 24. One SHOT between the eyes and Nardo CRASHES backward into the WINE RACK, eyes wide with shock and bewilderment. Chi Chi SHOOTS him AGAIN; Nardo drops like a stone. Coolly, professionally, Chi Chi pumps FOUR more SHOTS into the prone busboy's head. Chi Chi ejects the clip into his palm, unscrews the silencer, holsters the gun. Salvano appears at the top of the stairs. Two busboys are behind him. One of them is the young pimp. The busboys hurry * down, the pimp -- scared shitless but playing it macho-cool. * Salvano comes down the stairs. Chi Chi stands over his work. SALVANO (to busboys) Clean up this mess. CHI CHI * Who knows who else is talking -- * SALVANO * He was a young fool. * 76 BACK IN UPSTAIRS DINING ROOM Salvano and Chi Chi emerge from the basement steps and walk toward their booth. CHI CHI We're crazy waiting for this bullshit 'shipment.' Let me waste the other fucker now. Salvano puts a hand on Chi Chi's shoulder. SALVANO Be patient. This will be done the way it was planned. CUT TO: 77 EXT. BODY AND FENDER SHOP - NIGHT Rusting cyclone fences surround a mud-lot repair yard in a dingy industrial section. Young Lation and black workers finish up for the night; through the dirty, security-barred office window we can see Chi Chi talking on the phone. The lawyer, Abandano, is also there. 78 EXT. ALLEY - REAR OF SHOP - NIGHT Nico finishes connecting a small transmitter which has been hastily wired to the entering phone line. 79 INT. UNMARKED CAR - NIGHT Nico and Jackson in the shadows down the street from the body shop. Nico wears earphones, a small tape recorder on the seat beside him. Jackson does not look happy. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 25. JACKSON Toscani, you're going to have me doing time. NICO Lighten up, Jax. No one's bringing this into court. JACKSON Except against us. NICO I don't give a shit how we do it. I just wanna get there. Jackson gives Nico a dirty look, but stifles her protest. JACKSON I thought you said you were gonna protect me. Cover my butt. Be my guardian angel -- Nico hears something through the earphones. Gestures for silence -- 80 ANGLE THROUGH OFFICE WINDOW Chi Chi listens with increased intensity to something on the phone. He starts writing it down -- 81 BACK TO NICO In unmarked car. He's writing it down too. NICO I got the shipment. * JACKSON What? What's he saying? NICO (scribbling furiously) '... Engine block has cleared customs. Serial number VA-748. Pick up Tuesday, 3 May as authorized.' 82 EXT. BODY SHOP - NIGHT Chi Chi emerges from the office, tucking a scrap of paper into his pocket. Abandano follows. They get into a late-model Lincoln which pulls out onto the street. * 83 EXT. STREET - NIGHT Nico and Jackson's car follows at a discreet distance. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 26. NICO (V.O.) Unit Ten Tango X-ray. I need a vehicle registration I.D. POLICE RADIO (V.O.) Go ahead, please. NICO (V.O.) '86 Lincoln. Illinois 354 Dog '67. * 84 INT. UNMARKED CAR - MOVING - NIGHT Jackson picks up Nico's pad to take down the response. After a moment: POLICE RADIO (V.O.) Vehicle registration follows. Leaseholder: Ramon Testamente, registered alien. Nation of origin: Venezuela. Do you wish criminal record search? NICO (into mike) I want to know when he wipes his * behind. * 85 SERIES OF SHOTS As Nico and Jackson tail the Lincoln out of the industrial zone into a fancier, non-Latin neighborhood. On the sidewalks we glimpse theatergoers, fashionable white couples out on the town. 86 LINCOLN Pulls up to a valet park outside a ton-y restaurant. A sign says: "BOGOTA." * 87 INT. UNMARKED CAR - MOVING Nico and Jackson exchange a glance. JACKSON Salvano? NICO Jackpot. 88 EXT. RESTAURANT - NIGHT Chi Chi and Abandano get out of their car, a valet takes it, Chi Chi enters the restaurant. 89 INT. SALVANO'S RESTAURANT - NIGHT Nico and Jackson enter the main dining room, which we recognize from the scene with Nardo the busboy. 27. The place is packed with fashionable people of all races. A band plays salsa; couples dance. Nico and Jackson pass easily as a hip "uptown" couple. A pretty Latin HOSTESS approaches them. HOSTESS Two for dinner? NICO Two for drinks. They elbow up to the packed bar, standing. Nico squints toward the rear dining room. 90 NICO'S POV - DOWN BAR Looking past numerous patrons, we see Chi Chi whisper something to a waiter and take a seat at a rear table (the same "owner's table" where Salvano sat before.) The waiter hurries off into a back hallway. 91 NICO AND JACKSON - AT BAR Jackson moves to the salsa beat. A BARMAID approaches. JACKSON Gimme something stiff. I need it. BARMAID Who doesn't? Nico's eyes never leave Chi Chi. 92 REAR DINING ROOM From the back hallway Salvano emerges -- in his tux, looking prosperous. He sits down beside Chi Chi and Abandano. A waitress brings two drinks. After a few words, Chi Chi removes the scrap of paper from his pocket, hands it to Salvano. NICO (O.S.) You'll have your engine block next Tuesday, boss. 93 BACK TO NICO AND JACKSON As the Barmaid brings their drinks. Jackson sees her peaceful week to retirement flying out the window. JACKSON Why couldn't it be a week from Tuesday? I could read about it in the paper. Nico grabs her waist, pulls her onto the dance floor, and does a playful twirl. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 28. NICO Cheer up, partner. I'm gonna make you famous. 94 EXT. WHOLESALE MEAT AREA - DAY * Track spurs, greasy streets, parked fork lifts. 94A EXT. ROOF - DAY * Lieutenant Strozah surveys the street traffic. * 95 NICO, JACKSON AND LUKICH The two men, dressed as meat processors in hard hats and bloody white coats, rake cattle guts under the eave of a packing plant. Jackson, dressed like a USDA Inspector and * carrying a clipboard, inspects a few hanging carcasses. JACKSON You missed a few spots, boys. LUKICH I'm takin' it home t'a make kilbasa, boss. Luke casts an impatient glance across the street to a lot with four parked meat trucks. We glimpse two "truckers" keeping low in the shadows of one cab. Down the block a seemingly empty pickup truck is parked in an alley. LUKICH This ain't a bust -- it's a convention. NICO Don't you like company, Luke? (sarcastic) We got all the scouts here -- Drug Enforcement Agency, the Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms -- WALKIE-TALKIE (V.O.) Keep this channel clear, Toscani. We realize Nico, Jackson and Lukich are wired, with mikes out of sight under their coats. Nico glances to the pick- up, near to which three men can be spotted in the alley. Apparently one of them is the walkie-talkie voice. NICO (into mike) This is our channel, dickhead. And our collar. ANOTHER WALKIE-TALKIE (V.O.) That's enough, all of you! Keep this channel clear. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 28A. 96 ANGLE ON MEAT PLANT - DAY Nothing happening. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 29. 97 ANOTHER ANGLE Dead as hell. 98 NICO, LUKICH AND JACKSON Bored, pissed off, tired. Suddenly: 99 BATTERED VAN WITH TWO MEN emerges from a corner, two blocks down. It starts slowly this way. 1ST WALKIE-TALKIE (V.O.) All right. Everyone get their heads outa their ass. The meat truck men duck down out of sight, the pickup men back into the shadows. Nico and Lukich keep raking cow guts. The van passes slowly, checking out the area. JACKSON (sarcastic) '... And so I quit the police department... got myself a steady job -- ' The van accelerates slightly, turns a corner, vanishes. Silence. LUKICH * They spotted me. I'm too good- looking to be a meat slopper. * 1ST WALKIE-TALKIE (V.O.) Will you hot dogs shut up? The van returns. On a cross street. Heading behind the packing plant. NICO * (to Lukich) * You're too ugly. Now a second car appears. The Lincoln. Behind it is an ancient station wagon. Both vehicles take a different cross street, but both heading behind the packing plant. NICO (into hidden mike) Here we go, boys and girls -- (to Jackson) You stay put. * As soon as the two vehicles pass out of sight, Nico and Lukich ditch their rakes, dart into the packing plant. The meat truck men START their TRUCK. 30. The pickup men board their vehicle -- Jackson follows Nico and Luke -- but at a safe distance. 100 INT. PACKING PLANT - DAY Nico and Lukich sprint in a crouch past the blood runoffs, meat cutting tables -- 101 NICO'S POV - RUNNING THROUGH the windows at the rear of the plant, we see the station wagon and the van, pulling up swiftly beside one another, men getting out -- 102 INT. PLANT Nico and Lukich draw their guns, running full-tilt. NICO (into hidden miki) It's going down now. Move! 103 EXT. REAR OF PACKING PLANT - DAY The station wagon men heave their rear door open, the van men start to open their side door. The Lincoln is stopped at a distance. Suddenly -- 104 NICO AND LUKICH burst from the rear door of the packing plant, guns drawn. LUKICH Police! 105 QUICK CUTS - VAN AND STATION WAGON MEN grab for their weapons -- 106 COPS IN MEAT TRUCK AND PICKUP come highballing around both sides of the packing plant -- 107 VAN AND STATION WAGON MEN OPEN FIRE. There is confusion and mayhem; it's not clear who's a cop and who's a criminal. 108 NICO AND LUKICH dive for cover, RETURNING FIRE. The DEA men in one truck also OPEN UP. One of the van men is hit between the eyes. MACHINE GUN FIRE rakes the DEA truck; it spins out of control; flips. Lukich SHOOTS the machine-gunner. LUKICH (shouts; points) Nico! The Lincoln! 31. 109 LINCOLN starts to PEEL OUT. We glimpse Chi Chi in the driver's seat, Salvano on the passenger side. 110 NICO steps in front of the accelerating Lincoln, raises his .45. 111 INT. LINCOLN - DAY Salvano and Chi Chi dive below the dash and continue forward. Salvano, in the passenger seat, raises his GUN; FIRES blindly -- trying to hit Nico. 112 EXT. LINCOLN - DAY Nico UNLOADS his .45 into the windshield and the firewall. The Lincoln keeps coming down the narrow alley. 113 NICO brazenly steps up onto the hood and dives, grabbing onto the roof. 114 INT. LINCOLN - DAY Salvano can't believe it. He screams something in Spanish. He FIRES again, this time through the roof. 115 EXT. LINCOLN - ROOF - DAY Bullet holes appear. Nico narrowly misses being hit. 116 ANOTHER ANGLE - LINCOLN Nico reaches over the side of the car and SMASHES the pas- senger WINDOW with his fist. 117 CLOSEUP - NICO'S HAND Salvano's face is bashed. Nico's huge hand grabs Salvano's throat; he won't let go. 118 CLOSEUP - NICO He hangs on with one hand. 119 CLOSEUP - SALVANO Nico's fingers now dig into Salvano's larynx; he may never talk again. He's gagging. Salvano now points the gun at Chi Chi. Chi Chi makes the decision to stop the car in order to save his boss. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 32. 120 NICO leaps off the roof pulling Salvano past the broken glass, out of the window. 121 SEVERAL POLICE VEHICLES * SCREECH into the lot. Officers pour out, guns drawn, surrounding the Lincoln and the other vehicles. Jackson joins them, weapon in hand. 122 NICO drags Salvano by the neck across the lot to the van, slamming the drug dealer up against the van's side. Lukich, Jackson and Strozah are there, with the DEA cops, * all covering the other men. NICO (to Salvano) How many kilos you got in there, Skivuzo? Salvano couldn't answer if he wanted to. The other cops look at Nico with awe. Lukich whips the van door open, yanks a tarp off the cargo. 123 INT. VAN The engine block sits in a wooden shipping frame, wrapped with industrial plastic. Nico climbs into the van, rips the plastic sheeting off, grabs the wood slats of the shipping frame, tears them off. In the background, ambulances are arriving to care for the wounded cops and criminals. 124 CLOSEUP - ENGINE BLOCK From the cylinder heads emerges a full load, not of drugs, but of plastique tubes labeled U.S. ARMY C-4 HIGH EXPLOSIVE. 125 LUKICH, JACKSON AND OTHER COPS react with surprise and shock. 126 NICO rips open one of tubes and smells it. 127 CLOSE - NICO Confused; frustrated. NICO What kinda fuckin' high is this? CUT TO: ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 33. 128 INT. FBI OFFICE - NIGHT OPENING ON SALVANO, in a chair, looking bruised and swollen, and wearing an expression of fuming indignation. SALVANO -- I'll tell you what this cop is. He's a fucking menace! 129 TWO FBI AGENTS (NEELEY AND HALLORAN) * face Salvano, Chi Chi and the lawyer Abandano (apparently representing Salvano and Chi Chi). Neeley is on the phone. * Pictures of Reagan and Meese are prominent on the wall. SALVANO You see what he did to me?! AGENT HALLORAN Your problem is being handled right now, Mr. Salv -- SALVANO Yeah? Well, it shoulda been handled twelve hours ago. I don't know who's running this outfit, but somebody better get his goddamn wires straight! AGENT NEELEY * (into phone) -- yes, sir... yes, sir, I understand -- SALVANO That maniac should be wearing a number, not a badge. Salvano knows what the call is about. He straightens the tie beneath his bruised neck, assuming the attitude of a respectable citizen who has been unjustly wronged. AGENT NEELEY * (into phone) -- count on it, sir. Right. You'll have our full cooperation. Neeley hangs up. Glances dubiously to Halloran. Then turns * grimly to Salvano, Chi Chi and the lawyer Abandano. AGENT NEELEY * You're free to go. 130 OMITTED 131 INT. FEDERAL BUILDING - LOBBY - NIGHT * The hoods and their lawyer smugly walk past a cleaning woman. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 33A. 132 INT. PRECINCT CAPTAIN'S OFFICE - MORNING OPENING ON Agent Neeley's face. Composed, clean-cut, but * intense, wearing a light-colored business suit. PAN TO Agent Halloran -- the same upright, clean-shaven bureau look. The two men are seated to one side of LIEUTENANT FRED STROZAH. 133 NICO, JACKSON, LUKICH AND DEA AND ATF MEN sit and stand in various postures in front of the Lieutenant's desk. LIEUTENANT STROZAH (to Nico, DEA & AIF) -- This is no reflection on the work you officers have done. I feel, and the whole department feels, extremely proud of your initiative and gallantry. That "spare me the horseshit" look on Nico's face. He's fuming. Strozah sees Nico's bitter expression. It's on the others' faces too. LIEUTENANT STROZAH As all of you are well aware, possession of these explosives is a federal offense and under jurisdiction of the F.B.I. Nico's eyes meet Lieutenant Strozah's. There's respect between the two, but it's plainly under a helluva strain. NICO Sir. With all respect to our brothers in the Bureau -- (biting sarcasm; turns to Neeley) * -- That's no answer. It's no answer to why one of the biggest dealers in the city is out on the street now, free as a bird! Agent Neeley stiffens. * LIEUTENANT STROZAH Keep it in your pants, Nico. These men have a job to do, just like us. Nico stifles his outrage. The other cops exchange glances -- upset and angry. Agent Neeley clears his throat. * AGENT NEELEY * Lieutenant, I think these officers are entitled to a fuller explanation. (MORE) ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 34. AGENT NEELEY (CONT'D) They've risked their lives. I understand one man is in the hospital. He speaks to the officers. AGENT NEELEY * What I'm about to say doesn't leave this room. Is that clear? Assent from everyone. AGENT NEELEY * Mr. Salvano has been working for some time in cooperation with certain federal agencies. 134 CLOSE - NICO'S FACE Stunned and furious at this royal fuck-up. AGENT NEELEY (O.S.) * I'm not at liberty to divulge the nature of Mr. Salvano's involvement -- I just learned of its existence myself a few hours ago. But one thing I can tell you -- 135 BACK TO AGENT NEELEY * AGENT NEELEY * Mr. Salvano's role is crucial to an extremely sensitive ongoing investigation. Any further surveillance, harassment, or unauthorized operations against this individual are forbidden. I must order you gentlemen -- (looking straight at Nico) -- with all respect for your work and your courage, to stand down. Lukich shakes his head; Nico is devastated. Jackson takes it all in. CUT TO: 136 INT. POLICE SQUAD ROOM - MORNING OPENING CLOSE ON a desk drawer being opened. Aside from rounds of ammo, notes and an aging eggplant parmigiana sandwich, there are half a dozen hand-labeled audio- cassettes and a small collection of miniaturized bugging devices. Jackson and Lukich watch Nico take out the notes, hand them to Lieutenant Strozah. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 35. LIEUTENANT STROZAH The tapes too. NICO (mocking) That's my Lawrence Welk collection! LIEUTENANT STROZAH I want everything you got on this one. Reluctantly, Nico hands over the tapes. The Lieutenant eyes the bugs and wires. LIEUTENANT STROZAH I know you don't give a shit about yourself, Toscani. (a glance to Jax) But you're gonna put Jackson's ass in a sling, too, with these illegal wires. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/17/87 35A. * 136A OTHER SIDE OF SQUAD ROOM Agent Halloran edges up to Jackson, who's grabbing coffee on the far side of the squad room, and watching from there as Nico gives Strozah more of a hard time. AGENT HALLORAN What's the story on your partner, Jackson? Did he learn this style or was he born with a brick up his ass? Jackson checks Halloran out. He's black too and, despite herself, there's a certain rapport. JACKSON He has ethics. Unlike certain others on this case. Halloran watches the illegal bugs and tapes come out of Nico's drawer. AGENT HALLORAN His 'ethics' are gonna cost him his badge and his gun. This "white" talk gives Jackson a pain. She slips into her jive mode. JACKSON You don't wanna catch him without no gun. Halloran's look asks why not? JACKSON 'Cause what he do with his hands... make bullet holes look pretty. Across the room, Nico turns over the tapes. AGENT HALLORAN He bad? JACKSON Bad bad. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 36. 137 INT. PRECINCT HOUSE - STAIRWAY - DAY Nico and Jackson come down the stairs. Jackson has had ample excitement for her last week on the force. JACKSON Is that enough? Can we do something normal now -- like eat lunch? NICO Anything you say, Jax. How about Salvano's? JACKSON Let it be, Nico. 138 EXT. PRECINCT HOUSE - DAY Nico and Jackson's car pulls out into traffic. 139 INT. UNMARKED CAR - PARKED (ALLEY BEHIND SALVANO'S) Jackson and Nico are eating some fast good. Nico reaches to his jacket pocket; takes out a cassette. JACKSON What... you kept his tape, too? Nico already has it in the PLAYER. We hear FRAGMENTS of the telephone tap from the body shop in Spanish and English. Jackson looks frustrated. Nico listens care- fully to what appears to be the taped PHONE CONVERSATION. NICO Poetry, ain't it? 140 EXT. REAR SALVANO'S RESTAURANT - DAY (POV FROM CAR) The pimp (busboy) comes out and dumps a load of garbage. 141 INT. UNMARKED CAR - DAY Nico and Jackson case the restaurant from down the alley. 142 EXT. REAR SALVANO'S - NICO'S POV - DAY From the restaurant door, Salvano and Chi Chi emerge. They get into a black Cadillac and pull out. * NICO (O.S.) And now for some dessert. 143 SERIES OF SHOTS As Nico's car tails Salvano's through various streets. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 37. 144 EXT. OAK STREET Salvano comes out of a fancy flower shop with a bimbo on his arm. He kisses her goodbye and puts her in a cab. NICO (O.S.) And that must be Mrs. Sal. So nice to see married couples still in love. 144A NICO AND JACKSON are hidden, waiting. 144B CHI CHI emerges from a dry cleaner's with a suit on a hanger. * 145 EXT. ST. ELIZABETH'S PARISH CHURCH - DAY Salvano's Caddy pulls up outside the same church where we * saw Nico's son get baptized. Salvano and Chi Chi get out, look both ways up and down the street. Salvano, holding * flowers, makes eye contact with a car down the block. * 146 EXT. STREET UP BLOCK FROM CHURCH - DAY Nico's car backs out of sight around the corner. 147 SIDEWALK IN FRONT OF CHURCH Salvano and Chi Chi, seeing nothing, enter the church. 148 INT. CHURCH - DAY A smattering of older women and men praying. Salvano and Chi Chi stop at the head of the aisle, genuflect to the altar, move in, take seats toward the front. 149 BACK OF CHURCH Nico and Jackson slip in the front door, glide silently into the shadows at the rear of the church. JACKSON This is your mother's church, isn't it? NICO Yeah. But I bet she's never seen these boys in the choir. 150 NICO'S POV Salvano's head is bowed, but Chi Chi is looking around quite carefully. Nico and Jackson fade into the shadows behind the huge pillars. ABOVE THE LAW - Rev. 4/29/87 37A. 151 SALVANO AND CHI CHI After a few moments, the pair rises. They cross them- selves, start out for the front door. As they walk, they continue to look for something. 152 INT. CHURCH - DAY * Nico and Jackson emerge into a courtyard which reveals a day care center and a rectory. They head toward the front of the building. Jackson, planning on picking up their tail on Salvano, is stoped by Nico. He wants to stay and look around. 38. FATHER GENARRO (O.S.) Nicola! That can't be you in church without the family! Nico turns to see Father Genarro, perspiring in a baggy sweatshirt, a handball glove on his hand. The courtyard alongside the church is marked off as an athletic area. NICO Father Genarro. The priest seizes Nico's hand warmly, smiles at Jackson. FATHER GENARRO This must be your partner in crime. (shakes her hand) I'm Father Genarro. I saw you at the baptismal party. (with a wink to Nico) What

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How many times the word 'opens' appears in the text?

with him--do you think you could do that? But I always cry so before I'm through--I cry and cry--my poor, helpless boy--he was so strong and bright! And you are sure you are conscientious----" At this point Phyllis stopped the flow of Mrs. Harrington's conversation firmly, if sweetly. "Yes, indeed," she said cheerfully. "But you know, if I'm not, Mr. De Guenther can stop all my allowance. It wouldn't be to my own interest not to fulfil my duties faithfully." "Yes, that is true," said Mrs. Harrington. "That was a good thought of mine. My husband always said I was an unusual woman where business was concerned." So they went on the principle that she had no honor beyond working for what she would get out of it! Although she had made the suggestion herself, Phyllis's cheeks burned, and she was about to answer sharply. Then somehow the poor, anxious, loving mother's absolute preoccupation with her son struck her as right after all. "If it were my son," thought Phyllis, "I wouldn't worry about any strange hired girl's feelings either, maybe. I'd just think about him.... I promise I'll look after Mr. Harrington's welfare as if he were my own brother!" she ended aloud impulsively. "Indeed, you may trust me." "I am--sure you will," panted Mrs. Harrington. "You look like--a good girl, and--and old enough to be responsible--twenty-eight--thirty?" "Not very far from that," said Phyllis serenely. "And you are sure you will know when the attendants are neglectful? I speak to them all the time, but I never can be sure.... And now you'd better see poor Allan. This is one of his good days. Just think, dear Isabel, he spoke to me twice without my speaking to him this morning!" "Oh--must I?" asked Phyllis, dismayed. "Couldn't I wait till--till it happens?" Mrs. Harrington actually laughed a little at her shyness, lighting up like a girl. Phyllis felt dimly, though she tried not to, that through it all her mother-in-law-elect was taking pleasure in the dramatic side of the situation she had engineered. "Oh, my dear, you must see him. He expects you," she answered almost gayly. The procession of three moved down the long room towards a door, Phyllis's hand guiding the wheel-chair. She was surprised to find herself shaking with fright. Just what she expected to find beyond the door she did not know, but it must have been some horror, for it was with a heart-bound of wild relief that she finally made out Allan Harrington, lying white in the darkened place. A Crusader on a tomb. Yes, he looked like that. In the room's half-dusk the pallor of his still, clear-featured face and his long, clear-cut hands was nearly the same as the whiteness of the couch-draperies. His hair, yellow-brown and waving, flung back from his forehead like a crest, and his dark brows and lashes made the only note of darkness about him. To Phyllis's beauty-loving eyes he seemed so perfect an image that she could have watched him for hours. "Here's Miss Braithwaite, my poor darling," said his mother. "The young lady we have been talking about so long." The Crusader lifted his eyelids and let them fall again. "Is she?" he said listlessly. "Don't you want to talk to her, darling boy?" his mother persisted, half out of breath, but still full of that unrebuffable, loving energy and insistence which she would probably keep to the last minute of her life. "No," said the Crusader, still in those empty, listless tones. "I'd rather not talk. I'm tired." His mother seemed not at all put out. "Of course, darling," she said, kissing him. She sat by him still, however, and poured out sentence after sentence of question, insistence, imploration, and pity, eliciting no answer at all. Phyllis wondered how it would feel to have to lie still and have that done to you for a term of years. The result of her wonderment was a decision to forgive her unenthusiastic future bridegroom for what she had at first been ready to slap him. Presently Mrs. Harrington's breath flagged, and the three women went away, back to the room they had been in before. Phyllis sat and let herself be talked to for a little longer. Then she rose impulsively. "May I go back and see your son again for just a minute?" she asked, and had gone before Mrs. Harrington had finished her permission. She darted into the dark room before her courage had time to fail, and stood by the white couch again. "Mr. Harrington," she said clearly, "I'm sorry you're tired, but I'm afraid I am going to have to ask you to listen to me. You know, don't you, that your mother plans to have me marry you, for a sort of interested head-nurse? Are you willing to have it happen? Because I won't do it unless you really prefer it." The heavy white lids half-lifted again. "I don't mind," said Allan Harrington listlessly. "I suppose you are quiet and trustworthy, or De Guenther wouldn't have sent you. It will give mother a little peace and it makes no difference to me." He closed his eyes and the subject at the same time. "Well, then, that's all right," said Phyllis cheerfully, and started to go. Then, drawn back by a sudden, nervous temper-impulse, she moved back on him. "And let me tell you," she added, half-laughing, half-impertinently, "that if you ever get into my quiet, trustworthy clutches you may have an awful time! You're a very spoiled invalid." She whisked out of the room before he could have gone very far with his reply. But he had not cared to reply, apparently. He lay unmoved and unmoving. Phyllis discovered, poising breathless on the threshold, that somehow she had seen his eyes. They had been a little like the wolfhound's, a sort of wistful gold-brown. For some reason she found that Allan Harrington's attitude of absolute detachment made the whole affair seem much easier for her. And when Mrs. Harrington slipped a solitaire diamond into her hand as she went, instead of disliking it she enjoyed its feel on her finger, and the flash of it in the light. She thanked Mrs. Harrington for it with real gratitude. But it made her feel more than ever engaged to marry her mother-in-law. She walked home rather silently with Mrs. De Guenther. Only at the foot of the De Guenther steps, she made one absent remark. "He must have been delightful," she said, "when he was alive!" VI After a week of the old bustling, dusty hard work, the Liberry Teacher's visit to the De Guenthers' and the subsequent one at the Harringtons', and even her sparkling white ring, seemed part of a queer story she had finished and put back on the shelf. The ring was the most real thing, because it was something of a worry. She didn't dare leave it at home, nor did she want to wear it. She finally sewed it in a chamois bag that she safety-pinned under her shirt-waist. Then she dismissed it from her mind also. There is very little time in a Liberry Teacher's life for meditation. Only once in a while would come to her the vision of the wistful Harrington wolfhound following his inadequate patch of sunlight, or of the dusky room where Allan Harrington lay inert and white, and looking like a wonderful carved statue on a tomb. She began to do a little to her clothes, but not very much, because she had neither time nor money. Mr. De Guenther had wanted her to take some money in advance, but she had refused. She did not want it till she had earned it, and, anyway, it would have made the whole thing so real, she knew, that she would have backed out. "And it isn't as if I were going to a lover," she defended herself to Mrs. De Guenther with a little wistful smile. "Nobody will know what I have on, any more than they do now." Mrs. De Guenther gave a scandalized little cry. Her attitude was determinedly that it was just an ordinary marriage, as good an excuse for sentiment and pretty frocks as any other. "My dear child," she replied firmly, "you are going to have one pretty frock and one really good street-suit _now_, or I will know why! The rest you may get yourself after the wedding, but you must obey me in this. Nonsense!--you can get a half-day, as you call it, perfectly well! What's Albert in politics for, if he can't get favors for his friends!" And, in effect, it proved that Albert was in politics to some purpose, for orders came up from the Head's office within twenty minutes after Mrs. De Guenther had used the telephone on her husband, that Miss Braithwaite was to have a half-day immediately--as far as she could make out, in order to transact city affairs! She felt as if the angels had told her she could have the last fortnight over again, as a favor, or something of the sort. A half-day out of turn was something nobody had ever heard of. She was even too surprised to object to the frock part of the situation. She tried to stand out a little longer, but it's a very stoical young woman who can refuse to have pretty clothes bought for her, and the end of it was a seat in a salon which she had always considered so expensive that you scarcely ought to look in the window. "Had it better be a black suit?" asked Mrs. De Guenther doubtfully, as the tall lady in floppy charmeuse hovered haughtily about them, expecting orders. "It seems horrible to buy mourning when dear Angela is not yet passed away, but it would only be showing proper respect; and I remember my own dear mother planned all our mourning outfits while she was dying. It was quite a pleasure to her." Phyllis kept her face straight, and slipped one persuasive hand through her friend's arm. "I don't believe I _could_ buy mourning, dear," she said. "And--oh, if you knew how long I'd wanted a really _blue_ blue suit! Only, it would have been too vivid to wear well--I always knew that--because you can only afford one every other year. And"--Phyllis rather diffidently voiced a thought which had been in the back of her mind for a long time--"if I'm going to be much around Mr. Harrington, don't you think cheerful clothes would be best? Everything in that house seems sombre enough now." "Perhaps you are right, dear child," said Mrs. De Guenther. "I hope you may be the means of putting a great deal of brightness into poor Allan's life before he joins his mother." "Oh, don't!" cried Phyllis impulsively. Somehow she could not bear to think of Allan Harrington's dying. He was too beautiful to be dead, where nobody could see him any more. Besides, Phyllis privately considered that a long vacation before he joined his mother would be only the fair thing for "poor Allan." Youth sides with youth. And--the clear-cut white lines of him rose in her memory and stayed there. She could almost hear that poor, tired, toneless voice of his, that was yet so deep and so perfectly accented.... She bought docilely whatever her guide directed, and woke from a species of gentle daze at the afternoon's end to find Mrs. De Guenther beaming with the weary rapture of the successful shopper, and herself the proprietress of a turquoise velvet walking-suit, a hat to match, a pale blue evening frock, a pale green between-dress with lovely clinging lines, and a heavenly white crepe thing with rosy ribbons and filmy shadow-laces--the negligee of one's dreams. There were also slippers and shoes and stockings and--this was really too bad of Mrs. De Guenther--a half-dozen set of lingerie, straight through. Mrs. De Guenther sat and continued to beam joyously over the array, in Phyllis's little bedroom. "It's my present, dearie," she said calmly. "So you needn't worry about using Angela's money. Gracious, it's been _lovely_! I haven't had such a good time since my husband's little grand-niece came on for a week. There's nothing like dressing a girl, after all." And Phyllis could only kiss her. But when her guest had gone she laid all the boxes of finery under her bed, the only place where there was any room. She would not take any of it out, she determined, till her summons came. But on second thought, she wore the blue velvet street-suit on Sunday visits to Mrs. Harrington, which became--she never knew just when or how--a regular thing. The vivid blue made her eyes nearly sky-color, and brightened her hair very satisfactorily. She was taking more time and trouble over her looks now--one has to live up to a turquoise velvet hat and coat! She found herself, too, becoming very genuinely fond of the restless, anxiously loving, passionate, unwise child who dwelt in Mrs. Harrington's frail elderly body and had almost worn it out. She sat, long hours of every Sunday afternoon, holding Mrs. Harrington's thin little hot hands, and listening to her swift, italicised monologues about Allan--what he must do, what he must not do, how he must be looked after, how his mother had treated him, how his wishes must be ascertained and followed. "Though all he wants now is dark and quiet," said his mother piteously. "I don't even go in there now to cry." She spoke as if it were an established ritual. Had she been using her son's sick-room, Phyllis wondered, as a regular weeping-place? She could feel in Mrs. Harrington, even in this mortal sickness, the tremendous driving influence which is often part of a passionately active and not very wise personality. That certitude and insistence of Mrs. Harrington's could hammer you finally into believing or doing almost anything. Phyllis wondered how much his mother's heartbroken adoration and pity might have had to do with making her son as hopeless-minded as he was. Naturally, the mother-in-law-elect she had acquired in such a strange way became very fond of Phyllis. But indeed there was something very gay and sweet and honest-minded about the girl, a something which gave people the feeling that they were very wise in liking her. Some people you are fond of against your will. When people cared for Phyllis it was with a quite irrational feeling that they were doing a sensible thing. They never gave any of the credit to her very real, though almost invisible, charm. She never saw Allan Harrington on any of the Sunday visits. She was sure the servants thought she did, for she knew that every one in the great, dark old house knew her as the young lady who was to marry Mr. Allan. She believed that she was supposed to be an old family friend, perhaps a distant relative. She did not want to see Allan. But she did want to be as good to his little, tensely-loving mother as she could, and reassure her about Allan's future care. And she succeeded. It was on a Friday about two that the summons came. Phyllis had thought she expected it, but when the call came to her over the library telephone she found herself as badly frightened as she had been the first time she went to the Harrington house. She shivered as she laid down the dater she was using, and called the other librarian to take her desk. Fortunately, between one and four the morning and evening shifts overlapped, and there was some one to take her place. "Mrs. Harrington cannot last out the night," came Mr. De Guenther's clear, precise voice over the telephone, without preface. "I have arranged with Mr. Johnston. You can go at once. You had better pack a suit-case, for you possibly may not be able to get back to your boarding-place." So it was to happen now! Phyllis felt, with her substitute in her place, her own wraps on, and her feet taking her swiftly towards her goal, as if she were offering herself to be made a nun, or have a hand or foot cut off, or paying herself away in some awful, irrevocable fashion. She packed, mechanically, all the pretty things Mrs. De Guenther had given her, and nothing else. She found herself at the door of her room with the locked suit-case in her hand, and not even a nail-file of the things belonging to her old self in it. She shook herself together, managed to laugh a little, and returned and put in such things as she thought she would require for the night. Then she went. She always remembered that journey as long as she lived; her hands and feet and tongue going on, buying tickets, giving directions--and her mind, like a naughty child, catching at everything as they went, and screaming to be allowed to go back home, back to the dusty, matter-of-course library and the dreary little boarding-house bedroom! VII They were all waiting for her, in what felt like a hideously quiet semicircle, in Allan's great dark room. Mrs. Harrington, deadly pale, and giving an impression of keeping herself alive only by force of that wonderful fighting vitality of hers, lay almost at length in her wheel-chair. There was a clergyman in vestments. There were the De Guenthers; Mr. De Guenther only a little more precise than his every-day habit was, Mrs. De Guenther crying a little, softly and furtively. As for Allan Harrington, he lay just as she had seen him that other time, white and moveless, seeming scarcely conscious except by an effort. Only she noticed a slight contraction, as of pain, between his brows. "Phyllis has come," panted Mrs. Harrington. "Now it will be--all right. You must marry him quickly--quickly, do you hear, Phyllis? Oh, people never will--do--what I want them to----" "Yes--yes, indeed, dear," said Phyllis, taking her hands soothingly. "We're going to attend to it right away. See, everything is ready." It occurred to her that Mrs. Harrington was not half as correct in her playing of the part of a dying woman as she would have seen to it that anyone else was; also, that things did not seem legal without the wolfhound. Then she was shocked at herself for such irrelevant thoughts. The thing to do was to keep poor Mrs. Harrington quieted. So she beckoned the clergyman and the De Guenthers nearer, and herself sped the marrying of herself to Allan Harrington. ... When you are being married to a Crusader on a tomb, the easiest way is to kneel down by him. Phyllis registered this fact in her mind quite blankly, as something which might be of use to remember in future.... The marrying took an unnecessarily long time, it seemed to her. It did not seem as if she were being married at all. It all seemed to concern somebody else. When it came to the putting on of the wedding-ring, she found herself, very naturally, guiding Allan's relaxed fingers to hold it in its successive places, and finally slip it on the wedding-finger. And somehow having to do that checked the chilly awe she had had before of Allan Harrington. It made her feel quite simply sorry for him, as if he were one of her poor little boys in trouble. And when it was all over she bent pitifully before she thought, and kissed one white, cold cheek. He seemed so tragically helpless, yet more alive, in some way, since she had touched his hand to guide it. Then, as her lips brushed his cheek, she recoiled and colored a little. She had felt that slight roughness which a man's cheek, however close-shaven, always has--the _man_-feel. It made her realize unreasonably that it was a man she had married, after all, not a stone image nor a sick child--a live man! With the thought, or rather instinct, came a swift terror of what she had done, and a swift impulse to rise. She was half-way risen from her knees when a hand on her shoulder, and the clergyman's voice in her ear, checked her. "Not yet," he murmured almost inaudibly. "Stay as you are till--till Mrs. Harrington is wheeled from the room." Phyllis understood. She remained as she was, her body a shield before Allan Harrington's eyes, her hand just withdrawing from his shoulder, till she heard the closing of the door, and a sigh as of relaxed tension from the three people around her. Then she rose. Allan lay still with closed eyelids. It seemed to her that he had flushed, if ever so faintly, at the touch of her lips on his cheek. She laid his hand on the coverlet with her own roughened, ringed one, and followed the others out, into the room where the dead woman had been taken, leaving him with his attendant. The rest of the evening Phyllis went about in a queer-keyed, almost light-hearted frame of mind. It was only the reaction from the long-expected terror that was over now, but it felt indecorous. It was just as well, however. Some one's head had to be kept. The servants were upset, of course, and there were many arrangements to be made. She and Mr. De Guenther worked steadily together, telephoning, ordering, guiding, straightening out all the tangles. There never was a wedding, she thought, where the bride did so much of the work! She even remembered to see personally that Allan's dinner was sent up to him. The servants had doubtless been told to come to her for orders--at any rate, they did. Phyllis had not had much experience in running a house, but a good deal in keeping her head. And that, after all, is the main thing. She had a far-off feeling as if she were hearing some other young woman giving swift, poised, executive orders. She rather admired her. After dinner the De Guenthers went. And Phyllis Braithwaite, the little Liberry Teacher who had been living in a hall bedroom on much less money than she needed, found herself alone, sole mistress of the great Harrington house, a corps of servants, a husband passive enough to satisfy the most militant suffragette, a check-book, a wistful wolfhound, and five hundred dollars, cash, for current expenses. The last weighed on her mind more than all the rest put together. "Why, I don't know how to make Current Expenses out of all that!" she had said to Mr. De Guenther. "It looks to me exactly like about ten months' salary! I'm perfectly certain I shall get up in my sleep and try to pay my board ahead with it, so I shan't have it all spent before the ten months are up! There was a blue bead necklace," she went on meditatively, "in the Five-and-Ten, that I always wanted to buy. Only I never quite felt I could afford it. Oh, just imagine going to the Five-and-Ten and buying at least five dollars' worth of things you didn't need!" "You have great discretionary powers--great discretionary powers, my dear, you will find!" Mr. De Guenther had said, as he patted her shoulder. Phyllis took it as a compliment at the time. "Discretionary powers" sounded as if he thought she was a quite intelligent young person. It did not occur to her till he had gone, and she was alone with her check-book, that it meant she had a good deal of liberty to do as she liked. It seemed to be expected of her to stay. Nobody even suggested a possibility of her going home again, even to pack her trunk. Mrs. De Guenther casually volunteered to do that, a little after the housekeeper had told her where her rooms were. She had been consulting with the housekeeper for what seemed ages, when she happened to want some pins for something, and asked for her suit-case. "It's in your rooms," said the housekeeper. "Mrs. Harrington--the late Mrs. Harrington, I should say----" Phyllis stopped listening at this point. Who was the present Mrs. Harrington? she wondered before she thought--and then remembered. Why--_she_ was! So there was no Phyllis Braithwaite any more! Of course not.... Yet she had always liked the name so--well, a last name was a small thing to give up.... Into her mind fitted an incongruous, silly story she had heard once at the library, about a girl whose last name was Rose, and whose parents christened her Wild, because the combination appealed to them. And then she married a man named Bull.... Meanwhile the housekeeper had been going on. ... "She had the bedroom and bath opening from the other side of Mr. Allan's day-room ready for you, madam. It's been ready several weeks." "Has it?" said Phyllis. It was like Mrs. Harrington, that careful planning of even where she should be put. "Is Mr. Harrington in his day-room now?" For some reason she did not attempt to give herself, she did not want to see him again just now. Besides, it was nearly eleven and time a very tired girl was in bed. She wanted a good night's rest, before she had to get up and be Mrs. Harrington, with Allan and the check-book and the Current Expenses all tied to her. Some one had laid everything out for her in the bedroom; the filmy new nightgown over a chair, the blue satin mules underneath, her plain toilet-things on a dressing-table, and over another chair the exquisite ivory crepe negligee with its floating rose ribbons. She took a hasty bath--there was so much hot water that she was quite reconciled for a moment to being a check-booked and wolf hounded Mrs. Harrington--and slid straight into bed without even stopping to braid her loosened, honey-colored hair. It seemed to her that she was barely asleep when there came an urgent knocking at her door. "Yes?" she said sleepily, looking mechanically for her alarm-clock as she switched on the light. "What is it, please?" "It's I, Wallis, Mr. Allan's man, Madame," said a nervous voice. "Mr. Allan's very bad. I've done all the usual things, but nothing seems to quiet him. He hates doctors so, and they make him so wrought up--please could you come, ma'am? He says as how all of us are all dead--oh, _please_, Mrs. Harrington!" There was panic in the man's voice. "All right," said Phyllis sleepily, dropping to the floor as she spoke with the rapidity that only the alarm-clock-broken know. She snatched the negligee around her, and thrust her feet hastily into the blue satin slippers--why, she was actually using her wedding finery! And what an easily upset person that man was! But everybody in the house seemed to have nerves on edge. It was no wonder about Allan--he wanted his mother, of course, poor boy! She felt, as she ran fleetly across the long room that separated her sleeping quarters from her husband's, the same mixture of pity and timidity that she had felt with him before. Poor boy! Poor, silent, beautiful statue, with his one friend gone! She opened the door and entered swiftly into his room. She was not thinking about herself at all, only of how she could help Allan, but there must have been something about her of the picture-book angel to the pain-racked man, lying tensely at length in the room's darkest corner. Her long, dully gold hair, loosening from its twist, flew out about her, and her face was still flushed with sleep. There was a something about her that was vividly alight and alive, perhaps the light in her blue eyes. From what the man had said Phyllis had thought Allan was delirious, but she saw at once that he was only in severe pain, and talking more disconnectedly, perhaps, than the slow-minded Englishman could follow. He did not look like a statue now. His cheeks were burning with evident pain, and his yellow-brown eyes, wide-open, and dilated to darkness, stared straight out. His hands were clenching and unclenching, and his head moved restlessly from side to side. Every nerve and muscle, she could see, was taut. "They're all dead," he muttered. "Father and Mother and Louise--and I--only I'm not dead enough to bury. Oh, God, I wish I was!" That wasn't delirium; it was something more like heart-break. Phyllis moved closer to him, and dropped one of her sleep-warm hands on his cold, clenched one. "Oh, poor boy!" she said. "I'm so sorry--so sorry!" She closed her hands tight over both his. Some of her strong young vitality must have passed between them and helped him, for almost immediately his tenseness relaxed a little, and he looked at her. "You--you're not a nurse," he said. "They go around--like--like a--vault----" She had caught his attention! That was a good deal, she felt. She forgot everything about him, except that he was some one to be comforted, and her charge. She sat down on the bed by him, still holding tight to his hands. "No, indeed," she said, bending nearer him, her long loose hair falling forward about her resolutely-smiling young face. "Don't you remember seeing me? I never was a nurse." "What--are you?" he asked feebly. "I'm--why, the children call me the Liberry Teacher," she answered. It occurred to her that it would be better to talk on brightly at random than to risk speaking of his mother to him, as she must if she reminded him of their marriage. "I spend my days in a basement, making bad little boys get so interested in the Higher Culture that they'll forget to shoot crap and smash windows." One of the things which had aided Phyllis to rise from desk-assistant to one of the Children's Room librarians was a very sweet and carrying voice--a voice which arrested even a child's attention,

sure

How many times the word 'sure' appears in the text?

with him--do you think you could do that? But I always cry so before I'm through--I cry and cry--my poor, helpless boy--he was so strong and bright! And you are sure you are conscientious----" At this point Phyllis stopped the flow of Mrs. Harrington's conversation firmly, if sweetly. "Yes, indeed," she said cheerfully. "But you know, if I'm not, Mr. De Guenther can stop all my allowance. It wouldn't be to my own interest not to fulfil my duties faithfully." "Yes, that is true," said Mrs. Harrington. "That was a good thought of mine. My husband always said I was an unusual woman where business was concerned." So they went on the principle that she had no honor beyond working for what she would get out of it! Although she had made the suggestion herself, Phyllis's cheeks burned, and she was about to answer sharply. Then somehow the poor, anxious, loving mother's absolute preoccupation with her son struck her as right after all. "If it were my son," thought Phyllis, "I wouldn't worry about any strange hired girl's feelings either, maybe. I'd just think about him.... I promise I'll look after Mr. Harrington's welfare as if he were my own brother!" she ended aloud impulsively. "Indeed, you may trust me." "I am--sure you will," panted Mrs. Harrington. "You look like--a good girl, and--and old enough to be responsible--twenty-eight--thirty?" "Not very far from that," said Phyllis serenely. "And you are sure you will know when the attendants are neglectful? I speak to them all the time, but I never can be sure.... And now you'd better see poor Allan. This is one of his good days. Just think, dear Isabel, he spoke to me twice without my speaking to him this morning!" "Oh--must I?" asked Phyllis, dismayed. "Couldn't I wait till--till it happens?" Mrs. Harrington actually laughed a little at her shyness, lighting up like a girl. Phyllis felt dimly, though she tried not to, that through it all her mother-in-law-elect was taking pleasure in the dramatic side of the situation she had engineered. "Oh, my dear, you must see him. He expects you," she answered almost gayly. The procession of three moved down the long room towards a door, Phyllis's hand guiding the wheel-chair. She was surprised to find herself shaking with fright. Just what she expected to find beyond the door she did not know, but it must have been some horror, for it was with a heart-bound of wild relief that she finally made out Allan Harrington, lying white in the darkened place. A Crusader on a tomb. Yes, he looked like that. In the room's half-dusk the pallor of his still, clear-featured face and his long, clear-cut hands was nearly the same as the whiteness of the couch-draperies. His hair, yellow-brown and waving, flung back from his forehead like a crest, and his dark brows and lashes made the only note of darkness about him. To Phyllis's beauty-loving eyes he seemed so perfect an image that she could have watched him for hours. "Here's Miss Braithwaite, my poor darling," said his mother. "The young lady we have been talking about so long." The Crusader lifted his eyelids and let them fall again. "Is she?" he said listlessly. "Don't you want to talk to her, darling boy?" his mother persisted, half out of breath, but still full of that unrebuffable, loving energy and insistence which she would probably keep to the last minute of her life. "No," said the Crusader, still in those empty, listless tones. "I'd rather not talk. I'm tired." His mother seemed not at all put out. "Of course, darling," she said, kissing him. She sat by him still, however, and poured out sentence after sentence of question, insistence, imploration, and pity, eliciting no answer at all. Phyllis wondered how it would feel to have to lie still and have that done to you for a term of years. The result of her wonderment was a decision to forgive her unenthusiastic future bridegroom for what she had at first been ready to slap him. Presently Mrs. Harrington's breath flagged, and the three women went away, back to the room they had been in before. Phyllis sat and let herself be talked to for a little longer. Then she rose impulsively. "May I go back and see your son again for just a minute?" she asked, and had gone before Mrs. Harrington had finished her permission. She darted into the dark room before her courage had time to fail, and stood by the white couch again. "Mr. Harrington," she said clearly, "I'm sorry you're tired, but I'm afraid I am going to have to ask you to listen to me. You know, don't you, that your mother plans to have me marry you, for a sort of interested head-nurse? Are you willing to have it happen? Because I won't do it unless you really prefer it." The heavy white lids half-lifted again. "I don't mind," said Allan Harrington listlessly. "I suppose you are quiet and trustworthy, or De Guenther wouldn't have sent you. It will give mother a little peace and it makes no difference to me." He closed his eyes and the subject at the same time. "Well, then, that's all right," said Phyllis cheerfully, and started to go. Then, drawn back by a sudden, nervous temper-impulse, she moved back on him. "And let me tell you," she added, half-laughing, half-impertinently, "that if you ever get into my quiet, trustworthy clutches you may have an awful time! You're a very spoiled invalid." She whisked out of the room before he could have gone very far with his reply. But he had not cared to reply, apparently. He lay unmoved and unmoving. Phyllis discovered, poising breathless on the threshold, that somehow she had seen his eyes. They had been a little like the wolfhound's, a sort of wistful gold-brown. For some reason she found that Allan Harrington's attitude of absolute detachment made the whole affair seem much easier for her. And when Mrs. Harrington slipped a solitaire diamond into her hand as she went, instead of disliking it she enjoyed its feel on her finger, and the flash of it in the light. She thanked Mrs. Harrington for it with real gratitude. But it made her feel more than ever engaged to marry her mother-in-law. She walked home rather silently with Mrs. De Guenther. Only at the foot of the De Guenther steps, she made one absent remark. "He must have been delightful," she said, "when he was alive!" VI After a week of the old bustling, dusty hard work, the Liberry Teacher's visit to the De Guenthers' and the subsequent one at the Harringtons', and even her sparkling white ring, seemed part of a queer story she had finished and put back on the shelf. The ring was the most real thing, because it was something of a worry. She didn't dare leave it at home, nor did she want to wear it. She finally sewed it in a chamois bag that she safety-pinned under her shirt-waist. Then she dismissed it from her mind also. There is very little time in a Liberry Teacher's life for meditation. Only once in a while would come to her the vision of the wistful Harrington wolfhound following his inadequate patch of sunlight, or of the dusky room where Allan Harrington lay inert and white, and looking like a wonderful carved statue on a tomb. She began to do a little to her clothes, but not very much, because she had neither time nor money. Mr. De Guenther had wanted her to take some money in advance, but she had refused. She did not want it till she had earned it, and, anyway, it would have made the whole thing so real, she knew, that she would have backed out. "And it isn't as if I were going to a lover," she defended herself to Mrs. De Guenther with a little wistful smile. "Nobody will know what I have on, any more than they do now." Mrs. De Guenther gave a scandalized little cry. Her attitude was determinedly that it was just an ordinary marriage, as good an excuse for sentiment and pretty frocks as any other. "My dear child," she replied firmly, "you are going to have one pretty frock and one really good street-suit _now_, or I will know why! The rest you may get yourself after the wedding, but you must obey me in this. Nonsense!--you can get a half-day, as you call it, perfectly well! What's Albert in politics for, if he can't get favors for his friends!" And, in effect, it proved that Albert was in politics to some purpose, for orders came up from the Head's office within twenty minutes after Mrs. De Guenther had used the telephone on her husband, that Miss Braithwaite was to have a half-day immediately--as far as she could make out, in order to transact city affairs! She felt as if the angels had told her she could have the last fortnight over again, as a favor, or something of the sort. A half-day out of turn was something nobody had ever heard of. She was even too surprised to object to the frock part of the situation. She tried to stand out a little longer, but it's a very stoical young woman who can refuse to have pretty clothes bought for her, and the end of it was a seat in a salon which she had always considered so expensive that you scarcely ought to look in the window. "Had it better be a black suit?" asked Mrs. De Guenther doubtfully, as the tall lady in floppy charmeuse hovered haughtily about them, expecting orders. "It seems horrible to buy mourning when dear Angela is not yet passed away, but it would only be showing proper respect; and I remember my own dear mother planned all our mourning outfits while she was dying. It was quite a pleasure to her." Phyllis kept her face straight, and slipped one persuasive hand through her friend's arm. "I don't believe I _could_ buy mourning, dear," she said. "And--oh, if you knew how long I'd wanted a really _blue_ blue suit! Only, it would have been too vivid to wear well--I always knew that--because you can only afford one every other year. And"--Phyllis rather diffidently voiced a thought which had been in the back of her mind for a long time--"if I'm going to be much around Mr. Harrington, don't you think cheerful clothes would be best? Everything in that house seems sombre enough now." "Perhaps you are right, dear child," said Mrs. De Guenther. "I hope you may be the means of putting a great deal of brightness into poor Allan's life before he joins his mother." "Oh, don't!" cried Phyllis impulsively. Somehow she could not bear to think of Allan Harrington's dying. He was too beautiful to be dead, where nobody could see him any more. Besides, Phyllis privately considered that a long vacation before he joined his mother would be only the fair thing for "poor Allan." Youth sides with youth. And--the clear-cut white lines of him rose in her memory and stayed there. She could almost hear that poor, tired, toneless voice of his, that was yet so deep and so perfectly accented.... She bought docilely whatever her guide directed, and woke from a species of gentle daze at the afternoon's end to find Mrs. De Guenther beaming with the weary rapture of the successful shopper, and herself the proprietress of a turquoise velvet walking-suit, a hat to match, a pale blue evening frock, a pale green between-dress with lovely clinging lines, and a heavenly white crepe thing with rosy ribbons and filmy shadow-laces--the negligee of one's dreams. There were also slippers and shoes and stockings and--this was really too bad of Mrs. De Guenther--a half-dozen set of lingerie, straight through. Mrs. De Guenther sat and continued to beam joyously over the array, in Phyllis's little bedroom. "It's my present, dearie," she said calmly. "So you needn't worry about using Angela's money. Gracious, it's been _lovely_! I haven't had such a good time since my husband's little grand-niece came on for a week. There's nothing like dressing a girl, after all." And Phyllis could only kiss her. But when her guest had gone she laid all the boxes of finery under her bed, the only place where there was any room. She would not take any of it out, she determined, till her summons came. But on second thought, she wore the blue velvet street-suit on Sunday visits to Mrs. Harrington, which became--she never knew just when or how--a regular thing. The vivid blue made her eyes nearly sky-color, and brightened her hair very satisfactorily. She was taking more time and trouble over her looks now--one has to live up to a turquoise velvet hat and coat! She found herself, too, becoming very genuinely fond of the restless, anxiously loving, passionate, unwise child who dwelt in Mrs. Harrington's frail elderly body and had almost worn it out. She sat, long hours of every Sunday afternoon, holding Mrs. Harrington's thin little hot hands, and listening to her swift, italicised monologues about Allan--what he must do, what he must not do, how he must be looked after, how his mother had treated him, how his wishes must be ascertained and followed. "Though all he wants now is dark and quiet," said his mother piteously. "I don't even go in there now to cry." She spoke as if it were an established ritual. Had she been using her son's sick-room, Phyllis wondered, as a regular weeping-place? She could feel in Mrs. Harrington, even in this mortal sickness, the tremendous driving influence which is often part of a passionately active and not very wise personality. That certitude and insistence of Mrs. Harrington's could hammer you finally into believing or doing almost anything. Phyllis wondered how much his mother's heartbroken adoration and pity might have had to do with making her son as hopeless-minded as he was. Naturally, the mother-in-law-elect she had acquired in such a strange way became very fond of Phyllis. But indeed there was something very gay and sweet and honest-minded about the girl, a something which gave people the feeling that they were very wise in liking her. Some people you are fond of against your will. When people cared for Phyllis it was with a quite irrational feeling that they were doing a sensible thing. They never gave any of the credit to her very real, though almost invisible, charm. She never saw Allan Harrington on any of the Sunday visits. She was sure the servants thought she did, for she knew that every one in the great, dark old house knew her as the young lady who was to marry Mr. Allan. She believed that she was supposed to be an old family friend, perhaps a distant relative. She did not want to see Allan. But she did want to be as good to his little, tensely-loving mother as she could, and reassure her about Allan's future care. And she succeeded. It was on a Friday about two that the summons came. Phyllis had thought she expected it, but when the call came to her over the library telephone she found herself as badly frightened as she had been the first time she went to the Harrington house. She shivered as she laid down the dater she was using, and called the other librarian to take her desk. Fortunately, between one and four the morning and evening shifts overlapped, and there was some one to take her place. "Mrs. Harrington cannot last out the night," came Mr. De Guenther's clear, precise voice over the telephone, without preface. "I have arranged with Mr. Johnston. You can go at once. You had better pack a suit-case, for you possibly may not be able to get back to your boarding-place." So it was to happen now! Phyllis felt, with her substitute in her place, her own wraps on, and her feet taking her swiftly towards her goal, as if she were offering herself to be made a nun, or have a hand or foot cut off, or paying herself away in some awful, irrevocable fashion. She packed, mechanically, all the pretty things Mrs. De Guenther had given her, and nothing else. She found herself at the door of her room with the locked suit-case in her hand, and not even a nail-file of the things belonging to her old self in it. She shook herself together, managed to laugh a little, and returned and put in such things as she thought she would require for the night. Then she went. She always remembered that journey as long as she lived; her hands and feet and tongue going on, buying tickets, giving directions--and her mind, like a naughty child, catching at everything as they went, and screaming to be allowed to go back home, back to the dusty, matter-of-course library and the dreary little boarding-house bedroom! VII They were all waiting for her, in what felt like a hideously quiet semicircle, in Allan's great dark room. Mrs. Harrington, deadly pale, and giving an impression of keeping herself alive only by force of that wonderful fighting vitality of hers, lay almost at length in her wheel-chair. There was a clergyman in vestments. There were the De Guenthers; Mr. De Guenther only a little more precise than his every-day habit was, Mrs. De Guenther crying a little, softly and furtively. As for Allan Harrington, he lay just as she had seen him that other time, white and moveless, seeming scarcely conscious except by an effort. Only she noticed a slight contraction, as of pain, between his brows. "Phyllis has come," panted Mrs. Harrington. "Now it will be--all right. You must marry him quickly--quickly, do you hear, Phyllis? Oh, people never will--do--what I want them to----" "Yes--yes, indeed, dear," said Phyllis, taking her hands soothingly. "We're going to attend to it right away. See, everything is ready." It occurred to her that Mrs. Harrington was not half as correct in her playing of the part of a dying woman as she would have seen to it that anyone else was; also, that things did not seem legal without the wolfhound. Then she was shocked at herself for such irrelevant thoughts. The thing to do was to keep poor Mrs. Harrington quieted. So she beckoned the clergyman and the De Guenthers nearer, and herself sped the marrying of herself to Allan Harrington. ... When you are being married to a Crusader on a tomb, the easiest way is to kneel down by him. Phyllis registered this fact in her mind quite blankly, as something which might be of use to remember in future.... The marrying took an unnecessarily long time, it seemed to her. It did not seem as if she were being married at all. It all seemed to concern somebody else. When it came to the putting on of the wedding-ring, she found herself, very naturally, guiding Allan's relaxed fingers to hold it in its successive places, and finally slip it on the wedding-finger. And somehow having to do that checked the chilly awe she had had before of Allan Harrington. It made her feel quite simply sorry for him, as if he were one of her poor little boys in trouble. And when it was all over she bent pitifully before she thought, and kissed one white, cold cheek. He seemed so tragically helpless, yet more alive, in some way, since she had touched his hand to guide it. Then, as her lips brushed his cheek, she recoiled and colored a little. She had felt that slight roughness which a man's cheek, however close-shaven, always has--the _man_-feel. It made her realize unreasonably that it was a man she had married, after all, not a stone image nor a sick child--a live man! With the thought, or rather instinct, came a swift terror of what she had done, and a swift impulse to rise. She was half-way risen from her knees when a hand on her shoulder, and the clergyman's voice in her ear, checked her. "Not yet," he murmured almost inaudibly. "Stay as you are till--till Mrs. Harrington is wheeled from the room." Phyllis understood. She remained as she was, her body a shield before Allan Harrington's eyes, her hand just withdrawing from his shoulder, till she heard the closing of the door, and a sigh as of relaxed tension from the three people around her. Then she rose. Allan lay still with closed eyelids. It seemed to her that he had flushed, if ever so faintly, at the touch of her lips on his cheek. She laid his hand on the coverlet with her own roughened, ringed one, and followed the others out, into the room where the dead woman had been taken, leaving him with his attendant. The rest of the evening Phyllis went about in a queer-keyed, almost light-hearted frame of mind. It was only the reaction from the long-expected terror that was over now, but it felt indecorous. It was just as well, however. Some one's head had to be kept. The servants were upset, of course, and there were many arrangements to be made. She and Mr. De Guenther worked steadily together, telephoning, ordering, guiding, straightening out all the tangles. There never was a wedding, she thought, where the bride did so much of the work! She even remembered to see personally that Allan's dinner was sent up to him. The servants had doubtless been told to come to her for orders--at any rate, they did. Phyllis had not had much experience in running a house, but a good deal in keeping her head. And that, after all, is the main thing. She had a far-off feeling as if she were hearing some other young woman giving swift, poised, executive orders. She rather admired her. After dinner the De Guenthers went. And Phyllis Braithwaite, the little Liberry Teacher who had been living in a hall bedroom on much less money than she needed, found herself alone, sole mistress of the great Harrington house, a corps of servants, a husband passive enough to satisfy the most militant suffragette, a check-book, a wistful wolfhound, and five hundred dollars, cash, for current expenses. The last weighed on her mind more than all the rest put together. "Why, I don't know how to make Current Expenses out of all that!" she had said to Mr. De Guenther. "It looks to me exactly like about ten months' salary! I'm perfectly certain I shall get up in my sleep and try to pay my board ahead with it, so I shan't have it all spent before the ten months are up! There was a blue bead necklace," she went on meditatively, "in the Five-and-Ten, that I always wanted to buy. Only I never quite felt I could afford it. Oh, just imagine going to the Five-and-Ten and buying at least five dollars' worth of things you didn't need!" "You have great discretionary powers--great discretionary powers, my dear, you will find!" Mr. De Guenther had said, as he patted her shoulder. Phyllis took it as a compliment at the time. "Discretionary powers" sounded as if he thought she was a quite intelligent young person. It did not occur to her till he had gone, and she was alone with her check-book, that it meant she had a good deal of liberty to do as she liked. It seemed to be expected of her to stay. Nobody even suggested a possibility of her going home again, even to pack her trunk. Mrs. De Guenther casually volunteered to do that, a little after the housekeeper had told her where her rooms were. She had been consulting with the housekeeper for what seemed ages, when she happened to want some pins for something, and asked for her suit-case. "It's in your rooms," said the housekeeper. "Mrs. Harrington--the late Mrs. Harrington, I should say----" Phyllis stopped listening at this point. Who was the present Mrs. Harrington? she wondered before she thought--and then remembered. Why--_she_ was! So there was no Phyllis Braithwaite any more! Of course not.... Yet she had always liked the name so--well, a last name was a small thing to give up.... Into her mind fitted an incongruous, silly story she had heard once at the library, about a girl whose last name was Rose, and whose parents christened her Wild, because the combination appealed to them. And then she married a man named Bull.... Meanwhile the housekeeper had been going on. ... "She had the bedroom and bath opening from the other side of Mr. Allan's day-room ready for you, madam. It's been ready several weeks." "Has it?" said Phyllis. It was like Mrs. Harrington, that careful planning of even where she should be put. "Is Mr. Harrington in his day-room now?" For some reason she did not attempt to give herself, she did not want to see him again just now. Besides, it was nearly eleven and time a very tired girl was in bed. She wanted a good night's rest, before she had to get up and be Mrs. Harrington, with Allan and the check-book and the Current Expenses all tied to her. Some one had laid everything out for her in the bedroom; the filmy new nightgown over a chair, the blue satin mules underneath, her plain toilet-things on a dressing-table, and over another chair the exquisite ivory crepe negligee with its floating rose ribbons. She took a hasty bath--there was so much hot water that she was quite reconciled for a moment to being a check-booked and wolf hounded Mrs. Harrington--and slid straight into bed without even stopping to braid her loosened, honey-colored hair. It seemed to her that she was barely asleep when there came an urgent knocking at her door. "Yes?" she said sleepily, looking mechanically for her alarm-clock as she switched on the light. "What is it, please?" "It's I, Wallis, Mr. Allan's man, Madame," said a nervous voice. "Mr. Allan's very bad. I've done all the usual things, but nothing seems to quiet him. He hates doctors so, and they make him so wrought up--please could you come, ma'am? He says as how all of us are all dead--oh, _please_, Mrs. Harrington!" There was panic in the man's voice. "All right," said Phyllis sleepily, dropping to the floor as she spoke with the rapidity that only the alarm-clock-broken know. She snatched the negligee around her, and thrust her feet hastily into the blue satin slippers--why, she was actually using her wedding finery! And what an easily upset person that man was! But everybody in the house seemed to have nerves on edge. It was no wonder about Allan--he wanted his mother, of course, poor boy! She felt, as she ran fleetly across the long room that separated her sleeping quarters from her husband's, the same mixture of pity and timidity that she had felt with him before. Poor boy! Poor, silent, beautiful statue, with his one friend gone! She opened the door and entered swiftly into his room. She was not thinking about herself at all, only of how she could help Allan, but there must have been something about her of the picture-book angel to the pain-racked man, lying tensely at length in the room's darkest corner. Her long, dully gold hair, loosening from its twist, flew out about her, and her face was still flushed with sleep. There was a something about her that was vividly alight and alive, perhaps the light in her blue eyes. From what the man had said Phyllis had thought Allan was delirious, but she saw at once that he was only in severe pain, and talking more disconnectedly, perhaps, than the slow-minded Englishman could follow. He did not look like a statue now. His cheeks were burning with evident pain, and his yellow-brown eyes, wide-open, and dilated to darkness, stared straight out. His hands were clenching and unclenching, and his head moved restlessly from side to side. Every nerve and muscle, she could see, was taut. "They're all dead," he muttered. "Father and Mother and Louise--and I--only I'm not dead enough to bury. Oh, God, I wish I was!" That wasn't delirium; it was something more like heart-break. Phyllis moved closer to him, and dropped one of her sleep-warm hands on his cold, clenched one. "Oh, poor boy!" she said. "I'm so sorry--so sorry!" She closed her hands tight over both his. Some of her strong young vitality must have passed between them and helped him, for almost immediately his tenseness relaxed a little, and he looked at her. "You--you're not a nurse," he said. "They go around--like--like a--vault----" She had caught his attention! That was a good deal, she felt. She forgot everything about him, except that he was some one to be comforted, and her charge. She sat down on the bed by him, still holding tight to his hands. "No, indeed," she said, bending nearer him, her long loose hair falling forward about her resolutely-smiling young face. "Don't you remember seeing me? I never was a nurse." "What--are you?" he asked feebly. "I'm--why, the children call me the Liberry Teacher," she answered. It occurred to her that it would be better to talk on brightly at random than to risk speaking of his mother to him, as she must if she reminded him of their marriage. "I spend my days in a basement, making bad little boys get so interested in the Higher Culture that they'll forget to shoot crap and smash windows." One of the things which had aided Phyllis to rise from desk-assistant to one of the Children's Room librarians was a very sweet and carrying voice--a voice which arrested even a child's attention,

darling

How many times the word 'darling' appears in the text?

with him--do you think you could do that? But I always cry so before I'm through--I cry and cry--my poor, helpless boy--he was so strong and bright! And you are sure you are conscientious----" At this point Phyllis stopped the flow of Mrs. Harrington's conversation firmly, if sweetly. "Yes, indeed," she said cheerfully. "But you know, if I'm not, Mr. De Guenther can stop all my allowance. It wouldn't be to my own interest not to fulfil my duties faithfully." "Yes, that is true," said Mrs. Harrington. "That was a good thought of mine. My husband always said I was an unusual woman where business was concerned." So they went on the principle that she had no honor beyond working for what she would get out of it! Although she had made the suggestion herself, Phyllis's cheeks burned, and she was about to answer sharply. Then somehow the poor, anxious, loving mother's absolute preoccupation with her son struck her as right after all. "If it were my son," thought Phyllis, "I wouldn't worry about any strange hired girl's feelings either, maybe. I'd just think about him.... I promise I'll look after Mr. Harrington's welfare as if he were my own brother!" she ended aloud impulsively. "Indeed, you may trust me." "I am--sure you will," panted Mrs. Harrington. "You look like--a good girl, and--and old enough to be responsible--twenty-eight--thirty?" "Not very far from that," said Phyllis serenely. "And you are sure you will know when the attendants are neglectful? I speak to them all the time, but I never can be sure.... And now you'd better see poor Allan. This is one of his good days. Just think, dear Isabel, he spoke to me twice without my speaking to him this morning!" "Oh--must I?" asked Phyllis, dismayed. "Couldn't I wait till--till it happens?" Mrs. Harrington actually laughed a little at her shyness, lighting up like a girl. Phyllis felt dimly, though she tried not to, that through it all her mother-in-law-elect was taking pleasure in the dramatic side of the situation she had engineered. "Oh, my dear, you must see him. He expects you," she answered almost gayly. The procession of three moved down the long room towards a door, Phyllis's hand guiding the wheel-chair. She was surprised to find herself shaking with fright. Just what she expected to find beyond the door she did not know, but it must have been some horror, for it was with a heart-bound of wild relief that she finally made out Allan Harrington, lying white in the darkened place. A Crusader on a tomb. Yes, he looked like that. In the room's half-dusk the pallor of his still, clear-featured face and his long, clear-cut hands was nearly the same as the whiteness of the couch-draperies. His hair, yellow-brown and waving, flung back from his forehead like a crest, and his dark brows and lashes made the only note of darkness about him. To Phyllis's beauty-loving eyes he seemed so perfect an image that she could have watched him for hours. "Here's Miss Braithwaite, my poor darling," said his mother. "The young lady we have been talking about so long." The Crusader lifted his eyelids and let them fall again. "Is she?" he said listlessly. "Don't you want to talk to her, darling boy?" his mother persisted, half out of breath, but still full of that unrebuffable, loving energy and insistence which she would probably keep to the last minute of her life. "No," said the Crusader, still in those empty, listless tones. "I'd rather not talk. I'm tired." His mother seemed not at all put out. "Of course, darling," she said, kissing him. She sat by him still, however, and poured out sentence after sentence of question, insistence, imploration, and pity, eliciting no answer at all. Phyllis wondered how it would feel to have to lie still and have that done to you for a term of years. The result of her wonderment was a decision to forgive her unenthusiastic future bridegroom for what she had at first been ready to slap him. Presently Mrs. Harrington's breath flagged, and the three women went away, back to the room they had been in before. Phyllis sat and let herself be talked to for a little longer. Then she rose impulsively. "May I go back and see your son again for just a minute?" she asked, and had gone before Mrs. Harrington had finished her permission. She darted into the dark room before her courage had time to fail, and stood by the white couch again. "Mr. Harrington," she said clearly, "I'm sorry you're tired, but I'm afraid I am going to have to ask you to listen to me. You know, don't you, that your mother plans to have me marry you, for a sort of interested head-nurse? Are you willing to have it happen? Because I won't do it unless you really prefer it." The heavy white lids half-lifted again. "I don't mind," said Allan Harrington listlessly. "I suppose you are quiet and trustworthy, or De Guenther wouldn't have sent you. It will give mother a little peace and it makes no difference to me." He closed his eyes and the subject at the same time. "Well, then, that's all right," said Phyllis cheerfully, and started to go. Then, drawn back by a sudden, nervous temper-impulse, she moved back on him. "And let me tell you," she added, half-laughing, half-impertinently, "that if you ever get into my quiet, trustworthy clutches you may have an awful time! You're a very spoiled invalid." She whisked out of the room before he could have gone very far with his reply. But he had not cared to reply, apparently. He lay unmoved and unmoving. Phyllis discovered, poising breathless on the threshold, that somehow she had seen his eyes. They had been a little like the wolfhound's, a sort of wistful gold-brown. For some reason she found that Allan Harrington's attitude of absolute detachment made the whole affair seem much easier for her. And when Mrs. Harrington slipped a solitaire diamond into her hand as she went, instead of disliking it she enjoyed its feel on her finger, and the flash of it in the light. She thanked Mrs. Harrington for it with real gratitude. But it made her feel more than ever engaged to marry her mother-in-law. She walked home rather silently with Mrs. De Guenther. Only at the foot of the De Guenther steps, she made one absent remark. "He must have been delightful," she said, "when he was alive!" VI After a week of the old bustling, dusty hard work, the Liberry Teacher's visit to the De Guenthers' and the subsequent one at the Harringtons', and even her sparkling white ring, seemed part of a queer story she had finished and put back on the shelf. The ring was the most real thing, because it was something of a worry. She didn't dare leave it at home, nor did she want to wear it. She finally sewed it in a chamois bag that she safety-pinned under her shirt-waist. Then she dismissed it from her mind also. There is very little time in a Liberry Teacher's life for meditation. Only once in a while would come to her the vision of the wistful Harrington wolfhound following his inadequate patch of sunlight, or of the dusky room where Allan Harrington lay inert and white, and looking like a wonderful carved statue on a tomb. She began to do a little to her clothes, but not very much, because she had neither time nor money. Mr. De Guenther had wanted her to take some money in advance, but she had refused. She did not want it till she had earned it, and, anyway, it would have made the whole thing so real, she knew, that she would have backed out. "And it isn't as if I were going to a lover," she defended herself to Mrs. De Guenther with a little wistful smile. "Nobody will know what I have on, any more than they do now." Mrs. De Guenther gave a scandalized little cry. Her attitude was determinedly that it was just an ordinary marriage, as good an excuse for sentiment and pretty frocks as any other. "My dear child," she replied firmly, "you are going to have one pretty frock and one really good street-suit _now_, or I will know why! The rest you may get yourself after the wedding, but you must obey me in this. Nonsense!--you can get a half-day, as you call it, perfectly well! What's Albert in politics for, if he can't get favors for his friends!" And, in effect, it proved that Albert was in politics to some purpose, for orders came up from the Head's office within twenty minutes after Mrs. De Guenther had used the telephone on her husband, that Miss Braithwaite was to have a half-day immediately--as far as she could make out, in order to transact city affairs! She felt as if the angels had told her she could have the last fortnight over again, as a favor, or something of the sort. A half-day out of turn was something nobody had ever heard of. She was even too surprised to object to the frock part of the situation. She tried to stand out a little longer, but it's a very stoical young woman who can refuse to have pretty clothes bought for her, and the end of it was a seat in a salon which she had always considered so expensive that you scarcely ought to look in the window. "Had it better be a black suit?" asked Mrs. De Guenther doubtfully, as the tall lady in floppy charmeuse hovered haughtily about them, expecting orders. "It seems horrible to buy mourning when dear Angela is not yet passed away, but it would only be showing proper respect; and I remember my own dear mother planned all our mourning outfits while she was dying. It was quite a pleasure to her." Phyllis kept her face straight, and slipped one persuasive hand through her friend's arm. "I don't believe I _could_ buy mourning, dear," she said. "And--oh, if you knew how long I'd wanted a really _blue_ blue suit! Only, it would have been too vivid to wear well--I always knew that--because you can only afford one every other year. And"--Phyllis rather diffidently voiced a thought which had been in the back of her mind for a long time--"if I'm going to be much around Mr. Harrington, don't you think cheerful clothes would be best? Everything in that house seems sombre enough now." "Perhaps you are right, dear child," said Mrs. De Guenther. "I hope you may be the means of putting a great deal of brightness into poor Allan's life before he joins his mother." "Oh, don't!" cried Phyllis impulsively. Somehow she could not bear to think of Allan Harrington's dying. He was too beautiful to be dead, where nobody could see him any more. Besides, Phyllis privately considered that a long vacation before he joined his mother would be only the fair thing for "poor Allan." Youth sides with youth. And--the clear-cut white lines of him rose in her memory and stayed there. She could almost hear that poor, tired, toneless voice of his, that was yet so deep and so perfectly accented.... She bought docilely whatever her guide directed, and woke from a species of gentle daze at the afternoon's end to find Mrs. De Guenther beaming with the weary rapture of the successful shopper, and herself the proprietress of a turquoise velvet walking-suit, a hat to match, a pale blue evening frock, a pale green between-dress with lovely clinging lines, and a heavenly white crepe thing with rosy ribbons and filmy shadow-laces--the negligee of one's dreams. There were also slippers and shoes and stockings and--this was really too bad of Mrs. De Guenther--a half-dozen set of lingerie, straight through. Mrs. De Guenther sat and continued to beam joyously over the array, in Phyllis's little bedroom. "It's my present, dearie," she said calmly. "So you needn't worry about using Angela's money. Gracious, it's been _lovely_! I haven't had such a good time since my husband's little grand-niece came on for a week. There's nothing like dressing a girl, after all." And Phyllis could only kiss her. But when her guest had gone she laid all the boxes of finery under her bed, the only place where there was any room. She would not take any of it out, she determined, till her summons came. But on second thought, she wore the blue velvet street-suit on Sunday visits to Mrs. Harrington, which became--she never knew just when or how--a regular thing. The vivid blue made her eyes nearly sky-color, and brightened her hair very satisfactorily. She was taking more time and trouble over her looks now--one has to live up to a turquoise velvet hat and coat! She found herself, too, becoming very genuinely fond of the restless, anxiously loving, passionate, unwise child who dwelt in Mrs. Harrington's frail elderly body and had almost worn it out. She sat, long hours of every Sunday afternoon, holding Mrs. Harrington's thin little hot hands, and listening to her swift, italicised monologues about Allan--what he must do, what he must not do, how he must be looked after, how his mother had treated him, how his wishes must be ascertained and followed. "Though all he wants now is dark and quiet," said his mother piteously. "I don't even go in there now to cry." She spoke as if it were an established ritual. Had she been using her son's sick-room, Phyllis wondered, as a regular weeping-place? She could feel in Mrs. Harrington, even in this mortal sickness, the tremendous driving influence which is often part of a passionately active and not very wise personality. That certitude and insistence of Mrs. Harrington's could hammer you finally into believing or doing almost anything. Phyllis wondered how much his mother's heartbroken adoration and pity might have had to do with making her son as hopeless-minded as he was. Naturally, the mother-in-law-elect she had acquired in such a strange way became very fond of Phyllis. But indeed there was something very gay and sweet and honest-minded about the girl, a something which gave people the feeling that they were very wise in liking her. Some people you are fond of against your will. When people cared for Phyllis it was with a quite irrational feeling that they were doing a sensible thing. They never gave any of the credit to her very real, though almost invisible, charm. She never saw Allan Harrington on any of the Sunday visits. She was sure the servants thought she did, for she knew that every one in the great, dark old house knew her as the young lady who was to marry Mr. Allan. She believed that she was supposed to be an old family friend, perhaps a distant relative. She did not want to see Allan. But she did want to be as good to his little, tensely-loving mother as she could, and reassure her about Allan's future care. And she succeeded. It was on a Friday about two that the summons came. Phyllis had thought she expected it, but when the call came to her over the library telephone she found herself as badly frightened as she had been the first time she went to the Harrington house. She shivered as she laid down the dater she was using, and called the other librarian to take her desk. Fortunately, between one and four the morning and evening shifts overlapped, and there was some one to take her place. "Mrs. Harrington cannot last out the night," came Mr. De Guenther's clear, precise voice over the telephone, without preface. "I have arranged with Mr. Johnston. You can go at once. You had better pack a suit-case, for you possibly may not be able to get back to your boarding-place." So it was to happen now! Phyllis felt, with her substitute in her place, her own wraps on, and her feet taking her swiftly towards her goal, as if she were offering herself to be made a nun, or have a hand or foot cut off, or paying herself away in some awful, irrevocable fashion. She packed, mechanically, all the pretty things Mrs. De Guenther had given her, and nothing else. She found herself at the door of her room with the locked suit-case in her hand, and not even a nail-file of the things belonging to her old self in it. She shook herself together, managed to laugh a little, and returned and put in such things as she thought she would require for the night. Then she went. She always remembered that journey as long as she lived; her hands and feet and tongue going on, buying tickets, giving directions--and her mind, like a naughty child, catching at everything as they went, and screaming to be allowed to go back home, back to the dusty, matter-of-course library and the dreary little boarding-house bedroom! VII They were all waiting for her, in what felt like a hideously quiet semicircle, in Allan's great dark room. Mrs. Harrington, deadly pale, and giving an impression of keeping herself alive only by force of that wonderful fighting vitality of hers, lay almost at length in her wheel-chair. There was a clergyman in vestments. There were the De Guenthers; Mr. De Guenther only a little more precise than his every-day habit was, Mrs. De Guenther crying a little, softly and furtively. As for Allan Harrington, he lay just as she had seen him that other time, white and moveless, seeming scarcely conscious except by an effort. Only she noticed a slight contraction, as of pain, between his brows. "Phyllis has come," panted Mrs. Harrington. "Now it will be--all right. You must marry him quickly--quickly, do you hear, Phyllis? Oh, people never will--do--what I want them to----" "Yes--yes, indeed, dear," said Phyllis, taking her hands soothingly. "We're going to attend to it right away. See, everything is ready." It occurred to her that Mrs. Harrington was not half as correct in her playing of the part of a dying woman as she would have seen to it that anyone else was; also, that things did not seem legal without the wolfhound. Then she was shocked at herself for such irrelevant thoughts. The thing to do was to keep poor Mrs. Harrington quieted. So she beckoned the clergyman and the De Guenthers nearer, and herself sped the marrying of herself to Allan Harrington. ... When you are being married to a Crusader on a tomb, the easiest way is to kneel down by him. Phyllis registered this fact in her mind quite blankly, as something which might be of use to remember in future.... The marrying took an unnecessarily long time, it seemed to her. It did not seem as if she were being married at all. It all seemed to concern somebody else. When it came to the putting on of the wedding-ring, she found herself, very naturally, guiding Allan's relaxed fingers to hold it in its successive places, and finally slip it on the wedding-finger. And somehow having to do that checked the chilly awe she had had before of Allan Harrington. It made her feel quite simply sorry for him, as if he were one of her poor little boys in trouble. And when it was all over she bent pitifully before she thought, and kissed one white, cold cheek. He seemed so tragically helpless, yet more alive, in some way, since she had touched his hand to guide it. Then, as her lips brushed his cheek, she recoiled and colored a little. She had felt that slight roughness which a man's cheek, however close-shaven, always has--the _man_-feel. It made her realize unreasonably that it was a man she had married, after all, not a stone image nor a sick child--a live man! With the thought, or rather instinct, came a swift terror of what she had done, and a swift impulse to rise. She was half-way risen from her knees when a hand on her shoulder, and the clergyman's voice in her ear, checked her. "Not yet," he murmured almost inaudibly. "Stay as you are till--till Mrs. Harrington is wheeled from the room." Phyllis understood. She remained as she was, her body a shield before Allan Harrington's eyes, her hand just withdrawing from his shoulder, till she heard the closing of the door, and a sigh as of relaxed tension from the three people around her. Then she rose. Allan lay still with closed eyelids. It seemed to her that he had flushed, if ever so faintly, at the touch of her lips on his cheek. She laid his hand on the coverlet with her own roughened, ringed one, and followed the others out, into the room where the dead woman had been taken, leaving him with his attendant. The rest of the evening Phyllis went about in a queer-keyed, almost light-hearted frame of mind. It was only the reaction from the long-expected terror that was over now, but it felt indecorous. It was just as well, however. Some one's head had to be kept. The servants were upset, of course, and there were many arrangements to be made. She and Mr. De Guenther worked steadily together, telephoning, ordering, guiding, straightening out all the tangles. There never was a wedding, she thought, where the bride did so much of the work! She even remembered to see personally that Allan's dinner was sent up to him. The servants had doubtless been told to come to her for orders--at any rate, they did. Phyllis had not had much experience in running a house, but a good deal in keeping her head. And that, after all, is the main thing. She had a far-off feeling as if she were hearing some other young woman giving swift, poised, executive orders. She rather admired her. After dinner the De Guenthers went. And Phyllis Braithwaite, the little Liberry Teacher who had been living in a hall bedroom on much less money than she needed, found herself alone, sole mistress of the great Harrington house, a corps of servants, a husband passive enough to satisfy the most militant suffragette, a check-book, a wistful wolfhound, and five hundred dollars, cash, for current expenses. The last weighed on her mind more than all the rest put together. "Why, I don't know how to make Current Expenses out of all that!" she had said to Mr. De Guenther. "It looks to me exactly like about ten months' salary! I'm perfectly certain I shall get up in my sleep and try to pay my board ahead with it, so I shan't have it all spent before the ten months are up! There was a blue bead necklace," she went on meditatively, "in the Five-and-Ten, that I always wanted to buy. Only I never quite felt I could afford it. Oh, just imagine going to the Five-and-Ten and buying at least five dollars' worth of things you didn't need!" "You have great discretionary powers--great discretionary powers, my dear, you will find!" Mr. De Guenther had said, as he patted her shoulder. Phyllis took it as a compliment at the time. "Discretionary powers" sounded as if he thought she was a quite intelligent young person. It did not occur to her till he had gone, and she was alone with her check-book, that it meant she had a good deal of liberty to do as she liked. It seemed to be expected of her to stay. Nobody even suggested a possibility of her going home again, even to pack her trunk. Mrs. De Guenther casually volunteered to do that, a little after the housekeeper had told her where her rooms were. She had been consulting with the housekeeper for what seemed ages, when she happened to want some pins for something, and asked for her suit-case. "It's in your rooms," said the housekeeper. "Mrs. Harrington--the late Mrs. Harrington, I should say----" Phyllis stopped listening at this point. Who was the present Mrs. Harrington? she wondered before she thought--and then remembered. Why--_she_ was! So there was no Phyllis Braithwaite any more! Of course not.... Yet she had always liked the name so--well, a last name was a small thing to give up.... Into her mind fitted an incongruous, silly story she had heard once at the library, about a girl whose last name was Rose, and whose parents christened her Wild, because the combination appealed to them. And then she married a man named Bull.... Meanwhile the housekeeper had been going on. ... "She had the bedroom and bath opening from the other side of Mr. Allan's day-room ready for you, madam. It's been ready several weeks." "Has it?" said Phyllis. It was like Mrs. Harrington, that careful planning of even where she should be put. "Is Mr. Harrington in his day-room now?" For some reason she did not attempt to give herself, she did not want to see him again just now. Besides, it was nearly eleven and time a very tired girl was in bed. She wanted a good night's rest, before she had to get up and be Mrs. Harrington, with Allan and the check-book and the Current Expenses all tied to her. Some one had laid everything out for her in the bedroom; the filmy new nightgown over a chair, the blue satin mules underneath, her plain toilet-things on a dressing-table, and over another chair the exquisite ivory crepe negligee with its floating rose ribbons. She took a hasty bath--there was so much hot water that she was quite reconciled for a moment to being a check-booked and wolf hounded Mrs. Harrington--and slid straight into bed without even stopping to braid her loosened, honey-colored hair. It seemed to her that she was barely asleep when there came an urgent knocking at her door. "Yes?" she said sleepily, looking mechanically for her alarm-clock as she switched on the light. "What is it, please?" "It's I, Wallis, Mr. Allan's man, Madame," said a nervous voice. "Mr. Allan's very bad. I've done all the usual things, but nothing seems to quiet him. He hates doctors so, and they make him so wrought up--please could you come, ma'am? He says as how all of us are all dead--oh, _please_, Mrs. Harrington!" There was panic in the man's voice. "All right," said Phyllis sleepily, dropping to the floor as she spoke with the rapidity that only the alarm-clock-broken know. She snatched the negligee around her, and thrust her feet hastily into the blue satin slippers--why, she was actually using her wedding finery! And what an easily upset person that man was! But everybody in the house seemed to have nerves on edge. It was no wonder about Allan--he wanted his mother, of course, poor boy! She felt, as she ran fleetly across the long room that separated her sleeping quarters from her husband's, the same mixture of pity and timidity that she had felt with him before. Poor boy! Poor, silent, beautiful statue, with his one friend gone! She opened the door and entered swiftly into his room. She was not thinking about herself at all, only of how she could help Allan, but there must have been something about her of the picture-book angel to the pain-racked man, lying tensely at length in the room's darkest corner. Her long, dully gold hair, loosening from its twist, flew out about her, and her face was still flushed with sleep. There was a something about her that was vividly alight and alive, perhaps the light in her blue eyes. From what the man had said Phyllis had thought Allan was delirious, but she saw at once that he was only in severe pain, and talking more disconnectedly, perhaps, than the slow-minded Englishman could follow. He did not look like a statue now. His cheeks were burning with evident pain, and his yellow-brown eyes, wide-open, and dilated to darkness, stared straight out. His hands were clenching and unclenching, and his head moved restlessly from side to side. Every nerve and muscle, she could see, was taut. "They're all dead," he muttered. "Father and Mother and Louise--and I--only I'm not dead enough to bury. Oh, God, I wish I was!" That wasn't delirium; it was something more like heart-break. Phyllis moved closer to him, and dropped one of her sleep-warm hands on his cold, clenched one. "Oh, poor boy!" she said. "I'm so sorry--so sorry!" She closed her hands tight over both his. Some of her strong young vitality must have passed between them and helped him, for almost immediately his tenseness relaxed a little, and he looked at her. "You--you're not a nurse," he said. "They go around--like--like a--vault----" She had caught his attention! That was a good deal, she felt. She forgot everything about him, except that he was some one to be comforted, and her charge. She sat down on the bed by him, still holding tight to his hands. "No, indeed," she said, bending nearer him, her long loose hair falling forward about her resolutely-smiling young face. "Don't you remember seeing me? I never was a nurse." "What--are you?" he asked feebly. "I'm--why, the children call me the Liberry Teacher," she answered. It occurred to her that it would be better to talk on brightly at random than to risk speaking of his mother to him, as she must if she reminded him of their marriage. "I spend my days in a basement, making bad little boys get so interested in the Higher Culture that they'll forget to shoot crap and smash windows." One of the things which had aided Phyllis to rise from desk-assistant to one of the Children's Room librarians was a very sweet and carrying voice--a voice which arrested even a child's attention,

crayon

How many times the word 'crayon' appears in the text?

with him--do you think you could do that? But I always cry so before I'm through--I cry and cry--my poor, helpless boy--he was so strong and bright! And you are sure you are conscientious----" At this point Phyllis stopped the flow of Mrs. Harrington's conversation firmly, if sweetly. "Yes, indeed," she said cheerfully. "But you know, if I'm not, Mr. De Guenther can stop all my allowance. It wouldn't be to my own interest not to fulfil my duties faithfully." "Yes, that is true," said Mrs. Harrington. "That was a good thought of mine. My husband always said I was an unusual woman where business was concerned." So they went on the principle that she had no honor beyond working for what she would get out of it! Although she had made the suggestion herself, Phyllis's cheeks burned, and she was about to answer sharply. Then somehow the poor, anxious, loving mother's absolute preoccupation with her son struck her as right after all. "If it were my son," thought Phyllis, "I wouldn't worry about any strange hired girl's feelings either, maybe. I'd just think about him.... I promise I'll look after Mr. Harrington's welfare as if he were my own brother!" she ended aloud impulsively. "Indeed, you may trust me." "I am--sure you will," panted Mrs. Harrington. "You look like--a good girl, and--and old enough to be responsible--twenty-eight--thirty?" "Not very far from that," said Phyllis serenely. "And you are sure you will know when the attendants are neglectful? I speak to them all the time, but I never can be sure.... And now you'd better see poor Allan. This is one of his good days. Just think, dear Isabel, he spoke to me twice without my speaking to him this morning!" "Oh--must I?" asked Phyllis, dismayed. "Couldn't I wait till--till it happens?" Mrs. Harrington actually laughed a little at her shyness, lighting up like a girl. Phyllis felt dimly, though she tried not to, that through it all her mother-in-law-elect was taking pleasure in the dramatic side of the situation she had engineered. "Oh, my dear, you must see him. He expects you," she answered almost gayly. The procession of three moved down the long room towards a door, Phyllis's hand guiding the wheel-chair. She was surprised to find herself shaking with fright. Just what she expected to find beyond the door she did not know, but it must have been some horror, for it was with a heart-bound of wild relief that she finally made out Allan Harrington, lying white in the darkened place. A Crusader on a tomb. Yes, he looked like that. In the room's half-dusk the pallor of his still, clear-featured face and his long, clear-cut hands was nearly the same as the whiteness of the couch-draperies. His hair, yellow-brown and waving, flung back from his forehead like a crest, and his dark brows and lashes made the only note of darkness about him. To Phyllis's beauty-loving eyes he seemed so perfect an image that she could have watched him for hours. "Here's Miss Braithwaite, my poor darling," said his mother. "The young lady we have been talking about so long." The Crusader lifted his eyelids and let them fall again. "Is she?" he said listlessly. "Don't you want to talk to her, darling boy?" his mother persisted, half out of breath, but still full of that unrebuffable, loving energy and insistence which she would probably keep to the last minute of her life. "No," said the Crusader, still in those empty, listless tones. "I'd rather not talk. I'm tired." His mother seemed not at all put out. "Of course, darling," she said, kissing him. She sat by him still, however, and poured out sentence after sentence of question, insistence, imploration, and pity, eliciting no answer at all. Phyllis wondered how it would feel to have to lie still and have that done to you for a term of years. The result of her wonderment was a decision to forgive her unenthusiastic future bridegroom for what she had at first been ready to slap him. Presently Mrs. Harrington's breath flagged, and the three women went away, back to the room they had been in before. Phyllis sat and let herself be talked to for a little longer. Then she rose impulsively. "May I go back and see your son again for just a minute?" she asked, and had gone before Mrs. Harrington had finished her permission. She darted into the dark room before her courage had time to fail, and stood by the white couch again. "Mr. Harrington," she said clearly, "I'm sorry you're tired, but I'm afraid I am going to have to ask you to listen to me. You know, don't you, that your mother plans to have me marry you, for a sort of interested head-nurse? Are you willing to have it happen? Because I won't do it unless you really prefer it." The heavy white lids half-lifted again. "I don't mind," said Allan Harrington listlessly. "I suppose you are quiet and trustworthy, or De Guenther wouldn't have sent you. It will give mother a little peace and it makes no difference to me." He closed his eyes and the subject at the same time. "Well, then, that's all right," said Phyllis cheerfully, and started to go. Then, drawn back by a sudden, nervous temper-impulse, she moved back on him. "And let me tell you," she added, half-laughing, half-impertinently, "that if you ever get into my quiet, trustworthy clutches you may have an awful time! You're a very spoiled invalid." She whisked out of the room before he could have gone very far with his reply. But he had not cared to reply, apparently. He lay unmoved and unmoving. Phyllis discovered, poising breathless on the threshold, that somehow she had seen his eyes. They had been a little like the wolfhound's, a sort of wistful gold-brown. For some reason she found that Allan Harrington's attitude of absolute detachment made the whole affair seem much easier for her. And when Mrs. Harrington slipped a solitaire diamond into her hand as she went, instead of disliking it she enjoyed its feel on her finger, and the flash of it in the light. She thanked Mrs. Harrington for it with real gratitude. But it made her feel more than ever engaged to marry her mother-in-law. She walked home rather silently with Mrs. De Guenther. Only at the foot of the De Guenther steps, she made one absent remark. "He must have been delightful," she said, "when he was alive!" VI After a week of the old bustling, dusty hard work, the Liberry Teacher's visit to the De Guenthers' and the subsequent one at the Harringtons', and even her sparkling white ring, seemed part of a queer story she had finished and put back on the shelf. The ring was the most real thing, because it was something of a worry. She didn't dare leave it at home, nor did she want to wear it. She finally sewed it in a chamois bag that she safety-pinned under her shirt-waist. Then she dismissed it from her mind also. There is very little time in a Liberry Teacher's life for meditation. Only once in a while would come to her the vision of the wistful Harrington wolfhound following his inadequate patch of sunlight, or of the dusky room where Allan Harrington lay inert and white, and looking like a wonderful carved statue on a tomb. She began to do a little to her clothes, but not very much, because she had neither time nor money. Mr. De Guenther had wanted her to take some money in advance, but she had refused. She did not want it till she had earned it, and, anyway, it would have made the whole thing so real, she knew, that she would have backed out. "And it isn't as if I were going to a lover," she defended herself to Mrs. De Guenther with a little wistful smile. "Nobody will know what I have on, any more than they do now." Mrs. De Guenther gave a scandalized little cry. Her attitude was determinedly that it was just an ordinary marriage, as good an excuse for sentiment and pretty frocks as any other. "My dear child," she replied firmly, "you are going to have one pretty frock and one really good street-suit _now_, or I will know why! The rest you may get yourself after the wedding, but you must obey me in this. Nonsense!--you can get a half-day, as you call it, perfectly well! What's Albert in politics for, if he can't get favors for his friends!" And, in effect, it proved that Albert was in politics to some purpose, for orders came up from the Head's office within twenty minutes after Mrs. De Guenther had used the telephone on her husband, that Miss Braithwaite was to have a half-day immediately--as far as she could make out, in order to transact city affairs! She felt as if the angels had told her she could have the last fortnight over again, as a favor, or something of the sort. A half-day out of turn was something nobody had ever heard of. She was even too surprised to object to the frock part of the situation. She tried to stand out a little longer, but it's a very stoical young woman who can refuse to have pretty clothes bought for her, and the end of it was a seat in a salon which she had always considered so expensive that you scarcely ought to look in the window. "Had it better be a black suit?" asked Mrs. De Guenther doubtfully, as the tall lady in floppy charmeuse hovered haughtily about them, expecting orders. "It seems horrible to buy mourning when dear Angela is not yet passed away, but it would only be showing proper respect; and I remember my own dear mother planned all our mourning outfits while she was dying. It was quite a pleasure to her." Phyllis kept her face straight, and slipped one persuasive hand through her friend's arm. "I don't believe I _could_ buy mourning, dear," she said. "And--oh, if you knew how long I'd wanted a really _blue_ blue suit! Only, it would have been too vivid to wear well--I always knew that--because you can only afford one every other year. And"--Phyllis rather diffidently voiced a thought which had been in the back of her mind for a long time--"if I'm going to be much around Mr. Harrington, don't you think cheerful clothes would be best? Everything in that house seems sombre enough now." "Perhaps you are right, dear child," said Mrs. De Guenther. "I hope you may be the means of putting a great deal of brightness into poor Allan's life before he joins his mother." "Oh, don't!" cried Phyllis impulsively. Somehow she could not bear to think of Allan Harrington's dying. He was too beautiful to be dead, where nobody could see him any more. Besides, Phyllis privately considered that a long vacation before he joined his mother would be only the fair thing for "poor Allan." Youth sides with youth. And--the clear-cut white lines of him rose in her memory and stayed there. She could almost hear that poor, tired, toneless voice of his, that was yet so deep and so perfectly accented.... She bought docilely whatever her guide directed, and woke from a species of gentle daze at the afternoon's end to find Mrs. De Guenther beaming with the weary rapture of the successful shopper, and herself the proprietress of a turquoise velvet walking-suit, a hat to match, a pale blue evening frock, a pale green between-dress with lovely clinging lines, and a heavenly white crepe thing with rosy ribbons and filmy shadow-laces--the negligee of one's dreams. There were also slippers and shoes and stockings and--this was really too bad of Mrs. De Guenther--a half-dozen set of lingerie, straight through. Mrs. De Guenther sat and continued to beam joyously over the array, in Phyllis's little bedroom. "It's my present, dearie," she said calmly. "So you needn't worry about using Angela's money. Gracious, it's been _lovely_! I haven't had such a good time since my husband's little grand-niece came on for a week. There's nothing like dressing a girl, after all." And Phyllis could only kiss her. But when her guest had gone she laid all the boxes of finery under her bed, the only place where there was any room. She would not take any of it out, she determined, till her summons came. But on second thought, she wore the blue velvet street-suit on Sunday visits to Mrs. Harrington, which became--she never knew just when or how--a regular thing. The vivid blue made her eyes nearly sky-color, and brightened her hair very satisfactorily. She was taking more time and trouble over her looks now--one has to live up to a turquoise velvet hat and coat! She found herself, too, becoming very genuinely fond of the restless, anxiously loving, passionate, unwise child who dwelt in Mrs. Harrington's frail elderly body and had almost worn it out. She sat, long hours of every Sunday afternoon, holding Mrs. Harrington's thin little hot hands, and listening to her swift, italicised monologues about Allan--what he must do, what he must not do, how he must be looked after, how his mother had treated him, how his wishes must be ascertained and followed. "Though all he wants now is dark and quiet," said his mother piteously. "I don't even go in there now to cry." She spoke as if it were an established ritual. Had she been using her son's sick-room, Phyllis wondered, as a regular weeping-place? She could feel in Mrs. Harrington, even in this mortal sickness, the tremendous driving influence which is often part of a passionately active and not very wise personality. That certitude and insistence of Mrs. Harrington's could hammer you finally into believing or doing almost anything. Phyllis wondered how much his mother's heartbroken adoration and pity might have had to do with making her son as hopeless-minded as he was. Naturally, the mother-in-law-elect she had acquired in such a strange way became very fond of Phyllis. But indeed there was something very gay and sweet and honest-minded about the girl, a something which gave people the feeling that they were very wise in liking her. Some people you are fond of against your will. When people cared for Phyllis it was with a quite irrational feeling that they were doing a sensible thing. They never gave any of the credit to her very real, though almost invisible, charm. She never saw Allan Harrington on any of the Sunday visits. She was sure the servants thought she did, for she knew that every one in the great, dark old house knew her as the young lady who was to marry Mr. Allan. She believed that she was supposed to be an old family friend, perhaps a distant relative. She did not want to see Allan. But she did want to be as good to his little, tensely-loving mother as she could, and reassure her about Allan's future care. And she succeeded. It was on a Friday about two that the summons came. Phyllis had thought she expected it, but when the call came to her over the library telephone she found herself as badly frightened as she had been the first time she went to the Harrington house. She shivered as she laid down the dater she was using, and called the other librarian to take her desk. Fortunately, between one and four the morning and evening shifts overlapped, and there was some one to take her place. "Mrs. Harrington cannot last out the night," came Mr. De Guenther's clear, precise voice over the telephone, without preface. "I have arranged with Mr. Johnston. You can go at once. You had better pack a suit-case, for you possibly may not be able to get back to your boarding-place." So it was to happen now! Phyllis felt, with her substitute in her place, her own wraps on, and her feet taking her swiftly towards her goal, as if she were offering herself to be made a nun, or have a hand or foot cut off, or paying herself away in some awful, irrevocable fashion. She packed, mechanically, all the pretty things Mrs. De Guenther had given her, and nothing else. She found herself at the door of her room with the locked suit-case in her hand, and not even a nail-file of the things belonging to her old self in it. She shook herself together, managed to laugh a little, and returned and put in such things as she thought she would require for the night. Then she went. She always remembered that journey as long as she lived; her hands and feet and tongue going on, buying tickets, giving directions--and her mind, like a naughty child, catching at everything as they went, and screaming to be allowed to go back home, back to the dusty, matter-of-course library and the dreary little boarding-house bedroom! VII They were all waiting for her, in what felt like a hideously quiet semicircle, in Allan's great dark room. Mrs. Harrington, deadly pale, and giving an impression of keeping herself alive only by force of that wonderful fighting vitality of hers, lay almost at length in her wheel-chair. There was a clergyman in vestments. There were the De Guenthers; Mr. De Guenther only a little more precise than his every-day habit was, Mrs. De Guenther crying a little, softly and furtively. As for Allan Harrington, he lay just as she had seen him that other time, white and moveless, seeming scarcely conscious except by an effort. Only she noticed a slight contraction, as of pain, between his brows. "Phyllis has come," panted Mrs. Harrington. "Now it will be--all right. You must marry him quickly--quickly, do you hear, Phyllis? Oh, people never will--do--what I want them to----" "Yes--yes, indeed, dear," said Phyllis, taking her hands soothingly. "We're going to attend to it right away. See, everything is ready." It occurred to her that Mrs. Harrington was not half as correct in her playing of the part of a dying woman as she would have seen to it that anyone else was; also, that things did not seem legal without the wolfhound. Then she was shocked at herself for such irrelevant thoughts. The thing to do was to keep poor Mrs. Harrington quieted. So she beckoned the clergyman and the De Guenthers nearer, and herself sped the marrying of herself to Allan Harrington. ... When you are being married to a Crusader on a tomb, the easiest way is to kneel down by him. Phyllis registered this fact in her mind quite blankly, as something which might be of use to remember in future.... The marrying took an unnecessarily long time, it seemed to her. It did not seem as if she were being married at all. It all seemed to concern somebody else. When it came to the putting on of the wedding-ring, she found herself, very naturally, guiding Allan's relaxed fingers to hold it in its successive places, and finally slip it on the wedding-finger. And somehow having to do that checked the chilly awe she had had before of Allan Harrington. It made her feel quite simply sorry for him, as if he were one of her poor little boys in trouble. And when it was all over she bent pitifully before she thought, and kissed one white, cold cheek. He seemed so tragically helpless, yet more alive, in some way, since she had touched his hand to guide it. Then, as her lips brushed his cheek, she recoiled and colored a little. She had felt that slight roughness which a man's cheek, however close-shaven, always has--the _man_-feel. It made her realize unreasonably that it was a man she had married, after all, not a stone image nor a sick child--a live man! With the thought, or rather instinct, came a swift terror of what she had done, and a swift impulse to rise. She was half-way risen from her knees when a hand on her shoulder, and the clergyman's voice in her ear, checked her. "Not yet," he murmured almost inaudibly. "Stay as you are till--till Mrs. Harrington is wheeled from the room." Phyllis understood. She remained as she was, her body a shield before Allan Harrington's eyes, her hand just withdrawing from his shoulder, till she heard the closing of the door, and a sigh as of relaxed tension from the three people around her. Then she rose. Allan lay still with closed eyelids. It seemed to her that he had flushed, if ever so faintly, at the touch of her lips on his cheek. She laid his hand on the coverlet with her own roughened, ringed one, and followed the others out, into the room where the dead woman had been taken, leaving him with his attendant. The rest of the evening Phyllis went about in a queer-keyed, almost light-hearted frame of mind. It was only the reaction from the long-expected terror that was over now, but it felt indecorous. It was just as well, however. Some one's head had to be kept. The servants were upset, of course, and there were many arrangements to be made. She and Mr. De Guenther worked steadily together, telephoning, ordering, guiding, straightening out all the tangles. There never was a wedding, she thought, where the bride did so much of the work! She even remembered to see personally that Allan's dinner was sent up to him. The servants had doubtless been told to come to her for orders--at any rate, they did. Phyllis had not had much experience in running a house, but a good deal in keeping her head. And that, after all, is the main thing. She had a far-off feeling as if she were hearing some other young woman giving swift, poised, executive orders. She rather admired her. After dinner the De Guenthers went. And Phyllis Braithwaite, the little Liberry Teacher who had been living in a hall bedroom on much less money than she needed, found herself alone, sole mistress of the great Harrington house, a corps of servants, a husband passive enough to satisfy the most militant suffragette, a check-book, a wistful wolfhound, and five hundred dollars, cash, for current expenses. The last weighed on her mind more than all the rest put together. "Why, I don't know how to make Current Expenses out of all that!" she had said to Mr. De Guenther. "It looks to me exactly like about ten months' salary! I'm perfectly certain I shall get up in my sleep and try to pay my board ahead with it, so I shan't have it all spent before the ten months are up! There was a blue bead necklace," she went on meditatively, "in the Five-and-Ten, that I always wanted to buy. Only I never quite felt I could afford it. Oh, just imagine going to the Five-and-Ten and buying at least five dollars' worth of things you didn't need!" "You have great discretionary powers--great discretionary powers, my dear, you will find!" Mr. De Guenther had said, as he patted her shoulder. Phyllis took it as a compliment at the time. "Discretionary powers" sounded as if he thought she was a quite intelligent young person. It did not occur to her till he had gone, and she was alone with her check-book, that it meant she had a good deal of liberty to do as she liked. It seemed to be expected of her to stay. Nobody even suggested a possibility of her going home again, even to pack her trunk. Mrs. De Guenther casually volunteered to do that, a little after the housekeeper had told her where her rooms were. She had been consulting with the housekeeper for what seemed ages, when she happened to want some pins for something, and asked for her suit-case. "It's in your rooms," said the housekeeper. "Mrs. Harrington--the late Mrs. Harrington, I should say----" Phyllis stopped listening at this point. Who was the present Mrs. Harrington? she wondered before she thought--and then remembered. Why--_she_ was! So there was no Phyllis Braithwaite any more! Of course not.... Yet she had always liked the name so--well, a last name was a small thing to give up.... Into her mind fitted an incongruous, silly story she had heard once at the library, about a girl whose last name was Rose, and whose parents christened her Wild, because the combination appealed to them. And then she married a man named Bull.... Meanwhile the housekeeper had been going on. ... "She had the bedroom and bath opening from the other side of Mr. Allan's day-room ready for you, madam. It's been ready several weeks." "Has it?" said Phyllis. It was like Mrs. Harrington, that careful planning of even where she should be put. "Is Mr. Harrington in his day-room now?" For some reason she did not attempt to give herself, she did not want to see him again just now. Besides, it was nearly eleven and time a very tired girl was in bed. She wanted a good night's rest, before she had to get up and be Mrs. Harrington, with Allan and the check-book and the Current Expenses all tied to her. Some one had laid everything out for her in the bedroom; the filmy new nightgown over a chair, the blue satin mules underneath, her plain toilet-things on a dressing-table, and over another chair the exquisite ivory crepe negligee with its floating rose ribbons. She took a hasty bath--there was so much hot water that she was quite reconciled for a moment to being a check-booked and wolf hounded Mrs. Harrington--and slid straight into bed without even stopping to braid her loosened, honey-colored hair. It seemed to her that she was barely asleep when there came an urgent knocking at her door. "Yes?" she said sleepily, looking mechanically for her alarm-clock as she switched on the light. "What is it, please?" "It's I, Wallis, Mr. Allan's man, Madame," said a nervous voice. "Mr. Allan's very bad. I've done all the usual things, but nothing seems to quiet him. He hates doctors so, and they make him so wrought up--please could you come, ma'am? He says as how all of us are all dead--oh, _please_, Mrs. Harrington!" There was panic in the man's voice. "All right," said Phyllis sleepily, dropping to the floor as she spoke with the rapidity that only the alarm-clock-broken know. She snatched the negligee around her, and thrust her feet hastily into the blue satin slippers--why, she was actually using her wedding finery! And what an easily upset person that man was! But everybody in the house seemed to have nerves on edge. It was no wonder about Allan--he wanted his mother, of course, poor boy! She felt, as she ran fleetly across the long room that separated her sleeping quarters from her husband's, the same mixture of pity and timidity that she had felt with him before. Poor boy! Poor, silent, beautiful statue, with his one friend gone! She opened the door and entered swiftly into his room. She was not thinking about herself at all, only of how she could help Allan, but there must have been something about her of the picture-book angel to the pain-racked man, lying tensely at length in the room's darkest corner. Her long, dully gold hair, loosening from its twist, flew out about her, and her face was still flushed with sleep. There was a something about her that was vividly alight and alive, perhaps the light in her blue eyes. From what the man had said Phyllis had thought Allan was delirious, but she saw at once that he was only in severe pain, and talking more disconnectedly, perhaps, than the slow-minded Englishman could follow. He did not look like a statue now. His cheeks were burning with evident pain, and his yellow-brown eyes, wide-open, and dilated to darkness, stared straight out. His hands were clenching and unclenching, and his head moved restlessly from side to side. Every nerve and muscle, she could see, was taut. "They're all dead," he muttered. "Father and Mother and Louise--and I--only I'm not dead enough to bury. Oh, God, I wish I was!" That wasn't delirium; it was something more like heart-break. Phyllis moved closer to him, and dropped one of her sleep-warm hands on his cold, clenched one. "Oh, poor boy!" she said. "I'm so sorry--so sorry!" She closed her hands tight over both his. Some of her strong young vitality must have passed between them and helped him, for almost immediately his tenseness relaxed a little, and he looked at her. "You--you're not a nurse," he said. "They go around--like--like a--vault----" She had caught his attention! That was a good deal, she felt. She forgot everything about him, except that he was some one to be comforted, and her charge. She sat down on the bed by him, still holding tight to his hands. "No, indeed," she said, bending nearer him, her long loose hair falling forward about her resolutely-smiling young face. "Don't you remember seeing me? I never was a nurse." "What--are you?" he asked feebly. "I'm--why, the children call me the Liberry Teacher," she answered. It occurred to her that it would be better to talk on brightly at random than to risk speaking of his mother to him, as she must if she reminded him of their marriage. "I spend my days in a basement, making bad little boys get so interested in the Higher Culture that they'll forget to shoot crap and smash windows." One of the things which had aided Phyllis to rise from desk-assistant to one of the Children's Room librarians was a very sweet and carrying voice--a voice which arrested even a child's attention,

stinging

How many times the word 'stinging' appears in the text?

with him--do you think you could do that? But I always cry so before I'm through--I cry and cry--my poor, helpless boy--he was so strong and bright! And you are sure you are conscientious----" At this point Phyllis stopped the flow of Mrs. Harrington's conversation firmly, if sweetly. "Yes, indeed," she said cheerfully. "But you know, if I'm not, Mr. De Guenther can stop all my allowance. It wouldn't be to my own interest not to fulfil my duties faithfully." "Yes, that is true," said Mrs. Harrington. "That was a good thought of mine. My husband always said I was an unusual woman where business was concerned." So they went on the principle that she had no honor beyond working for what she would get out of it! Although she had made the suggestion herself, Phyllis's cheeks burned, and she was about to answer sharply. Then somehow the poor, anxious, loving mother's absolute preoccupation with her son struck her as right after all. "If it were my son," thought Phyllis, "I wouldn't worry about any strange hired girl's feelings either, maybe. I'd just think about him.... I promise I'll look after Mr. Harrington's welfare as if he were my own brother!" she ended aloud impulsively. "Indeed, you may trust me." "I am--sure you will," panted Mrs. Harrington. "You look like--a good girl, and--and old enough to be responsible--twenty-eight--thirty?" "Not very far from that," said Phyllis serenely. "And you are sure you will know when the attendants are neglectful? I speak to them all the time, but I never can be sure.... And now you'd better see poor Allan. This is one of his good days. Just think, dear Isabel, he spoke to me twice without my speaking to him this morning!" "Oh--must I?" asked Phyllis, dismayed. "Couldn't I wait till--till it happens?" Mrs. Harrington actually laughed a little at her shyness, lighting up like a girl. Phyllis felt dimly, though she tried not to, that through it all her mother-in-law-elect was taking pleasure in the dramatic side of the situation she had engineered. "Oh, my dear, you must see him. He expects you," she answered almost gayly. The procession of three moved down the long room towards a door, Phyllis's hand guiding the wheel-chair. She was surprised to find herself shaking with fright. Just what she expected to find beyond the door she did not know, but it must have been some horror, for it was with a heart-bound of wild relief that she finally made out Allan Harrington, lying white in the darkened place. A Crusader on a tomb. Yes, he looked like that. In the room's half-dusk the pallor of his still, clear-featured face and his long, clear-cut hands was nearly the same as the whiteness of the couch-draperies. His hair, yellow-brown and waving, flung back from his forehead like a crest, and his dark brows and lashes made the only note of darkness about him. To Phyllis's beauty-loving eyes he seemed so perfect an image that she could have watched him for hours. "Here's Miss Braithwaite, my poor darling," said his mother. "The young lady we have been talking about so long." The Crusader lifted his eyelids and let them fall again. "Is she?" he said listlessly. "Don't you want to talk to her, darling boy?" his mother persisted, half out of breath, but still full of that unrebuffable, loving energy and insistence which she would probably keep to the last minute of her life. "No," said the Crusader, still in those empty, listless tones. "I'd rather not talk. I'm tired." His mother seemed not at all put out. "Of course, darling," she said, kissing him. She sat by him still, however, and poured out sentence after sentence of question, insistence, imploration, and pity, eliciting no answer at all. Phyllis wondered how it would feel to have to lie still and have that done to you for a term of years. The result of her wonderment was a decision to forgive her unenthusiastic future bridegroom for what she had at first been ready to slap him. Presently Mrs. Harrington's breath flagged, and the three women went away, back to the room they had been in before. Phyllis sat and let herself be talked to for a little longer. Then she rose impulsively. "May I go back and see your son again for just a minute?" she asked, and had gone before Mrs. Harrington had finished her permission. She darted into the dark room before her courage had time to fail, and stood by the white couch again. "Mr. Harrington," she said clearly, "I'm sorry you're tired, but I'm afraid I am going to have to ask you to listen to me. You know, don't you, that your mother plans to have me marry you, for a sort of interested head-nurse? Are you willing to have it happen? Because I won't do it unless you really prefer it." The heavy white lids half-lifted again. "I don't mind," said Allan Harrington listlessly. "I suppose you are quiet and trustworthy, or De Guenther wouldn't have sent you. It will give mother a little peace and it makes no difference to me." He closed his eyes and the subject at the same time. "Well, then, that's all right," said Phyllis cheerfully, and started to go. Then, drawn back by a sudden, nervous temper-impulse, she moved back on him. "And let me tell you," she added, half-laughing, half-impertinently, "that if you ever get into my quiet, trustworthy clutches you may have an awful time! You're a very spoiled invalid." She whisked out of the room before he could have gone very far with his reply. But he had not cared to reply, apparently. He lay unmoved and unmoving. Phyllis discovered, poising breathless on the threshold, that somehow she had seen his eyes. They had been a little like the wolfhound's, a sort of wistful gold-brown. For some reason she found that Allan Harrington's attitude of absolute detachment made the whole affair seem much easier for her. And when Mrs. Harrington slipped a solitaire diamond into her hand as she went, instead of disliking it she enjoyed its feel on her finger, and the flash of it in the light. She thanked Mrs. Harrington for it with real gratitude. But it made her feel more than ever engaged to marry her mother-in-law. She walked home rather silently with Mrs. De Guenther. Only at the foot of the De Guenther steps, she made one absent remark. "He must have been delightful," she said, "when he was alive!" VI After a week of the old bustling, dusty hard work, the Liberry Teacher's visit to the De Guenthers' and the subsequent one at the Harringtons', and even her sparkling white ring, seemed part of a queer story she had finished and put back on the shelf. The ring was the most real thing, because it was something of a worry. She didn't dare leave it at home, nor did she want to wear it. She finally sewed it in a chamois bag that she safety-pinned under her shirt-waist. Then she dismissed it from her mind also. There is very little time in a Liberry Teacher's life for meditation. Only once in a while would come to her the vision of the wistful Harrington wolfhound following his inadequate patch of sunlight, or of the dusky room where Allan Harrington lay inert and white, and looking like a wonderful carved statue on a tomb. She began to do a little to her clothes, but not very much, because she had neither time nor money. Mr. De Guenther had wanted her to take some money in advance, but she had refused. She did not want it till she had earned it, and, anyway, it would have made the whole thing so real, she knew, that she would have backed out. "And it isn't as if I were going to a lover," she defended herself to Mrs. De Guenther with a little wistful smile. "Nobody will know what I have on, any more than they do now." Mrs. De Guenther gave a scandalized little cry. Her attitude was determinedly that it was just an ordinary marriage, as good an excuse for sentiment and pretty frocks as any other. "My dear child," she replied firmly, "you are going to have one pretty frock and one really good street-suit _now_, or I will know why! The rest you may get yourself after the wedding, but you must obey me in this. Nonsense!--you can get a half-day, as you call it, perfectly well! What's Albert in politics for, if he can't get favors for his friends!" And, in effect, it proved that Albert was in politics to some purpose, for orders came up from the Head's office within twenty minutes after Mrs. De Guenther had used the telephone on her husband, that Miss Braithwaite was to have a half-day immediately--as far as she could make out, in order to transact city affairs! She felt as if the angels had told her she could have the last fortnight over again, as a favor, or something of the sort. A half-day out of turn was something nobody had ever heard of. She was even too surprised to object to the frock part of the situation. She tried to stand out a little longer, but it's a very stoical young woman who can refuse to have pretty clothes bought for her, and the end of it was a seat in a salon which she had always considered so expensive that you scarcely ought to look in the window. "Had it better be a black suit?" asked Mrs. De Guenther doubtfully, as the tall lady in floppy charmeuse hovered haughtily about them, expecting orders. "It seems horrible to buy mourning when dear Angela is not yet passed away, but it would only be showing proper respect; and I remember my own dear mother planned all our mourning outfits while she was dying. It was quite a pleasure to her." Phyllis kept her face straight, and slipped one persuasive hand through her friend's arm. "I don't believe I _could_ buy mourning, dear," she said. "And--oh, if you knew how long I'd wanted a really _blue_ blue suit! Only, it would have been too vivid to wear well--I always knew that--because you can only afford one every other year. And"--Phyllis rather diffidently voiced a thought which had been in the back of her mind for a long time--"if I'm going to be much around Mr. Harrington, don't you think cheerful clothes would be best? Everything in that house seems sombre enough now." "Perhaps you are right, dear child," said Mrs. De Guenther. "I hope you may be the means of putting a great deal of brightness into poor Allan's life before he joins his mother." "Oh, don't!" cried Phyllis impulsively. Somehow she could not bear to think of Allan Harrington's dying. He was too beautiful to be dead, where nobody could see him any more. Besides, Phyllis privately considered that a long vacation before he joined his mother would be only the fair thing for "poor Allan." Youth sides with youth. And--the clear-cut white lines of him rose in her memory and stayed there. She could almost hear that poor, tired, toneless voice of his, that was yet so deep and so perfectly accented.... She bought docilely whatever her guide directed, and woke from a species of gentle daze at the afternoon's end to find Mrs. De Guenther beaming with the weary rapture of the successful shopper, and herself the proprietress of a turquoise velvet walking-suit, a hat to match, a pale blue evening frock, a pale green between-dress with lovely clinging lines, and a heavenly white crepe thing with rosy ribbons and filmy shadow-laces--the negligee of one's dreams. There were also slippers and shoes and stockings and--this was really too bad of Mrs. De Guenther--a half-dozen set of lingerie, straight through. Mrs. De Guenther sat and continued to beam joyously over the array, in Phyllis's little bedroom. "It's my present, dearie," she said calmly. "So you needn't worry about using Angela's money. Gracious, it's been _lovely_! I haven't had such a good time since my husband's little grand-niece came on for a week. There's nothing like dressing a girl, after all." And Phyllis could only kiss her. But when her guest had gone she laid all the boxes of finery under her bed, the only place where there was any room. She would not take any of it out, she determined, till her summons came. But on second thought, she wore the blue velvet street-suit on Sunday visits to Mrs. Harrington, which became--she never knew just when or how--a regular thing. The vivid blue made her eyes nearly sky-color, and brightened her hair very satisfactorily. She was taking more time and trouble over her looks now--one has to live up to a turquoise velvet hat and coat! She found herself, too, becoming very genuinely fond of the restless, anxiously loving, passionate, unwise child who dwelt in Mrs. Harrington's frail elderly body and had almost worn it out. She sat, long hours of every Sunday afternoon, holding Mrs. Harrington's thin little hot hands, and listening to her swift, italicised monologues about Allan--what he must do, what he must not do, how he must be looked after, how his mother had treated him, how his wishes must be ascertained and followed. "Though all he wants now is dark and quiet," said his mother piteously. "I don't even go in there now to cry." She spoke as if it were an established ritual. Had she been using her son's sick-room, Phyllis wondered, as a regular weeping-place? She could feel in Mrs. Harrington, even in this mortal sickness, the tremendous driving influence which is often part of a passionately active and not very wise personality. That certitude and insistence of Mrs. Harrington's could hammer you finally into believing or doing almost anything. Phyllis wondered how much his mother's heartbroken adoration and pity might have had to do with making her son as hopeless-minded as he was. Naturally, the mother-in-law-elect she had acquired in such a strange way became very fond of Phyllis. But indeed there was something very gay and sweet and honest-minded about the girl, a something which gave people the feeling that they were very wise in liking her. Some people you are fond of against your will. When people cared for Phyllis it was with a quite irrational feeling that they were doing a sensible thing. They never gave any of the credit to her very real, though almost invisible, charm. She never saw Allan Harrington on any of the Sunday visits. She was sure the servants thought she did, for she knew that every one in the great, dark old house knew her as the young lady who was to marry Mr. Allan. She believed that she was supposed to be an old family friend, perhaps a distant relative. She did not want to see Allan. But she did want to be as good to his little, tensely-loving mother as she could, and reassure her about Allan's future care. And she succeeded. It was on a Friday about two that the summons came. Phyllis had thought she expected it, but when the call came to her over the library telephone she found herself as badly frightened as she had been the first time she went to the Harrington house. She shivered as she laid down the dater she was using, and called the other librarian to take her desk. Fortunately, between one and four the morning and evening shifts overlapped, and there was some one to take her place. "Mrs. Harrington cannot last out the night," came Mr. De Guenther's clear, precise voice over the telephone, without preface. "I have arranged with Mr. Johnston. You can go at once. You had better pack a suit-case, for you possibly may not be able to get back to your boarding-place." So it was to happen now! Phyllis felt, with her substitute in her place, her own wraps on, and her feet taking her swiftly towards her goal, as if she were offering herself to be made a nun, or have a hand or foot cut off, or paying herself away in some awful, irrevocable fashion. She packed, mechanically, all the pretty things Mrs. De Guenther had given her, and nothing else. She found herself at the door of her room with the locked suit-case in her hand, and not even a nail-file of the things belonging to her old self in it. She shook herself together, managed to laugh a little, and returned and put in such things as she thought she would require for the night. Then she went. She always remembered that journey as long as she lived; her hands and feet and tongue going on, buying tickets, giving directions--and her mind, like a naughty child, catching at everything as they went, and screaming to be allowed to go back home, back to the dusty, matter-of-course library and the dreary little boarding-house bedroom! VII They were all waiting for her, in what felt like a hideously quiet semicircle, in Allan's great dark room. Mrs. Harrington, deadly pale, and giving an impression of keeping herself alive only by force of that wonderful fighting vitality of hers, lay almost at length in her wheel-chair. There was a clergyman in vestments. There were the De Guenthers; Mr. De Guenther only a little more precise than his every-day habit was, Mrs. De Guenther crying a little, softly and furtively. As for Allan Harrington, he lay just as she had seen him that other time, white and moveless, seeming scarcely conscious except by an effort. Only she noticed a slight contraction, as of pain, between his brows. "Phyllis has come," panted Mrs. Harrington. "Now it will be--all right. You must marry him quickly--quickly, do you hear, Phyllis? Oh, people never will--do--what I want them to----" "Yes--yes, indeed, dear," said Phyllis, taking her hands soothingly. "We're going to attend to it right away. See, everything is ready." It occurred to her that Mrs. Harrington was not half as correct in her playing of the part of a dying woman as she would have seen to it that anyone else was; also, that things did not seem legal without the wolfhound. Then she was shocked at herself for such irrelevant thoughts. The thing to do was to keep poor Mrs. Harrington quieted. So she beckoned the clergyman and the De Guenthers nearer, and herself sped the marrying of herself to Allan Harrington. ... When you are being married to a Crusader on a tomb, the easiest way is to kneel down by him. Phyllis registered this fact in her mind quite blankly, as something which might be of use to remember in future.... The marrying took an unnecessarily long time, it seemed to her. It did not seem as if she were being married at all. It all seemed to concern somebody else. When it came to the putting on of the wedding-ring, she found herself, very naturally, guiding Allan's relaxed fingers to hold it in its successive places, and finally slip it on the wedding-finger. And somehow having to do that checked the chilly awe she had had before of Allan Harrington. It made her feel quite simply sorry for him, as if he were one of her poor little boys in trouble. And when it was all over she bent pitifully before she thought, and kissed one white, cold cheek. He seemed so tragically helpless, yet more alive, in some way, since she had touched his hand to guide it. Then, as her lips brushed his cheek, she recoiled and colored a little. She had felt that slight roughness which a man's cheek, however close-shaven, always has--the _man_-feel. It made her realize unreasonably that it was a man she had married, after all, not a stone image nor a sick child--a live man! With the thought, or rather instinct, came a swift terror of what she had done, and a swift impulse to rise. She was half-way risen from her knees when a hand on her shoulder, and the clergyman's voice in her ear, checked her. "Not yet," he murmured almost inaudibly. "Stay as you are till--till Mrs. Harrington is wheeled from the room." Phyllis understood. She remained as she was, her body a shield before Allan Harrington's eyes, her hand just withdrawing from his shoulder, till she heard the closing of the door, and a sigh as of relaxed tension from the three people around her. Then she rose. Allan lay still with closed eyelids. It seemed to her that he had flushed, if ever so faintly, at the touch of her lips on his cheek. She laid his hand on the coverlet with her own roughened, ringed one, and followed the others out, into the room where the dead woman had been taken, leaving him with his attendant. The rest of the evening Phyllis went about in a queer-keyed, almost light-hearted frame of mind. It was only the reaction from the long-expected terror that was over now, but it felt indecorous. It was just as well, however. Some one's head had to be kept. The servants were upset, of course, and there were many arrangements to be made. She and Mr. De Guenther worked steadily together, telephoning, ordering, guiding, straightening out all the tangles. There never was a wedding, she thought, where the bride did so much of the work! She even remembered to see personally that Allan's dinner was sent up to him. The servants had doubtless been told to come to her for orders--at any rate, they did. Phyllis had not had much experience in running a house, but a good deal in keeping her head. And that, after all, is the main thing. She had a far-off feeling as if she were hearing some other young woman giving swift, poised, executive orders. She rather admired her. After dinner the De Guenthers went. And Phyllis Braithwaite, the little Liberry Teacher who had been living in a hall bedroom on much less money than she needed, found herself alone, sole mistress of the great Harrington house, a corps of servants, a husband passive enough to satisfy the most militant suffragette, a check-book, a wistful wolfhound, and five hundred dollars, cash, for current expenses. The last weighed on her mind more than all the rest put together. "Why, I don't know how to make Current Expenses out of all that!" she had said to Mr. De Guenther. "It looks to me exactly like about ten months' salary! I'm perfectly certain I shall get up in my sleep and try to pay my board ahead with it, so I shan't have it all spent before the ten months are up! There was a blue bead necklace," she went on meditatively, "in the Five-and-Ten, that I always wanted to buy. Only I never quite felt I could afford it. Oh, just imagine going to the Five-and-Ten and buying at least five dollars' worth of things you didn't need!" "You have great discretionary powers--great discretionary powers, my dear, you will find!" Mr. De Guenther had said, as he patted her shoulder. Phyllis took it as a compliment at the time. "Discretionary powers" sounded as if he thought she was a quite intelligent young person. It did not occur to her till he had gone, and she was alone with her check-book, that it meant she had a good deal of liberty to do as she liked. It seemed to be expected of her to stay. Nobody even suggested a possibility of her going home again, even to pack her trunk. Mrs. De Guenther casually volunteered to do that, a little after the housekeeper had told her where her rooms were. She had been consulting with the housekeeper for what seemed ages, when she happened to want some pins for something, and asked for her suit-case. "It's in your rooms," said the housekeeper. "Mrs. Harrington--the late Mrs. Harrington, I should say----" Phyllis stopped listening at this point. Who was the present Mrs. Harrington? she wondered before she thought--and then remembered. Why--_she_ was! So there was no Phyllis Braithwaite any more! Of course not.... Yet she had always liked the name so--well, a last name was a small thing to give up.... Into her mind fitted an incongruous, silly story she had heard once at the library, about a girl whose last name was Rose, and whose parents christened her Wild, because the combination appealed to them. And then she married a man named Bull.... Meanwhile the housekeeper had been going on. ... "She had the bedroom and bath opening from the other side of Mr. Allan's day-room ready for you, madam. It's been ready several weeks." "Has it?" said Phyllis. It was like Mrs. Harrington, that careful planning of even where she should be put. "Is Mr. Harrington in his day-room now?" For some reason she did not attempt to give herself, she did not want to see him again just now. Besides, it was nearly eleven and time a very tired girl was in bed. She wanted a good night's rest, before she had to get up and be Mrs. Harrington, with Allan and the check-book and the Current Expenses all tied to her. Some one had laid everything out for her in the bedroom; the filmy new nightgown over a chair, the blue satin mules underneath, her plain toilet-things on a dressing-table, and over another chair the exquisite ivory crepe negligee with its floating rose ribbons. She took a hasty bath--there was so much hot water that she was quite reconciled for a moment to being a check-booked and wolf hounded Mrs. Harrington--and slid straight into bed without even stopping to braid her loosened, honey-colored hair. It seemed to her that she was barely asleep when there came an urgent knocking at her door. "Yes?" she said sleepily, looking mechanically for her alarm-clock as she switched on the light. "What is it, please?" "It's I, Wallis, Mr. Allan's man, Madame," said a nervous voice. "Mr. Allan's very bad. I've done all the usual things, but nothing seems to quiet him. He hates doctors so, and they make him so wrought up--please could you come, ma'am? He says as how all of us are all dead--oh, _please_, Mrs. Harrington!" There was panic in the man's voice. "All right," said Phyllis sleepily, dropping to the floor as she spoke with the rapidity that only the alarm-clock-broken know. She snatched the negligee around her, and thrust her feet hastily into the blue satin slippers--why, she was actually using her wedding finery! And what an easily upset person that man was! But everybody in the house seemed to have nerves on edge. It was no wonder about Allan--he wanted his mother, of course, poor boy! She felt, as she ran fleetly across the long room that separated her sleeping quarters from her husband's, the same mixture of pity and timidity that she had felt with him before. Poor boy! Poor, silent, beautiful statue, with his one friend gone! She opened the door and entered swiftly into his room. She was not thinking about herself at all, only of how she could help Allan, but there must have been something about her of the picture-book angel to the pain-racked man, lying tensely at length in the room's darkest corner. Her long, dully gold hair, loosening from its twist, flew out about her, and her face was still flushed with sleep. There was a something about her that was vividly alight and alive, perhaps the light in her blue eyes. From what the man had said Phyllis had thought Allan was delirious, but she saw at once that he was only in severe pain, and talking more disconnectedly, perhaps, than the slow-minded Englishman could follow. He did not look like a statue now. His cheeks were burning with evident pain, and his yellow-brown eyes, wide-open, and dilated to darkness, stared straight out. His hands were clenching and unclenching, and his head moved restlessly from side to side. Every nerve and muscle, she could see, was taut. "They're all dead," he muttered. "Father and Mother and Louise--and I--only I'm not dead enough to bury. Oh, God, I wish I was!" That wasn't delirium; it was something more like heart-break. Phyllis moved closer to him, and dropped one of her sleep-warm hands on his cold, clenched one. "Oh, poor boy!" she said. "I'm so sorry--so sorry!" She closed her hands tight over both his. Some of her strong young vitality must have passed between them and helped him, for almost immediately his tenseness relaxed a little, and he looked at her. "You--you're not a nurse," he said. "They go around--like--like a--vault----" She had caught his attention! That was a good deal, she felt. She forgot everything about him, except that he was some one to be comforted, and her charge. She sat down on the bed by him, still holding tight to his hands. "No, indeed," she said, bending nearer him, her long loose hair falling forward about her resolutely-smiling young face. "Don't you remember seeing me? I never was a nurse." "What--are you?" he asked feebly. "I'm--why, the children call me the Liberry Teacher," she answered. It occurred to her that it would be better to talk on brightly at random than to risk speaking of his mother to him, as she must if she reminded him of their marriage. "I spend my days in a basement, making bad little boys get so interested in the Higher Culture that they'll forget to shoot crap and smash windows." One of the things which had aided Phyllis to rise from desk-assistant to one of the Children's Room librarians was a very sweet and carrying voice--a voice which arrested even a child's attention,

glisse

How many times the word 'glisse' appears in the text?

with him--do you think you could do that? But I always cry so before I'm through--I cry and cry--my poor, helpless boy--he was so strong and bright! And you are sure you are conscientious----" At this point Phyllis stopped the flow of Mrs. Harrington's conversation firmly, if sweetly. "Yes, indeed," she said cheerfully. "But you know, if I'm not, Mr. De Guenther can stop all my allowance. It wouldn't be to my own interest not to fulfil my duties faithfully." "Yes, that is true," said Mrs. Harrington. "That was a good thought of mine. My husband always said I was an unusual woman where business was concerned." So they went on the principle that she had no honor beyond working for what she would get out of it! Although she had made the suggestion herself, Phyllis's cheeks burned, and she was about to answer sharply. Then somehow the poor, anxious, loving mother's absolute preoccupation with her son struck her as right after all. "If it were my son," thought Phyllis, "I wouldn't worry about any strange hired girl's feelings either, maybe. I'd just think about him.... I promise I'll look after Mr. Harrington's welfare as if he were my own brother!" she ended aloud impulsively. "Indeed, you may trust me." "I am--sure you will," panted Mrs. Harrington. "You look like--a good girl, and--and old enough to be responsible--twenty-eight--thirty?" "Not very far from that," said Phyllis serenely. "And you are sure you will know when the attendants are neglectful? I speak to them all the time, but I never can be sure.... And now you'd better see poor Allan. This is one of his good days. Just think, dear Isabel, he spoke to me twice without my speaking to him this morning!" "Oh--must I?" asked Phyllis, dismayed. "Couldn't I wait till--till it happens?" Mrs. Harrington actually laughed a little at her shyness, lighting up like a girl. Phyllis felt dimly, though she tried not to, that through it all her mother-in-law-elect was taking pleasure in the dramatic side of the situation she had engineered. "Oh, my dear, you must see him. He expects you," she answered almost gayly. The procession of three moved down the long room towards a door, Phyllis's hand guiding the wheel-chair. She was surprised to find herself shaking with fright. Just what she expected to find beyond the door she did not know, but it must have been some horror, for it was with a heart-bound of wild relief that she finally made out Allan Harrington, lying white in the darkened place. A Crusader on a tomb. Yes, he looked like that. In the room's half-dusk the pallor of his still, clear-featured face and his long, clear-cut hands was nearly the same as the whiteness of the couch-draperies. His hair, yellow-brown and waving, flung back from his forehead like a crest, and his dark brows and lashes made the only note of darkness about him. To Phyllis's beauty-loving eyes he seemed so perfect an image that she could have watched him for hours. "Here's Miss Braithwaite, my poor darling," said his mother. "The young lady we have been talking about so long." The Crusader lifted his eyelids and let them fall again. "Is she?" he said listlessly. "Don't you want to talk to her, darling boy?" his mother persisted, half out of breath, but still full of that unrebuffable, loving energy and insistence which she would probably keep to the last minute of her life. "No," said the Crusader, still in those empty, listless tones. "I'd rather not talk. I'm tired." His mother seemed not at all put out. "Of course, darling," she said, kissing him. She sat by him still, however, and poured out sentence after sentence of question, insistence, imploration, and pity, eliciting no answer at all. Phyllis wondered how it would feel to have to lie still and have that done to you for a term of years. The result of her wonderment was a decision to forgive her unenthusiastic future bridegroom for what she had at first been ready to slap him. Presently Mrs. Harrington's breath flagged, and the three women went away, back to the room they had been in before. Phyllis sat and let herself be talked to for a little longer. Then she rose impulsively. "May I go back and see your son again for just a minute?" she asked, and had gone before Mrs. Harrington had finished her permission. She darted into the dark room before her courage had time to fail, and stood by the white couch again. "Mr. Harrington," she said clearly, "I'm sorry you're tired, but I'm afraid I am going to have to ask you to listen to me. You know, don't you, that your mother plans to have me marry you, for a sort of interested head-nurse? Are you willing to have it happen? Because I won't do it unless you really prefer it." The heavy white lids half-lifted again. "I don't mind," said Allan Harrington listlessly. "I suppose you are quiet and trustworthy, or De Guenther wouldn't have sent you. It will give mother a little peace and it makes no difference to me." He closed his eyes and the subject at the same time. "Well, then, that's all right," said Phyllis cheerfully, and started to go. Then, drawn back by a sudden, nervous temper-impulse, she moved back on him. "And let me tell you," she added, half-laughing, half-impertinently, "that if you ever get into my quiet, trustworthy clutches you may have an awful time! You're a very spoiled invalid." She whisked out of the room before he could have gone very far with his reply. But he had not cared to reply, apparently. He lay unmoved and unmoving. Phyllis discovered, poising breathless on the threshold, that somehow she had seen his eyes. They had been a little like the wolfhound's, a sort of wistful gold-brown. For some reason she found that Allan Harrington's attitude of absolute detachment made the whole affair seem much easier for her. And when Mrs. Harrington slipped a solitaire diamond into her hand as she went, instead of disliking it she enjoyed its feel on her finger, and the flash of it in the light. She thanked Mrs. Harrington for it with real gratitude. But it made her feel more than ever engaged to marry her mother-in-law. She walked home rather silently with Mrs. De Guenther. Only at the foot of the De Guenther steps, she made one absent remark. "He must have been delightful," she said, "when he was alive!" VI After a week of the old bustling, dusty hard work, the Liberry Teacher's visit to the De Guenthers' and the subsequent one at the Harringtons', and even her sparkling white ring, seemed part of a queer story she had finished and put back on the shelf. The ring was the most real thing, because it was something of a worry. She didn't dare leave it at home, nor did she want to wear it. She finally sewed it in a chamois bag that she safety-pinned under her shirt-waist. Then she dismissed it from her mind also. There is very little time in a Liberry Teacher's life for meditation. Only once in a while would come to her the vision of the wistful Harrington wolfhound following his inadequate patch of sunlight, or of the dusky room where Allan Harrington lay inert and white, and looking like a wonderful carved statue on a tomb. She began to do a little to her clothes, but not very much, because she had neither time nor money. Mr. De Guenther had wanted her to take some money in advance, but she had refused. She did not want it till she had earned it, and, anyway, it would have made the whole thing so real, she knew, that she would have backed out. "And it isn't as if I were going to a lover," she defended herself to Mrs. De Guenther with a little wistful smile. "Nobody will know what I have on, any more than they do now." Mrs. De Guenther gave a scandalized little cry. Her attitude was determinedly that it was just an ordinary marriage, as good an excuse for sentiment and pretty frocks as any other. "My dear child," she replied firmly, "you are going to have one pretty frock and one really good street-suit _now_, or I will know why! The rest you may get yourself after the wedding, but you must obey me in this. Nonsense!--you can get a half-day, as you call it, perfectly well! What's Albert in politics for, if he can't get favors for his friends!" And, in effect, it proved that Albert was in politics to some purpose, for orders came up from the Head's office within twenty minutes after Mrs. De Guenther had used the telephone on her husband, that Miss Braithwaite was to have a half-day immediately--as far as she could make out, in order to transact city affairs! She felt as if the angels had told her she could have the last fortnight over again, as a favor, or something of the sort. A half-day out of turn was something nobody had ever heard of. She was even too surprised to object to the frock part of the situation. She tried to stand out a little longer, but it's a very stoical young woman who can refuse to have pretty clothes bought for her, and the end of it was a seat in a salon which she had always considered so expensive that you scarcely ought to look in the window. "Had it better be a black suit?" asked Mrs. De Guenther doubtfully, as the tall lady in floppy charmeuse hovered haughtily about them, expecting orders. "It seems horrible to buy mourning when dear Angela is not yet passed away, but it would only be showing proper respect; and I remember my own dear mother planned all our mourning outfits while she was dying. It was quite a pleasure to her." Phyllis kept her face straight, and slipped one persuasive hand through her friend's arm. "I don't believe I _could_ buy mourning, dear," she said. "And--oh, if you knew how long I'd wanted a really _blue_ blue suit! Only, it would have been too vivid to wear well--I always knew that--because you can only afford one every other year. And"--Phyllis rather diffidently voiced a thought which had been in the back of her mind for a long time--"if I'm going to be much around Mr. Harrington, don't you think cheerful clothes would be best? Everything in that house seems sombre enough now." "Perhaps you are right, dear child," said Mrs. De Guenther. "I hope you may be the means of putting a great deal of brightness into poor Allan's life before he joins his mother." "Oh, don't!" cried Phyllis impulsively. Somehow she could not bear to think of Allan Harrington's dying. He was too beautiful to be dead, where nobody could see him any more. Besides, Phyllis privately considered that a long vacation before he joined his mother would be only the fair thing for "poor Allan." Youth sides with youth. And--the clear-cut white lines of him rose in her memory and stayed there. She could almost hear that poor, tired, toneless voice of his, that was yet so deep and so perfectly accented.... She bought docilely whatever her guide directed, and woke from a species of gentle daze at the afternoon's end to find Mrs. De Guenther beaming with the weary rapture of the successful shopper, and herself the proprietress of a turquoise velvet walking-suit, a hat to match, a pale blue evening frock, a pale green between-dress with lovely clinging lines, and a heavenly white crepe thing with rosy ribbons and filmy shadow-laces--the negligee of one's dreams. There were also slippers and shoes and stockings and--this was really too bad of Mrs. De Guenther--a half-dozen set of lingerie, straight through. Mrs. De Guenther sat and continued to beam joyously over the array, in Phyllis's little bedroom. "It's my present, dearie," she said calmly. "So you needn't worry about using Angela's money. Gracious, it's been _lovely_! I haven't had such a good time since my husband's little grand-niece came on for a week. There's nothing like dressing a girl, after all." And Phyllis could only kiss her. But when her guest had gone she laid all the boxes of finery under her bed, the only place where there was any room. She would not take any of it out, she determined, till her summons came. But on second thought, she wore the blue velvet street-suit on Sunday visits to Mrs. Harrington, which became--she never knew just when or how--a regular thing. The vivid blue made her eyes nearly sky-color, and brightened her hair very satisfactorily. She was taking more time and trouble over her looks now--one has to live up to a turquoise velvet hat and coat! She found herself, too, becoming very genuinely fond of the restless, anxiously loving, passionate, unwise child who dwelt in Mrs. Harrington's frail elderly body and had almost worn it out. She sat, long hours of every Sunday afternoon, holding Mrs. Harrington's thin little hot hands, and listening to her swift, italicised monologues about Allan--what he must do, what he must not do, how he must be looked after, how his mother had treated him, how his wishes must be ascertained and followed. "Though all he wants now is dark and quiet," said his mother piteously. "I don't even go in there now to cry." She spoke as if it were an established ritual. Had she been using her son's sick-room, Phyllis wondered, as a regular weeping-place? She could feel in Mrs. Harrington, even in this mortal sickness, the tremendous driving influence which is often part of a passionately active and not very wise personality. That certitude and insistence of Mrs. Harrington's could hammer you finally into believing or doing almost anything. Phyllis wondered how much his mother's heartbroken adoration and pity might have had to do with making her son as hopeless-minded as he was. Naturally, the mother-in-law-elect she had acquired in such a strange way became very fond of Phyllis. But indeed there was something very gay and sweet and honest-minded about the girl, a something which gave people the feeling that they were very wise in liking her. Some people you are fond of against your will. When people cared for Phyllis it was with a quite irrational feeling that they were doing a sensible thing. They never gave any of the credit to her very real, though almost invisible, charm. She never saw Allan Harrington on any of the Sunday visits. She was sure the servants thought she did, for she knew that every one in the great, dark old house knew her as the young lady who was to marry Mr. Allan. She believed that she was supposed to be an old family friend, perhaps a distant relative. She did not want to see Allan. But she did want to be as good to his little, tensely-loving mother as she could, and reassure her about Allan's future care. And she succeeded. It was on a Friday about two that the summons came. Phyllis had thought she expected it, but when the call came to her over the library telephone she found herself as badly frightened as she had been the first time she went to the Harrington house. She shivered as she laid down the dater she was using, and called the other librarian to take her desk. Fortunately, between one and four the morning and evening shifts overlapped, and there was some one to take her place. "Mrs. Harrington cannot last out the night," came Mr. De Guenther's clear, precise voice over the telephone, without preface. "I have arranged with Mr. Johnston. You can go at once. You had better pack a suit-case, for you possibly may not be able to get back to your boarding-place." So it was to happen now! Phyllis felt, with her substitute in her place, her own wraps on, and her feet taking her swiftly towards her goal, as if she were offering herself to be made a nun, or have a hand or foot cut off, or paying herself away in some awful, irrevocable fashion. She packed, mechanically, all the pretty things Mrs. De Guenther had given her, and nothing else. She found herself at the door of her room with the locked suit-case in her hand, and not even a nail-file of the things belonging to her old self in it. She shook herself together, managed to laugh a little, and returned and put in such things as she thought she would require for the night. Then she went. She always remembered that journey as long as she lived; her hands and feet and tongue going on, buying tickets, giving directions--and her mind, like a naughty child, catching at everything as they went, and screaming to be allowed to go back home, back to the dusty, matter-of-course library and the dreary little boarding-house bedroom! VII They were all waiting for her, in what felt like a hideously quiet semicircle, in Allan's great dark room. Mrs. Harrington, deadly pale, and giving an impression of keeping herself alive only by force of that wonderful fighting vitality of hers, lay almost at length in her wheel-chair. There was a clergyman in vestments. There were the De Guenthers; Mr. De Guenther only a little more precise than his every-day habit was, Mrs. De Guenther crying a little, softly and furtively. As for Allan Harrington, he lay just as she had seen him that other time, white and moveless, seeming scarcely conscious except by an effort. Only she noticed a slight contraction, as of pain, between his brows. "Phyllis has come," panted Mrs. Harrington. "Now it will be--all right. You must marry him quickly--quickly, do you hear, Phyllis? Oh, people never will--do--what I want them to----" "Yes--yes, indeed, dear," said Phyllis, taking her hands soothingly. "We're going to attend to it right away. See, everything is ready." It occurred to her that Mrs. Harrington was not half as correct in her playing of the part of a dying woman as she would have seen to it that anyone else was; also, that things did not seem legal without the wolfhound. Then she was shocked at herself for such irrelevant thoughts. The thing to do was to keep poor Mrs. Harrington quieted. So she beckoned the clergyman and the De Guenthers nearer, and herself sped the marrying of herself to Allan Harrington. ... When you are being married to a Crusader on a tomb, the easiest way is to kneel down by him. Phyllis registered this fact in her mind quite blankly, as something which might be of use to remember in future.... The marrying took an unnecessarily long time, it seemed to her. It did not seem as if she were being married at all. It all seemed to concern somebody else. When it came to the putting on of the wedding-ring, she found herself, very naturally, guiding Allan's relaxed fingers to hold it in its successive places, and finally slip it on the wedding-finger. And somehow having to do that checked the chilly awe she had had before of Allan Harrington. It made her feel quite simply sorry for him, as if he were one of her poor little boys in trouble. And when it was all over she bent pitifully before she thought, and kissed one white, cold cheek. He seemed so tragically helpless, yet more alive, in some way, since she had touched his hand to guide it. Then, as her lips brushed his cheek, she recoiled and colored a little. She had felt that slight roughness which a man's cheek, however close-shaven, always has--the _man_-feel. It made her realize unreasonably that it was a man she had married, after all, not a stone image nor a sick child--a live man! With the thought, or rather instinct, came a swift terror of what she had done, and a swift impulse to rise. She was half-way risen from her knees when a hand on her shoulder, and the clergyman's voice in her ear, checked her. "Not yet," he murmured almost inaudibly. "Stay as you are till--till Mrs. Harrington is wheeled from the room." Phyllis understood. She remained as she was, her body a shield before Allan Harrington's eyes, her hand just withdrawing from his shoulder, till she heard the closing of the door, and a sigh as of relaxed tension from the three people around her. Then she rose. Allan lay still with closed eyelids. It seemed to her that he had flushed, if ever so faintly, at the touch of her lips on his cheek. She laid his hand on the coverlet with her own roughened, ringed one, and followed the others out, into the room where the dead woman had been taken, leaving him with his attendant. The rest of the evening Phyllis went about in a queer-keyed, almost light-hearted frame of mind. It was only the reaction from the long-expected terror that was over now, but it felt indecorous. It was just as well, however. Some one's head had to be kept. The servants were upset, of course, and there were many arrangements to be made. She and Mr. De Guenther worked steadily together, telephoning, ordering, guiding, straightening out all the tangles. There never was a wedding, she thought, where the bride did so much of the work! She even remembered to see personally that Allan's dinner was sent up to him. The servants had doubtless been told to come to her for orders--at any rate, they did. Phyllis had not had much experience in running a house, but a good deal in keeping her head. And that, after all, is the main thing. She had a far-off feeling as if she were hearing some other young woman giving swift, poised, executive orders. She rather admired her. After dinner the De Guenthers went. And Phyllis Braithwaite, the little Liberry Teacher who had been living in a hall bedroom on much less money than she needed, found herself alone, sole mistress of the great Harrington house, a corps of servants, a husband passive enough to satisfy the most militant suffragette, a check-book, a wistful wolfhound, and five hundred dollars, cash, for current expenses. The last weighed on her mind more than all the rest put together. "Why, I don't know how to make Current Expenses out of all that!" she had said to Mr. De Guenther. "It looks to me exactly like about ten months' salary! I'm perfectly certain I shall get up in my sleep and try to pay my board ahead with it, so I shan't have it all spent before the ten months are up! There was a blue bead necklace," she went on meditatively, "in the Five-and-Ten, that I always wanted to buy. Only I never quite felt I could afford it. Oh, just imagine going to the Five-and-Ten and buying at least five dollars' worth of things you didn't need!" "You have great discretionary powers--great discretionary powers, my dear, you will find!" Mr. De Guenther had said, as he patted her shoulder. Phyllis took it as a compliment at the time. "Discretionary powers" sounded as if he thought she was a quite intelligent young person. It did not occur to her till he had gone, and she was alone with her check-book, that it meant she had a good deal of liberty to do as she liked. It seemed to be expected of her to stay. Nobody even suggested a possibility of her going home again, even to pack her trunk. Mrs. De Guenther casually volunteered to do that, a little after the housekeeper had told her where her rooms were. She had been consulting with the housekeeper for what seemed ages, when she happened to want some pins for something, and asked for her suit-case. "It's in your rooms," said the housekeeper. "Mrs. Harrington--the late Mrs. Harrington, I should say----" Phyllis stopped listening at this point. Who was the present Mrs. Harrington? she wondered before she thought--and then remembered. Why--_she_ was! So there was no Phyllis Braithwaite any more! Of course not.... Yet she had always liked the name so--well, a last name was a small thing to give up.... Into her mind fitted an incongruous, silly story she had heard once at the library, about a girl whose last name was Rose, and whose parents christened her Wild, because the combination appealed to them. And then she married a man named Bull.... Meanwhile the housekeeper had been going on. ... "She had the bedroom and bath opening from the other side of Mr. Allan's day-room ready for you, madam. It's been ready several weeks." "Has it?" said Phyllis. It was like Mrs. Harrington, that careful planning of even where she should be put. "Is Mr. Harrington in his day-room now?" For some reason she did not attempt to give herself, she did not want to see him again just now. Besides, it was nearly eleven and time a very tired girl was in bed. She wanted a good night's rest, before she had to get up and be Mrs. Harrington, with Allan and the check-book and the Current Expenses all tied to her. Some one had laid everything out for her in the bedroom; the filmy new nightgown over a chair, the blue satin mules underneath, her plain toilet-things on a dressing-table, and over another chair the exquisite ivory crepe negligee with its floating rose ribbons. She took a hasty bath--there was so much hot water that she was quite reconciled for a moment to being a check-booked and wolf hounded Mrs. Harrington--and slid straight into bed without even stopping to braid her loosened, honey-colored hair. It seemed to her that she was barely asleep when there came an urgent knocking at her door. "Yes?" she said sleepily, looking mechanically for her alarm-clock as she switched on the light. "What is it, please?" "It's I, Wallis, Mr. Allan's man, Madame," said a nervous voice. "Mr. Allan's very bad. I've done all the usual things, but nothing seems to quiet him. He hates doctors so, and they make him so wrought up--please could you come, ma'am? He says as how all of us are all dead--oh, _please_, Mrs. Harrington!" There was panic in the man's voice. "All right," said Phyllis sleepily, dropping to the floor as she spoke with the rapidity that only the alarm-clock-broken know. She snatched the negligee around her, and thrust her feet hastily into the blue satin slippers--why, she was actually using her wedding finery! And what an easily upset person that man was! But everybody in the house seemed to have nerves on edge. It was no wonder about Allan--he wanted his mother, of course, poor boy! She felt, as she ran fleetly across the long room that separated her sleeping quarters from her husband's, the same mixture of pity and timidity that she had felt with him before. Poor boy! Poor, silent, beautiful statue, with his one friend gone! She opened the door and entered swiftly into his room. She was not thinking about herself at all, only of how she could help Allan, but there must have been something about her of the picture-book angel to the pain-racked man, lying tensely at length in the room's darkest corner. Her long, dully gold hair, loosening from its twist, flew out about her, and her face was still flushed with sleep. There was a something about her that was vividly alight and alive, perhaps the light in her blue eyes. From what the man had said Phyllis had thought Allan was delirious, but she saw at once that he was only in severe pain, and talking more disconnectedly, perhaps, than the slow-minded Englishman could follow. He did not look like a statue now. His cheeks were burning with evident pain, and his yellow-brown eyes, wide-open, and dilated to darkness, stared straight out. His hands were clenching and unclenching, and his head moved restlessly from side to side. Every nerve and muscle, she could see, was taut. "They're all dead," he muttered. "Father and Mother and Louise--and I--only I'm not dead enough to bury. Oh, God, I wish I was!" That wasn't delirium; it was something more like heart-break. Phyllis moved closer to him, and dropped one of her sleep-warm hands on his cold, clenched one. "Oh, poor boy!" she said. "I'm so sorry--so sorry!" She closed her hands tight over both his. Some of her strong young vitality must have passed between them and helped him, for almost immediately his tenseness relaxed a little, and he looked at her. "You--you're not a nurse," he said. "They go around--like--like a--vault----" She had caught his attention! That was a good deal, she felt. She forgot everything about him, except that he was some one to be comforted, and her charge. She sat down on the bed by him, still holding tight to his hands. "No, indeed," she said, bending nearer him, her long loose hair falling forward about her resolutely-smiling young face. "Don't you remember seeing me? I never was a nurse." "What--are you?" he asked feebly. "I'm--why, the children call me the Liberry Teacher," she answered. It occurred to her that it would be better to talk on brightly at random than to risk speaking of his mother to him, as she must if she reminded him of their marriage. "I spend my days in a basement, making bad little boys get so interested in the Higher Culture that they'll forget to shoot crap and smash windows." One of the things which had aided Phyllis to rise from desk-assistant to one of the Children's Room librarians was a very sweet and carrying voice--a voice which arrested even a child's attention,

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How many times the word 'shut' appears in the text?

with him--do you think you could do that? But I always cry so before I'm through--I cry and cry--my poor, helpless boy--he was so strong and bright! And you are sure you are conscientious----" At this point Phyllis stopped the flow of Mrs. Harrington's conversation firmly, if sweetly. "Yes, indeed," she said cheerfully. "But you know, if I'm not, Mr. De Guenther can stop all my allowance. It wouldn't be to my own interest not to fulfil my duties faithfully." "Yes, that is true," said Mrs. Harrington. "That was a good thought of mine. My husband always said I was an unusual woman where business was concerned." So they went on the principle that she had no honor beyond working for what she would get out of it! Although she had made the suggestion herself, Phyllis's cheeks burned, and she was about to answer sharply. Then somehow the poor, anxious, loving mother's absolute preoccupation with her son struck her as right after all. "If it were my son," thought Phyllis, "I wouldn't worry about any strange hired girl's feelings either, maybe. I'd just think about him.... I promise I'll look after Mr. Harrington's welfare as if he were my own brother!" she ended aloud impulsively. "Indeed, you may trust me." "I am--sure you will," panted Mrs. Harrington. "You look like--a good girl, and--and old enough to be responsible--twenty-eight--thirty?" "Not very far from that," said Phyllis serenely. "And you are sure you will know when the attendants are neglectful? I speak to them all the time, but I never can be sure.... And now you'd better see poor Allan. This is one of his good days. Just think, dear Isabel, he spoke to me twice without my speaking to him this morning!" "Oh--must I?" asked Phyllis, dismayed. "Couldn't I wait till--till it happens?" Mrs. Harrington actually laughed a little at her shyness, lighting up like a girl. Phyllis felt dimly, though she tried not to, that through it all her mother-in-law-elect was taking pleasure in the dramatic side of the situation she had engineered. "Oh, my dear, you must see him. He expects you," she answered almost gayly. The procession of three moved down the long room towards a door, Phyllis's hand guiding the wheel-chair. She was surprised to find herself shaking with fright. Just what she expected to find beyond the door she did not know, but it must have been some horror, for it was with a heart-bound of wild relief that she finally made out Allan Harrington, lying white in the darkened place. A Crusader on a tomb. Yes, he looked like that. In the room's half-dusk the pallor of his still, clear-featured face and his long, clear-cut hands was nearly the same as the whiteness of the couch-draperies. His hair, yellow-brown and waving, flung back from his forehead like a crest, and his dark brows and lashes made the only note of darkness about him. To Phyllis's beauty-loving eyes he seemed so perfect an image that she could have watched him for hours. "Here's Miss Braithwaite, my poor darling," said his mother. "The young lady we have been talking about so long." The Crusader lifted his eyelids and let them fall again. "Is she?" he said listlessly. "Don't you want to talk to her, darling boy?" his mother persisted, half out of breath, but still full of that unrebuffable, loving energy and insistence which she would probably keep to the last minute of her life. "No," said the Crusader, still in those empty, listless tones. "I'd rather not talk. I'm tired." His mother seemed not at all put out. "Of course, darling," she said, kissing him. She sat by him still, however, and poured out sentence after sentence of question, insistence, imploration, and pity, eliciting no answer at all. Phyllis wondered how it would feel to have to lie still and have that done to you for a term of years. The result of her wonderment was a decision to forgive her unenthusiastic future bridegroom for what she had at first been ready to slap him. Presently Mrs. Harrington's breath flagged, and the three women went away, back to the room they had been in before. Phyllis sat and let herself be talked to for a little longer. Then she rose impulsively. "May I go back and see your son again for just a minute?" she asked, and had gone before Mrs. Harrington had finished her permission. She darted into the dark room before her courage had time to fail, and stood by the white couch again. "Mr. Harrington," she said clearly, "I'm sorry you're tired, but I'm afraid I am going to have to ask you to listen to me. You know, don't you, that your mother plans to have me marry you, for a sort of interested head-nurse? Are you willing to have it happen? Because I won't do it unless you really prefer it." The heavy white lids half-lifted again. "I don't mind," said Allan Harrington listlessly. "I suppose you are quiet and trustworthy, or De Guenther wouldn't have sent you. It will give mother a little peace and it makes no difference to me." He closed his eyes and the subject at the same time. "Well, then, that's all right," said Phyllis cheerfully, and started to go. Then, drawn back by a sudden, nervous temper-impulse, she moved back on him. "And let me tell you," she added, half-laughing, half-impertinently, "that if you ever get into my quiet, trustworthy clutches you may have an awful time! You're a very spoiled invalid." She whisked out of the room before he could have gone very far with his reply. But he had not cared to reply, apparently. He lay unmoved and unmoving. Phyllis discovered, poising breathless on the threshold, that somehow she had seen his eyes. They had been a little like the wolfhound's, a sort of wistful gold-brown. For some reason she found that Allan Harrington's attitude of absolute detachment made the whole affair seem much easier for her. And when Mrs. Harrington slipped a solitaire diamond into her hand as she went, instead of disliking it she enjoyed its feel on her finger, and the flash of it in the light. She thanked Mrs. Harrington for it with real gratitude. But it made her feel more than ever engaged to marry her mother-in-law. She walked home rather silently with Mrs. De Guenther. Only at the foot of the De Guenther steps, she made one absent remark. "He must have been delightful," she said, "when he was alive!" VI After a week of the old bustling, dusty hard work, the Liberry Teacher's visit to the De Guenthers' and the subsequent one at the Harringtons', and even her sparkling white ring, seemed part of a queer story she had finished and put back on the shelf. The ring was the most real thing, because it was something of a worry. She didn't dare leave it at home, nor did she want to wear it. She finally sewed it in a chamois bag that she safety-pinned under her shirt-waist. Then she dismissed it from her mind also. There is very little time in a Liberry Teacher's life for meditation. Only once in a while would come to her the vision of the wistful Harrington wolfhound following his inadequate patch of sunlight, or of the dusky room where Allan Harrington lay inert and white, and looking like a wonderful carved statue on a tomb. She began to do a little to her clothes, but not very much, because she had neither time nor money. Mr. De Guenther had wanted her to take some money in advance, but she had refused. She did not want it till she had earned it, and, anyway, it would have made the whole thing so real, she knew, that she would have backed out. "And it isn't as if I were going to a lover," she defended herself to Mrs. De Guenther with a little wistful smile. "Nobody will know what I have on, any more than they do now." Mrs. De Guenther gave a scandalized little cry. Her attitude was determinedly that it was just an ordinary marriage, as good an excuse for sentiment and pretty frocks as any other. "My dear child," she replied firmly, "you are going to have one pretty frock and one really good street-suit _now_, or I will know why! The rest you may get yourself after the wedding, but you must obey me in this. Nonsense!--you can get a half-day, as you call it, perfectly well! What's Albert in politics for, if he can't get favors for his friends!" And, in effect, it proved that Albert was in politics to some purpose, for orders came up from the Head's office within twenty minutes after Mrs. De Guenther had used the telephone on her husband, that Miss Braithwaite was to have a half-day immediately--as far as she could make out, in order to transact city affairs! She felt as if the angels had told her she could have the last fortnight over again, as a favor, or something of the sort. A half-day out of turn was something nobody had ever heard of. She was even too surprised to object to the frock part of the situation. She tried to stand out a little longer, but it's a very stoical young woman who can refuse to have pretty clothes bought for her, and the end of it was a seat in a salon which she had always considered so expensive that you scarcely ought to look in the window. "Had it better be a black suit?" asked Mrs. De Guenther doubtfully, as the tall lady in floppy charmeuse hovered haughtily about them, expecting orders. "It seems horrible to buy mourning when dear Angela is not yet passed away, but it would only be showing proper respect; and I remember my own dear mother planned all our mourning outfits while she was dying. It was quite a pleasure to her." Phyllis kept her face straight, and slipped one persuasive hand through her friend's arm. "I don't believe I _could_ buy mourning, dear," she said. "And--oh, if you knew how long I'd wanted a really _blue_ blue suit! Only, it would have been too vivid to wear well--I always knew that--because you can only afford one every other year. And"--Phyllis rather diffidently voiced a thought which had been in the back of her mind for a long time--"if I'm going to be much around Mr. Harrington, don't you think cheerful clothes would be best? Everything in that house seems sombre enough now." "Perhaps you are right, dear child," said Mrs. De Guenther. "I hope you may be the means of putting a great deal of brightness into poor Allan's life before he joins his mother." "Oh, don't!" cried Phyllis impulsively. Somehow she could not bear to think of Allan Harrington's dying. He was too beautiful to be dead, where nobody could see him any more. Besides, Phyllis privately considered that a long vacation before he joined his mother would be only the fair thing for "poor Allan." Youth sides with youth. And--the clear-cut white lines of him rose in her memory and stayed there. She could almost hear that poor, tired, toneless voice of his, that was yet so deep and so perfectly accented.... She bought docilely whatever her guide directed, and woke from a species of gentle daze at the afternoon's end to find Mrs. De Guenther beaming with the weary rapture of the successful shopper, and herself the proprietress of a turquoise velvet walking-suit, a hat to match, a pale blue evening frock, a pale green between-dress with lovely clinging lines, and a heavenly white crepe thing with rosy ribbons and filmy shadow-laces--the negligee of one's dreams. There were also slippers and shoes and stockings and--this was really too bad of Mrs. De Guenther--a half-dozen set of lingerie, straight through. Mrs. De Guenther sat and continued to beam joyously over the array, in Phyllis's little bedroom. "It's my present, dearie," she said calmly. "So you needn't worry about using Angela's money. Gracious, it's been _lovely_! I haven't had such a good time since my husband's little grand-niece came on for a week. There's nothing like dressing a girl, after all." And Phyllis could only kiss her. But when her guest had gone she laid all the boxes of finery under her bed, the only place where there was any room. She would not take any of it out, she determined, till her summons came. But on second thought, she wore the blue velvet street-suit on Sunday visits to Mrs. Harrington, which became--she never knew just when or how--a regular thing. The vivid blue made her eyes nearly sky-color, and brightened her hair very satisfactorily. She was taking more time and trouble over her looks now--one has to live up to a turquoise velvet hat and coat! She found herself, too, becoming very genuinely fond of the restless, anxiously loving, passionate, unwise child who dwelt in Mrs. Harrington's frail elderly body and had almost worn it out. She sat, long hours of every Sunday afternoon, holding Mrs. Harrington's thin little hot hands, and listening to her swift, italicised monologues about Allan--what he must do, what he must not do, how he must be looked after, how his mother had treated him, how his wishes must be ascertained and followed. "Though all he wants now is dark and quiet," said his mother piteously. "I don't even go in there now to cry." She spoke as if it were an established ritual. Had she been using her son's sick-room, Phyllis wondered, as a regular weeping-place? She could feel in Mrs. Harrington, even in this mortal sickness, the tremendous driving influence which is often part of a passionately active and not very wise personality. That certitude and insistence of Mrs. Harrington's could hammer you finally into believing or doing almost anything. Phyllis wondered how much his mother's heartbroken adoration and pity might have had to do with making her son as hopeless-minded as he was. Naturally, the mother-in-law-elect she had acquired in such a strange way became very fond of Phyllis. But indeed there was something very gay and sweet and honest-minded about the girl, a something which gave people the feeling that they were very wise in liking her. Some people you are fond of against your will. When people cared for Phyllis it was with a quite irrational feeling that they were doing a sensible thing. They never gave any of the credit to her very real, though almost invisible, charm. She never saw Allan Harrington on any of the Sunday visits. She was sure the servants thought she did, for she knew that every one in the great, dark old house knew her as the young lady who was to marry Mr. Allan. She believed that she was supposed to be an old family friend, perhaps a distant relative. She did not want to see Allan. But she did want to be as good to his little, tensely-loving mother as she could, and reassure her about Allan's future care. And she succeeded. It was on a Friday about two that the summons came. Phyllis had thought she expected it, but when the call came to her over the library telephone she found herself as badly frightened as she had been the first time she went to the Harrington house. She shivered as she laid down the dater she was using, and called the other librarian to take her desk. Fortunately, between one and four the morning and evening shifts overlapped, and there was some one to take her place. "Mrs. Harrington cannot last out the night," came Mr. De Guenther's clear, precise voice over the telephone, without preface. "I have arranged with Mr. Johnston. You can go at once. You had better pack a suit-case, for you possibly may not be able to get back to your boarding-place." So it was to happen now! Phyllis felt, with her substitute in her place, her own wraps on, and her feet taking her swiftly towards her goal, as if she were offering herself to be made a nun, or have a hand or foot cut off, or paying herself away in some awful, irrevocable fashion. She packed, mechanically, all the pretty things Mrs. De Guenther had given her, and nothing else. She found herself at the door of her room with the locked suit-case in her hand, and not even a nail-file of the things belonging to her old self in it. She shook herself together, managed to laugh a little, and returned and put in such things as she thought she would require for the night. Then she went. She always remembered that journey as long as she lived; her hands and feet and tongue going on, buying tickets, giving directions--and her mind, like a naughty child, catching at everything as they went, and screaming to be allowed to go back home, back to the dusty, matter-of-course library and the dreary little boarding-house bedroom! VII They were all waiting for her, in what felt like a hideously quiet semicircle, in Allan's great dark room. Mrs. Harrington, deadly pale, and giving an impression of keeping herself alive only by force of that wonderful fighting vitality of hers, lay almost at length in her wheel-chair. There was a clergyman in vestments. There were the De Guenthers; Mr. De Guenther only a little more precise than his every-day habit was, Mrs. De Guenther crying a little, softly and furtively. As for Allan Harrington, he lay just as she had seen him that other time, white and moveless, seeming scarcely conscious except by an effort. Only she noticed a slight contraction, as of pain, between his brows. "Phyllis has come," panted Mrs. Harrington. "Now it will be--all right. You must marry him quickly--quickly, do you hear, Phyllis? Oh, people never will--do--what I want them to----" "Yes--yes, indeed, dear," said Phyllis, taking her hands soothingly. "We're going to attend to it right away. See, everything is ready." It occurred to her that Mrs. Harrington was not half as correct in her playing of the part of a dying woman as she would have seen to it that anyone else was; also, that things did not seem legal without the wolfhound. Then she was shocked at herself for such irrelevant thoughts. The thing to do was to keep poor Mrs. Harrington quieted. So she beckoned the clergyman and the De Guenthers nearer, and herself sped the marrying of herself to Allan Harrington. ... When you are being married to a Crusader on a tomb, the easiest way is to kneel down by him. Phyllis registered this fact in her mind quite blankly, as something which might be of use to remember in future.... The marrying took an unnecessarily long time, it seemed to her. It did not seem as if she were being married at all. It all seemed to concern somebody else. When it came to the putting on of the wedding-ring, she found herself, very naturally, guiding Allan's relaxed fingers to hold it in its successive places, and finally slip it on the wedding-finger. And somehow having to do that checked the chilly awe she had had before of Allan Harrington. It made her feel quite simply sorry for him, as if he were one of her poor little boys in trouble. And when it was all over she bent pitifully before she thought, and kissed one white, cold cheek. He seemed so tragically helpless, yet more alive, in some way, since she had touched his hand to guide it. Then, as her lips brushed his cheek, she recoiled and colored a little. She had felt that slight roughness which a man's cheek, however close-shaven, always has--the _man_-feel. It made her realize unreasonably that it was a man she had married, after all, not a stone image nor a sick child--a live man! With the thought, or rather instinct, came a swift terror of what she had done, and a swift impulse to rise. She was half-way risen from her knees when a hand on her shoulder, and the clergyman's voice in her ear, checked her. "Not yet," he murmured almost inaudibly. "Stay as you are till--till Mrs. Harrington is wheeled from the room." Phyllis understood. She remained as she was, her body a shield before Allan Harrington's eyes, her hand just withdrawing from his shoulder, till she heard the closing of the door, and a sigh as of relaxed tension from the three people around her. Then she rose. Allan lay still with closed eyelids. It seemed to her that he had flushed, if ever so faintly, at the touch of her lips on his cheek. She laid his hand on the coverlet with her own roughened, ringed one, and followed the others out, into the room where the dead woman had been taken, leaving him with his attendant. The rest of the evening Phyllis went about in a queer-keyed, almost light-hearted frame of mind. It was only the reaction from the long-expected terror that was over now, but it felt indecorous. It was just as well, however. Some one's head had to be kept. The servants were upset, of course, and there were many arrangements to be made. She and Mr. De Guenther worked steadily together, telephoning, ordering, guiding, straightening out all the tangles. There never was a wedding, she thought, where the bride did so much of the work! She even remembered to see personally that Allan's dinner was sent up to him. The servants had doubtless been told to come to her for orders--at any rate, they did. Phyllis had not had much experience in running a house, but a good deal in keeping her head. And that, after all, is the main thing. She had a far-off feeling as if she were hearing some other young woman giving swift, poised, executive orders. She rather admired her. After dinner the De Guenthers went. And Phyllis Braithwaite, the little Liberry Teacher who had been living in a hall bedroom on much less money than she needed, found herself alone, sole mistress of the great Harrington house, a corps of servants, a husband passive enough to satisfy the most militant suffragette, a check-book, a wistful wolfhound, and five hundred dollars, cash, for current expenses. The last weighed on her mind more than all the rest put together. "Why, I don't know how to make Current Expenses out of all that!" she had said to Mr. De Guenther. "It looks to me exactly like about ten months' salary! I'm perfectly certain I shall get up in my sleep and try to pay my board ahead with it, so I shan't have it all spent before the ten months are up! There was a blue bead necklace," she went on meditatively, "in the Five-and-Ten, that I always wanted to buy. Only I never quite felt I could afford it. Oh, just imagine going to the Five-and-Ten and buying at least five dollars' worth of things you didn't need!" "You have great discretionary powers--great discretionary powers, my dear, you will find!" Mr. De Guenther had said, as he patted her shoulder. Phyllis took it as a compliment at the time. "Discretionary powers" sounded as if he thought she was a quite intelligent young person. It did not occur to her till he had gone, and she was alone with her check-book, that it meant she had a good deal of liberty to do as she liked. It seemed to be expected of her to stay. Nobody even suggested a possibility of her going home again, even to pack her trunk. Mrs. De Guenther casually volunteered to do that, a little after the housekeeper had told her where her rooms were. She had been consulting with the housekeeper for what seemed ages, when she happened to want some pins for something, and asked for her suit-case. "It's in your rooms," said the housekeeper. "Mrs. Harrington--the late Mrs. Harrington, I should say----" Phyllis stopped listening at this point. Who was the present Mrs. Harrington? she wondered before she thought--and then remembered. Why--_she_ was! So there was no Phyllis Braithwaite any more! Of course not.... Yet she had always liked the name so--well, a last name was a small thing to give up.... Into her mind fitted an incongruous, silly story she had heard once at the library, about a girl whose last name was Rose, and whose parents christened her Wild, because the combination appealed to them. And then she married a man named Bull.... Meanwhile the housekeeper had been going on. ... "She had the bedroom and bath opening from the other side of Mr. Allan's day-room ready for you, madam. It's been ready several weeks." "Has it?" said Phyllis. It was like Mrs. Harrington, that careful planning of even where she should be put. "Is Mr. Harrington in his day-room now?" For some reason she did not attempt to give herself, she did not want to see him again just now. Besides, it was nearly eleven and time a very tired girl was in bed. She wanted a good night's rest, before she had to get up and be Mrs. Harrington, with Allan and the check-book and the Current Expenses all tied to her. Some one had laid everything out for her in the bedroom; the filmy new nightgown over a chair, the blue satin mules underneath, her plain toilet-things on a dressing-table, and over another chair the exquisite ivory crepe negligee with its floating rose ribbons. She took a hasty bath--there was so much hot water that she was quite reconciled for a moment to being a check-booked and wolf hounded Mrs. Harrington--and slid straight into bed without even stopping to braid her loosened, honey-colored hair. It seemed to her that she was barely asleep when there came an urgent knocking at her door. "Yes?" she said sleepily, looking mechanically for her alarm-clock as she switched on the light. "What is it, please?" "It's I, Wallis, Mr. Allan's man, Madame," said a nervous voice. "Mr. Allan's very bad. I've done all the usual things, but nothing seems to quiet him. He hates doctors so, and they make him so wrought up--please could you come, ma'am? He says as how all of us are all dead--oh, _please_, Mrs. Harrington!" There was panic in the man's voice. "All right," said Phyllis sleepily, dropping to the floor as she spoke with the rapidity that only the alarm-clock-broken know. She snatched the negligee around her, and thrust her feet hastily into the blue satin slippers--why, she was actually using her wedding finery! And what an easily upset person that man was! But everybody in the house seemed to have nerves on edge. It was no wonder about Allan--he wanted his mother, of course, poor boy! She felt, as she ran fleetly across the long room that separated her sleeping quarters from her husband's, the same mixture of pity and timidity that she had felt with him before. Poor boy! Poor, silent, beautiful statue, with his one friend gone! She opened the door and entered swiftly into his room. She was not thinking about herself at all, only of how she could help Allan, but there must have been something about her of the picture-book angel to the pain-racked man, lying tensely at length in the room's darkest corner. Her long, dully gold hair, loosening from its twist, flew out about her, and her face was still flushed with sleep. There was a something about her that was vividly alight and alive, perhaps the light in her blue eyes. From what the man had said Phyllis had thought Allan was delirious, but she saw at once that he was only in severe pain, and talking more disconnectedly, perhaps, than the slow-minded Englishman could follow. He did not look like a statue now. His cheeks were burning with evident pain, and his yellow-brown eyes, wide-open, and dilated to darkness, stared straight out. His hands were clenching and unclenching, and his head moved restlessly from side to side. Every nerve and muscle, she could see, was taut. "They're all dead," he muttered. "Father and Mother and Louise--and I--only I'm not dead enough to bury. Oh, God, I wish I was!" That wasn't delirium; it was something more like heart-break. Phyllis moved closer to him, and dropped one of her sleep-warm hands on his cold, clenched one. "Oh, poor boy!" she said. "I'm so sorry--so sorry!" She closed her hands tight over both his. Some of her strong young vitality must have passed between them and helped him, for almost immediately his tenseness relaxed a little, and he looked at her. "You--you're not a nurse," he said. "They go around--like--like a--vault----" She had caught his attention! That was a good deal, she felt. She forgot everything about him, except that he was some one to be comforted, and her charge. She sat down on the bed by him, still holding tight to his hands. "No, indeed," she said, bending nearer him, her long loose hair falling forward about her resolutely-smiling young face. "Don't you remember seeing me? I never was a nurse." "What--are you?" he asked feebly. "I'm--why, the children call me the Liberry Teacher," she answered. It occurred to her that it would be better to talk on brightly at random than to risk speaking of his mother to him, as she must if she reminded him of their marriage. "I spend my days in a basement, making bad little boys get so interested in the Higher Culture that they'll forget to shoot crap and smash windows." One of the things which had aided Phyllis to rise from desk-assistant to one of the Children's Room librarians was a very sweet and carrying voice--a voice which arrested even a child's attention,

horror

How many times the word 'horror' appears in the text?

with him--do you think you could do that? But I always cry so before I'm through--I cry and cry--my poor, helpless boy--he was so strong and bright! And you are sure you are conscientious----" At this point Phyllis stopped the flow of Mrs. Harrington's conversation firmly, if sweetly. "Yes, indeed," she said cheerfully. "But you know, if I'm not, Mr. De Guenther can stop all my allowance. It wouldn't be to my own interest not to fulfil my duties faithfully." "Yes, that is true," said Mrs. Harrington. "That was a good thought of mine. My husband always said I was an unusual woman where business was concerned." So they went on the principle that she had no honor beyond working for what she would get out of it! Although she had made the suggestion herself, Phyllis's cheeks burned, and she was about to answer sharply. Then somehow the poor, anxious, loving mother's absolute preoccupation with her son struck her as right after all. "If it were my son," thought Phyllis, "I wouldn't worry about any strange hired girl's feelings either, maybe. I'd just think about him.... I promise I'll look after Mr. Harrington's welfare as if he were my own brother!" she ended aloud impulsively. "Indeed, you may trust me." "I am--sure you will," panted Mrs. Harrington. "You look like--a good girl, and--and old enough to be responsible--twenty-eight--thirty?" "Not very far from that," said Phyllis serenely. "And you are sure you will know when the attendants are neglectful? I speak to them all the time, but I never can be sure.... And now you'd better see poor Allan. This is one of his good days. Just think, dear Isabel, he spoke to me twice without my speaking to him this morning!" "Oh--must I?" asked Phyllis, dismayed. "Couldn't I wait till--till it happens?" Mrs. Harrington actually laughed a little at her shyness, lighting up like a girl. Phyllis felt dimly, though she tried not to, that through it all her mother-in-law-elect was taking pleasure in the dramatic side of the situation she had engineered. "Oh, my dear, you must see him. He expects you," she answered almost gayly. The procession of three moved down the long room towards a door, Phyllis's hand guiding the wheel-chair. She was surprised to find herself shaking with fright. Just what she expected to find beyond the door she did not know, but it must have been some horror, for it was with a heart-bound of wild relief that she finally made out Allan Harrington, lying white in the darkened place. A Crusader on a tomb. Yes, he looked like that. In the room's half-dusk the pallor of his still, clear-featured face and his long, clear-cut hands was nearly the same as the whiteness of the couch-draperies. His hair, yellow-brown and waving, flung back from his forehead like a crest, and his dark brows and lashes made the only note of darkness about him. To Phyllis's beauty-loving eyes he seemed so perfect an image that she could have watched him for hours. "Here's Miss Braithwaite, my poor darling," said his mother. "The young lady we have been talking about so long." The Crusader lifted his eyelids and let them fall again. "Is she?" he said listlessly. "Don't you want to talk to her, darling boy?" his mother persisted, half out of breath, but still full of that unrebuffable, loving energy and insistence which she would probably keep to the last minute of her life. "No," said the Crusader, still in those empty, listless tones. "I'd rather not talk. I'm tired." His mother seemed not at all put out. "Of course, darling," she said, kissing him. She sat by him still, however, and poured out sentence after sentence of question, insistence, imploration, and pity, eliciting no answer at all. Phyllis wondered how it would feel to have to lie still and have that done to you for a term of years. The result of her wonderment was a decision to forgive her unenthusiastic future bridegroom for what she had at first been ready to slap him. Presently Mrs. Harrington's breath flagged, and the three women went away, back to the room they had been in before. Phyllis sat and let herself be talked to for a little longer. Then she rose impulsively. "May I go back and see your son again for just a minute?" she asked, and had gone before Mrs. Harrington had finished her permission. She darted into the dark room before her courage had time to fail, and stood by the white couch again. "Mr. Harrington," she said clearly, "I'm sorry you're tired, but I'm afraid I am going to have to ask you to listen to me. You know, don't you, that your mother plans to have me marry you, for a sort of interested head-nurse? Are you willing to have it happen? Because I won't do it unless you really prefer it." The heavy white lids half-lifted again. "I don't mind," said Allan Harrington listlessly. "I suppose you are quiet and trustworthy, or De Guenther wouldn't have sent you. It will give mother a little peace and it makes no difference to me." He closed his eyes and the subject at the same time. "Well, then, that's all right," said Phyllis cheerfully, and started to go. Then, drawn back by a sudden, nervous temper-impulse, she moved back on him. "And let me tell you," she added, half-laughing, half-impertinently, "that if you ever get into my quiet, trustworthy clutches you may have an awful time! You're a very spoiled invalid." She whisked out of the room before he could have gone very far with his reply. But he had not cared to reply, apparently. He lay unmoved and unmoving. Phyllis discovered, poising breathless on the threshold, that somehow she had seen his eyes. They had been a little like the wolfhound's, a sort of wistful gold-brown. For some reason she found that Allan Harrington's attitude of absolute detachment made the whole affair seem much easier for her. And when Mrs. Harrington slipped a solitaire diamond into her hand as she went, instead of disliking it she enjoyed its feel on her finger, and the flash of it in the light. She thanked Mrs. Harrington for it with real gratitude. But it made her feel more than ever engaged to marry her mother-in-law. She walked home rather silently with Mrs. De Guenther. Only at the foot of the De Guenther steps, she made one absent remark. "He must have been delightful," she said, "when he was alive!" VI After a week of the old bustling, dusty hard work, the Liberry Teacher's visit to the De Guenthers' and the subsequent one at the Harringtons', and even her sparkling white ring, seemed part of a queer story she had finished and put back on the shelf. The ring was the most real thing, because it was something of a worry. She didn't dare leave it at home, nor did she want to wear it. She finally sewed it in a chamois bag that she safety-pinned under her shirt-waist. Then she dismissed it from her mind also. There is very little time in a Liberry Teacher's life for meditation. Only once in a while would come to her the vision of the wistful Harrington wolfhound following his inadequate patch of sunlight, or of the dusky room where Allan Harrington lay inert and white, and looking like a wonderful carved statue on a tomb. She began to do a little to her clothes, but not very much, because she had neither time nor money. Mr. De Guenther had wanted her to take some money in advance, but she had refused. She did not want it till she had earned it, and, anyway, it would have made the whole thing so real, she knew, that she would have backed out. "And it isn't as if I were going to a lover," she defended herself to Mrs. De Guenther with a little wistful smile. "Nobody will know what I have on, any more than they do now." Mrs. De Guenther gave a scandalized little cry. Her attitude was determinedly that it was just an ordinary marriage, as good an excuse for sentiment and pretty frocks as any other. "My dear child," she replied firmly, "you are going to have one pretty frock and one really good street-suit _now_, or I will know why! The rest you may get yourself after the wedding, but you must obey me in this. Nonsense!--you can get a half-day, as you call it, perfectly well! What's Albert in politics for, if he can't get favors for his friends!" And, in effect, it proved that Albert was in politics to some purpose, for orders came up from the Head's office within twenty minutes after Mrs. De Guenther had used the telephone on her husband, that Miss Braithwaite was to have a half-day immediately--as far as she could make out, in order to transact city affairs! She felt as if the angels had told her she could have the last fortnight over again, as a favor, or something of the sort. A half-day out of turn was something nobody had ever heard of. She was even too surprised to object to the frock part of the situation. She tried to stand out a little longer, but it's a very stoical young woman who can refuse to have pretty clothes bought for her, and the end of it was a seat in a salon which she had always considered so expensive that you scarcely ought to look in the window. "Had it better be a black suit?" asked Mrs. De Guenther doubtfully, as the tall lady in floppy charmeuse hovered haughtily about them, expecting orders. "It seems horrible to buy mourning when dear Angela is not yet passed away, but it would only be showing proper respect; and I remember my own dear mother planned all our mourning outfits while she was dying. It was quite a pleasure to her." Phyllis kept her face straight, and slipped one persuasive hand through her friend's arm. "I don't believe I _could_ buy mourning, dear," she said. "And--oh, if you knew how long I'd wanted a really _blue_ blue suit! Only, it would have been too vivid to wear well--I always knew that--because you can only afford one every other year. And"--Phyllis rather diffidently voiced a thought which had been in the back of her mind for a long time--"if I'm going to be much around Mr. Harrington, don't you think cheerful clothes would be best? Everything in that house seems sombre enough now." "Perhaps you are right, dear child," said Mrs. De Guenther. "I hope you may be the means of putting a great deal of brightness into poor Allan's life before he joins his mother." "Oh, don't!" cried Phyllis impulsively. Somehow she could not bear to think of Allan Harrington's dying. He was too beautiful to be dead, where nobody could see him any more. Besides, Phyllis privately considered that a long vacation before he joined his mother would be only the fair thing for "poor Allan." Youth sides with youth. And--the clear-cut white lines of him rose in her memory and stayed there. She could almost hear that poor, tired, toneless voice of his, that was yet so deep and so perfectly accented.... She bought docilely whatever her guide directed, and woke from a species of gentle daze at the afternoon's end to find Mrs. De Guenther beaming with the weary rapture of the successful shopper, and herself the proprietress of a turquoise velvet walking-suit, a hat to match, a pale blue evening frock, a pale green between-dress with lovely clinging lines, and a heavenly white crepe thing with rosy ribbons and filmy shadow-laces--the negligee of one's dreams. There were also slippers and shoes and stockings and--this was really too bad of Mrs. De Guenther--a half-dozen set of lingerie, straight through. Mrs. De Guenther sat and continued to beam joyously over the array, in Phyllis's little bedroom. "It's my present, dearie," she said calmly. "So you needn't worry about using Angela's money. Gracious, it's been _lovely_! I haven't had such a good time since my husband's little grand-niece came on for a week. There's nothing like dressing a girl, after all." And Phyllis could only kiss her. But when her guest had gone she laid all the boxes of finery under her bed, the only place where there was any room. She would not take any of it out, she determined, till her summons came. But on second thought, she wore the blue velvet street-suit on Sunday visits to Mrs. Harrington, which became--she never knew just when or how--a regular thing. The vivid blue made her eyes nearly sky-color, and brightened her hair very satisfactorily. She was taking more time and trouble over her looks now--one has to live up to a turquoise velvet hat and coat! She found herself, too, becoming very genuinely fond of the restless, anxiously loving, passionate, unwise child who dwelt in Mrs. Harrington's frail elderly body and had almost worn it out. She sat, long hours of every Sunday afternoon, holding Mrs. Harrington's thin little hot hands, and listening to her swift, italicised monologues about Allan--what he must do, what he must not do, how he must be looked after, how his mother had treated him, how his wishes must be ascertained and followed. "Though all he wants now is dark and quiet," said his mother piteously. "I don't even go in there now to cry." She spoke as if it were an established ritual. Had she been using her son's sick-room, Phyllis wondered, as a regular weeping-place? She could feel in Mrs. Harrington, even in this mortal sickness, the tremendous driving influence which is often part of a passionately active and not very wise personality. That certitude and insistence of Mrs. Harrington's could hammer you finally into believing or doing almost anything. Phyllis wondered how much his mother's heartbroken adoration and pity might have had to do with making her son as hopeless-minded as he was. Naturally, the mother-in-law-elect she had acquired in such a strange way became very fond of Phyllis. But indeed there was something very gay and sweet and honest-minded about the girl, a something which gave people the feeling that they were very wise in liking her. Some people you are fond of against your will. When people cared for Phyllis it was with a quite irrational feeling that they were doing a sensible thing. They never gave any of the credit to her very real, though almost invisible, charm. She never saw Allan Harrington on any of the Sunday visits. She was sure the servants thought she did, for she knew that every one in the great, dark old house knew her as the young lady who was to marry Mr. Allan. She believed that she was supposed to be an old family friend, perhaps a distant relative. She did not want to see Allan. But she did want to be as good to his little, tensely-loving mother as she could, and reassure her about Allan's future care. And she succeeded. It was on a Friday about two that the summons came. Phyllis had thought she expected it, but when the call came to her over the library telephone she found herself as badly frightened as she had been the first time she went to the Harrington house. She shivered as she laid down the dater she was using, and called the other librarian to take her desk. Fortunately, between one and four the morning and evening shifts overlapped, and there was some one to take her place. "Mrs. Harrington cannot last out the night," came Mr. De Guenther's clear, precise voice over the telephone, without preface. "I have arranged with Mr. Johnston. You can go at once. You had better pack a suit-case, for you possibly may not be able to get back to your boarding-place." So it was to happen now! Phyllis felt, with her substitute in her place, her own wraps on, and her feet taking her swiftly towards her goal, as if she were offering herself to be made a nun, or have a hand or foot cut off, or paying herself away in some awful, irrevocable fashion. She packed, mechanically, all the pretty things Mrs. De Guenther had given her, and nothing else. She found herself at the door of her room with the locked suit-case in her hand, and not even a nail-file of the things belonging to her old self in it. She shook herself together, managed to laugh a little, and returned and put in such things as she thought she would require for the night. Then she went. She always remembered that journey as long as she lived; her hands and feet and tongue going on, buying tickets, giving directions--and her mind, like a naughty child, catching at everything as they went, and screaming to be allowed to go back home, back to the dusty, matter-of-course library and the dreary little boarding-house bedroom! VII They were all waiting for her, in what felt like a hideously quiet semicircle, in Allan's great dark room. Mrs. Harrington, deadly pale, and giving an impression of keeping herself alive only by force of that wonderful fighting vitality of hers, lay almost at length in her wheel-chair. There was a clergyman in vestments. There were the De Guenthers; Mr. De Guenther only a little more precise than his every-day habit was, Mrs. De Guenther crying a little, softly and furtively. As for Allan Harrington, he lay just as she had seen him that other time, white and moveless, seeming scarcely conscious except by an effort. Only she noticed a slight contraction, as of pain, between his brows. "Phyllis has come," panted Mrs. Harrington. "Now it will be--all right. You must marry him quickly--quickly, do you hear, Phyllis? Oh, people never will--do--what I want them to----" "Yes--yes, indeed, dear," said Phyllis, taking her hands soothingly. "We're going to attend to it right away. See, everything is ready." It occurred to her that Mrs. Harrington was not half as correct in her playing of the part of a dying woman as she would have seen to it that anyone else was; also, that things did not seem legal without the wolfhound. Then she was shocked at herself for such irrelevant thoughts. The thing to do was to keep poor Mrs. Harrington quieted. So she beckoned the clergyman and the De Guenthers nearer, and herself sped the marrying of herself to Allan Harrington. ... When you are being married to a Crusader on a tomb, the easiest way is to kneel down by him. Phyllis registered this fact in her mind quite blankly, as something which might be of use to remember in future.... The marrying took an unnecessarily long time, it seemed to her. It did not seem as if she were being married at all. It all seemed to concern somebody else. When it came to the putting on of the wedding-ring, she found herself, very naturally, guiding Allan's relaxed fingers to hold it in its successive places, and finally slip it on the wedding-finger. And somehow having to do that checked the chilly awe she had had before of Allan Harrington. It made her feel quite simply sorry for him, as if he were one of her poor little boys in trouble. And when it was all over she bent pitifully before she thought, and kissed one white, cold cheek. He seemed so tragically helpless, yet more alive, in some way, since she had touched his hand to guide it. Then, as her lips brushed his cheek, she recoiled and colored a little. She had felt that slight roughness which a man's cheek, however close-shaven, always has--the _man_-feel. It made her realize unreasonably that it was a man she had married, after all, not a stone image nor a sick child--a live man! With the thought, or rather instinct, came a swift terror of what she had done, and a swift impulse to rise. She was half-way risen from her knees when a hand on her shoulder, and the clergyman's voice in her ear, checked her. "Not yet," he murmured almost inaudibly. "Stay as you are till--till Mrs. Harrington is wheeled from the room." Phyllis understood. She remained as she was, her body a shield before Allan Harrington's eyes, her hand just withdrawing from his shoulder, till she heard the closing of the door, and a sigh as of relaxed tension from the three people around her. Then she rose. Allan lay still with closed eyelids. It seemed to her that he had flushed, if ever so faintly, at the touch of her lips on his cheek. She laid his hand on the coverlet with her own roughened, ringed one, and followed the others out, into the room where the dead woman had been taken, leaving him with his attendant. The rest of the evening Phyllis went about in a queer-keyed, almost light-hearted frame of mind. It was only the reaction from the long-expected terror that was over now, but it felt indecorous. It was just as well, however. Some one's head had to be kept. The servants were upset, of course, and there were many arrangements to be made. She and Mr. De Guenther worked steadily together, telephoning, ordering, guiding, straightening out all the tangles. There never was a wedding, she thought, where the bride did so much of the work! She even remembered to see personally that Allan's dinner was sent up to him. The servants had doubtless been told to come to her for orders--at any rate, they did. Phyllis had not had much experience in running a house, but a good deal in keeping her head. And that, after all, is the main thing. She had a far-off feeling as if she were hearing some other young woman giving swift, poised, executive orders. She rather admired her. After dinner the De Guenthers went. And Phyllis Braithwaite, the little Liberry Teacher who had been living in a hall bedroom on much less money than she needed, found herself alone, sole mistress of the great Harrington house, a corps of servants, a husband passive enough to satisfy the most militant suffragette, a check-book, a wistful wolfhound, and five hundred dollars, cash, for current expenses. The last weighed on her mind more than all the rest put together. "Why, I don't know how to make Current Expenses out of all that!" she had said to Mr. De Guenther. "It looks to me exactly like about ten months' salary! I'm perfectly certain I shall get up in my sleep and try to pay my board ahead with it, so I shan't have it all spent before the ten months are up! There was a blue bead necklace," she went on meditatively, "in the Five-and-Ten, that I always wanted to buy. Only I never quite felt I could afford it. Oh, just imagine going to the Five-and-Ten and buying at least five dollars' worth of things you didn't need!" "You have great discretionary powers--great discretionary powers, my dear, you will find!" Mr. De Guenther had said, as he patted her shoulder. Phyllis took it as a compliment at the time. "Discretionary powers" sounded as if he thought she was a quite intelligent young person. It did not occur to her till he had gone, and she was alone with her check-book, that it meant she had a good deal of liberty to do as she liked. It seemed to be expected of her to stay. Nobody even suggested a possibility of her going home again, even to pack her trunk. Mrs. De Guenther casually volunteered to do that, a little after the housekeeper had told her where her rooms were. She had been consulting with the housekeeper for what seemed ages, when she happened to want some pins for something, and asked for her suit-case. "It's in your rooms," said the housekeeper. "Mrs. Harrington--the late Mrs. Harrington, I should say----" Phyllis stopped listening at this point. Who was the present Mrs. Harrington? she wondered before she thought--and then remembered. Why--_she_ was! So there was no Phyllis Braithwaite any more! Of course not.... Yet she had always liked the name so--well, a last name was a small thing to give up.... Into her mind fitted an incongruous, silly story she had heard once at the library, about a girl whose last name was Rose, and whose parents christened her Wild, because the combination appealed to them. And then she married a man named Bull.... Meanwhile the housekeeper had been going on. ... "She had the bedroom and bath opening from the other side of Mr. Allan's day-room ready for you, madam. It's been ready several weeks." "Has it?" said Phyllis. It was like Mrs. Harrington, that careful planning of even where she should be put. "Is Mr. Harrington in his day-room now?" For some reason she did not attempt to give herself, she did not want to see him again just now. Besides, it was nearly eleven and time a very tired girl was in bed. She wanted a good night's rest, before she had to get up and be Mrs. Harrington, with Allan and the check-book and the Current Expenses all tied to her. Some one had laid everything out for her in the bedroom; the filmy new nightgown over a chair, the blue satin mules underneath, her plain toilet-things on a dressing-table, and over another chair the exquisite ivory crepe negligee with its floating rose ribbons. She took a hasty bath--there was so much hot water that she was quite reconciled for a moment to being a check-booked and wolf hounded Mrs. Harrington--and slid straight into bed without even stopping to braid her loosened, honey-colored hair. It seemed to her that she was barely asleep when there came an urgent knocking at her door. "Yes?" she said sleepily, looking mechanically for her alarm-clock as she switched on the light. "What is it, please?" "It's I, Wallis, Mr. Allan's man, Madame," said a nervous voice. "Mr. Allan's very bad. I've done all the usual things, but nothing seems to quiet him. He hates doctors so, and they make him so wrought up--please could you come, ma'am? He says as how all of us are all dead--oh, _please_, Mrs. Harrington!" There was panic in the man's voice. "All right," said Phyllis sleepily, dropping to the floor as she spoke with the rapidity that only the alarm-clock-broken know. She snatched the negligee around her, and thrust her feet hastily into the blue satin slippers--why, she was actually using her wedding finery! And what an easily upset person that man was! But everybody in the house seemed to have nerves on edge. It was no wonder about Allan--he wanted his mother, of course, poor boy! She felt, as she ran fleetly across the long room that separated her sleeping quarters from her husband's, the same mixture of pity and timidity that she had felt with him before. Poor boy! Poor, silent, beautiful statue, with his one friend gone! She opened the door and entered swiftly into his room. She was not thinking about herself at all, only of how she could help Allan, but there must have been something about her of the picture-book angel to the pain-racked man, lying tensely at length in the room's darkest corner. Her long, dully gold hair, loosening from its twist, flew out about her, and her face was still flushed with sleep. There was a something about her that was vividly alight and alive, perhaps the light in her blue eyes. From what the man had said Phyllis had thought Allan was delirious, but she saw at once that he was only in severe pain, and talking more disconnectedly, perhaps, than the slow-minded Englishman could follow. He did not look like a statue now. His cheeks were burning with evident pain, and his yellow-brown eyes, wide-open, and dilated to darkness, stared straight out. His hands were clenching and unclenching, and his head moved restlessly from side to side. Every nerve and muscle, she could see, was taut. "They're all dead," he muttered. "Father and Mother and Louise--and I--only I'm not dead enough to bury. Oh, God, I wish I was!" That wasn't delirium; it was something more like heart-break. Phyllis moved closer to him, and dropped one of her sleep-warm hands on his cold, clenched one. "Oh, poor boy!" she said. "I'm so sorry--so sorry!" She closed her hands tight over both his. Some of her strong young vitality must have passed between them and helped him, for almost immediately his tenseness relaxed a little, and he looked at her. "You--you're not a nurse," he said. "They go around--like--like a--vault----" She had caught his attention! That was a good deal, she felt. She forgot everything about him, except that he was some one to be comforted, and her charge. She sat down on the bed by him, still holding tight to his hands. "No, indeed," she said, bending nearer him, her long loose hair falling forward about her resolutely-smiling young face. "Don't you remember seeing me? I never was a nurse." "What--are you?" he asked feebly. "I'm--why, the children call me the Liberry Teacher," she answered. It occurred to her that it would be better to talk on brightly at random than to risk speaking of his mother to him, as she must if she reminded him of their marriage. "I spend my days in a basement, making bad little boys get so interested in the Higher Culture that they'll forget to shoot crap and smash windows." One of the things which had aided Phyllis to rise from desk-assistant to one of the Children's Room librarians was a very sweet and carrying voice--a voice which arrested even a child's attention,

women

How many times the word 'women' appears in the text?

with him--do you think you could do that? But I always cry so before I'm through--I cry and cry--my poor, helpless boy--he was so strong and bright! And you are sure you are conscientious----" At this point Phyllis stopped the flow of Mrs. Harrington's conversation firmly, if sweetly. "Yes, indeed," she said cheerfully. "But you know, if I'm not, Mr. De Guenther can stop all my allowance. It wouldn't be to my own interest not to fulfil my duties faithfully." "Yes, that is true," said Mrs. Harrington. "That was a good thought of mine. My husband always said I was an unusual woman where business was concerned." So they went on the principle that she had no honor beyond working for what she would get out of it! Although she had made the suggestion herself, Phyllis's cheeks burned, and she was about to answer sharply. Then somehow the poor, anxious, loving mother's absolute preoccupation with her son struck her as right after all. "If it were my son," thought Phyllis, "I wouldn't worry about any strange hired girl's feelings either, maybe. I'd just think about him.... I promise I'll look after Mr. Harrington's welfare as if he were my own brother!" she ended aloud impulsively. "Indeed, you may trust me." "I am--sure you will," panted Mrs. Harrington. "You look like--a good girl, and--and old enough to be responsible--twenty-eight--thirty?" "Not very far from that," said Phyllis serenely. "And you are sure you will know when the attendants are neglectful? I speak to them all the time, but I never can be sure.... And now you'd better see poor Allan. This is one of his good days. Just think, dear Isabel, he spoke to me twice without my speaking to him this morning!" "Oh--must I?" asked Phyllis, dismayed. "Couldn't I wait till--till it happens?" Mrs. Harrington actually laughed a little at her shyness, lighting up like a girl. Phyllis felt dimly, though she tried not to, that through it all her mother-in-law-elect was taking pleasure in the dramatic side of the situation she had engineered. "Oh, my dear, you must see him. He expects you," she answered almost gayly. The procession of three moved down the long room towards a door, Phyllis's hand guiding the wheel-chair. She was surprised to find herself shaking with fright. Just what she expected to find beyond the door she did not know, but it must have been some horror, for it was with a heart-bound of wild relief that she finally made out Allan Harrington, lying white in the darkened place. A Crusader on a tomb. Yes, he looked like that. In the room's half-dusk the pallor of his still, clear-featured face and his long, clear-cut hands was nearly the same as the whiteness of the couch-draperies. His hair, yellow-brown and waving, flung back from his forehead like a crest, and his dark brows and lashes made the only note of darkness about him. To Phyllis's beauty-loving eyes he seemed so perfect an image that she could have watched him for hours. "Here's Miss Braithwaite, my poor darling," said his mother. "The young lady we have been talking about so long." The Crusader lifted his eyelids and let them fall again. "Is she?" he said listlessly. "Don't you want to talk to her, darling boy?" his mother persisted, half out of breath, but still full of that unrebuffable, loving energy and insistence which she would probably keep to the last minute of her life. "No," said the Crusader, still in those empty, listless tones. "I'd rather not talk. I'm tired." His mother seemed not at all put out. "Of course, darling," she said, kissing him. She sat by him still, however, and poured out sentence after sentence of question, insistence, imploration, and pity, eliciting no answer at all. Phyllis wondered how it would feel to have to lie still and have that done to you for a term of years. The result of her wonderment was a decision to forgive her unenthusiastic future bridegroom for what she had at first been ready to slap him. Presently Mrs. Harrington's breath flagged, and the three women went away, back to the room they had been in before. Phyllis sat and let herself be talked to for a little longer. Then she rose impulsively. "May I go back and see your son again for just a minute?" she asked, and had gone before Mrs. Harrington had finished her permission. She darted into the dark room before her courage had time to fail, and stood by the white couch again. "Mr. Harrington," she said clearly, "I'm sorry you're tired, but I'm afraid I am going to have to ask you to listen to me. You know, don't you, that your mother plans to have me marry you, for a sort of interested head-nurse? Are you willing to have it happen? Because I won't do it unless you really prefer it." The heavy white lids half-lifted again. "I don't mind," said Allan Harrington listlessly. "I suppose you are quiet and trustworthy, or De Guenther wouldn't have sent you. It will give mother a little peace and it makes no difference to me." He closed his eyes and the subject at the same time. "Well, then, that's all right," said Phyllis cheerfully, and started to go. Then, drawn back by a sudden, nervous temper-impulse, she moved back on him. "And let me tell you," she added, half-laughing, half-impertinently, "that if you ever get into my quiet, trustworthy clutches you may have an awful time! You're a very spoiled invalid." She whisked out of the room before he could have gone very far with his reply. But he had not cared to reply, apparently. He lay unmoved and unmoving. Phyllis discovered, poising breathless on the threshold, that somehow she had seen his eyes. They had been a little like the wolfhound's, a sort of wistful gold-brown. For some reason she found that Allan Harrington's attitude of absolute detachment made the whole affair seem much easier for her. And when Mrs. Harrington slipped a solitaire diamond into her hand as she went, instead of disliking it she enjoyed its feel on her finger, and the flash of it in the light. She thanked Mrs. Harrington for it with real gratitude. But it made her feel more than ever engaged to marry her mother-in-law. She walked home rather silently with Mrs. De Guenther. Only at the foot of the De Guenther steps, she made one absent remark. "He must have been delightful," she said, "when he was alive!" VI After a week of the old bustling, dusty hard work, the Liberry Teacher's visit to the De Guenthers' and the subsequent one at the Harringtons', and even her sparkling white ring, seemed part of a queer story she had finished and put back on the shelf. The ring was the most real thing, because it was something of a worry. She didn't dare leave it at home, nor did she want to wear it. She finally sewed it in a chamois bag that she safety-pinned under her shirt-waist. Then she dismissed it from her mind also. There is very little time in a Liberry Teacher's life for meditation. Only once in a while would come to her the vision of the wistful Harrington wolfhound following his inadequate patch of sunlight, or of the dusky room where Allan Harrington lay inert and white, and looking like a wonderful carved statue on a tomb. She began to do a little to her clothes, but not very much, because she had neither time nor money. Mr. De Guenther had wanted her to take some money in advance, but she had refused. She did not want it till she had earned it, and, anyway, it would have made the whole thing so real, she knew, that she would have backed out. "And it isn't as if I were going to a lover," she defended herself to Mrs. De Guenther with a little wistful smile. "Nobody will know what I have on, any more than they do now." Mrs. De Guenther gave a scandalized little cry. Her attitude was determinedly that it was just an ordinary marriage, as good an excuse for sentiment and pretty frocks as any other. "My dear child," she replied firmly, "you are going to have one pretty frock and one really good street-suit _now_, or I will know why! The rest you may get yourself after the wedding, but you must obey me in this. Nonsense!--you can get a half-day, as you call it, perfectly well! What's Albert in politics for, if he can't get favors for his friends!" And, in effect, it proved that Albert was in politics to some purpose, for orders came up from the Head's office within twenty minutes after Mrs. De Guenther had used the telephone on her husband, that Miss Braithwaite was to have a half-day immediately--as far as she could make out, in order to transact city affairs! She felt as if the angels had told her she could have the last fortnight over again, as a favor, or something of the sort. A half-day out of turn was something nobody had ever heard of. She was even too surprised to object to the frock part of the situation. She tried to stand out a little longer, but it's a very stoical young woman who can refuse to have pretty clothes bought for her, and the end of it was a seat in a salon which she had always considered so expensive that you scarcely ought to look in the window. "Had it better be a black suit?" asked Mrs. De Guenther doubtfully, as the tall lady in floppy charmeuse hovered haughtily about them, expecting orders. "It seems horrible to buy mourning when dear Angela is not yet passed away, but it would only be showing proper respect; and I remember my own dear mother planned all our mourning outfits while she was dying. It was quite a pleasure to her." Phyllis kept her face straight, and slipped one persuasive hand through her friend's arm. "I don't believe I _could_ buy mourning, dear," she said. "And--oh, if you knew how long I'd wanted a really _blue_ blue suit! Only, it would have been too vivid to wear well--I always knew that--because you can only afford one every other year. And"--Phyllis rather diffidently voiced a thought which had been in the back of her mind for a long time--"if I'm going to be much around Mr. Harrington, don't you think cheerful clothes would be best? Everything in that house seems sombre enough now." "Perhaps you are right, dear child," said Mrs. De Guenther. "I hope you may be the means of putting a great deal of brightness into poor Allan's life before he joins his mother." "Oh, don't!" cried Phyllis impulsively. Somehow she could not bear to think of Allan Harrington's dying. He was too beautiful to be dead, where nobody could see him any more. Besides, Phyllis privately considered that a long vacation before he joined his mother would be only the fair thing for "poor Allan." Youth sides with youth. And--the clear-cut white lines of him rose in her memory and stayed there. She could almost hear that poor, tired, toneless voice of his, that was yet so deep and so perfectly accented.... She bought docilely whatever her guide directed, and woke from a species of gentle daze at the afternoon's end to find Mrs. De Guenther beaming with the weary rapture of the successful shopper, and herself the proprietress of a turquoise velvet walking-suit, a hat to match, a pale blue evening frock, a pale green between-dress with lovely clinging lines, and a heavenly white crepe thing with rosy ribbons and filmy shadow-laces--the negligee of one's dreams. There were also slippers and shoes and stockings and--this was really too bad of Mrs. De Guenther--a half-dozen set of lingerie, straight through. Mrs. De Guenther sat and continued to beam joyously over the array, in Phyllis's little bedroom. "It's my present, dearie," she said calmly. "So you needn't worry about using Angela's money. Gracious, it's been _lovely_! I haven't had such a good time since my husband's little grand-niece came on for a week. There's nothing like dressing a girl, after all." And Phyllis could only kiss her. But when her guest had gone she laid all the boxes of finery under her bed, the only place where there was any room. She would not take any of it out, she determined, till her summons came. But on second thought, she wore the blue velvet street-suit on Sunday visits to Mrs. Harrington, which became--she never knew just when or how--a regular thing. The vivid blue made her eyes nearly sky-color, and brightened her hair very satisfactorily. She was taking more time and trouble over her looks now--one has to live up to a turquoise velvet hat and coat! She found herself, too, becoming very genuinely fond of the restless, anxiously loving, passionate, unwise child who dwelt in Mrs. Harrington's frail elderly body and had almost worn it out. She sat, long hours of every Sunday afternoon, holding Mrs. Harrington's thin little hot hands, and listening to her swift, italicised monologues about Allan--what he must do, what he must not do, how he must be looked after, how his mother had treated him, how his wishes must be ascertained and followed. "Though all he wants now is dark and quiet," said his mother piteously. "I don't even go in there now to cry." She spoke as if it were an established ritual. Had she been using her son's sick-room, Phyllis wondered, as a regular weeping-place? She could feel in Mrs. Harrington, even in this mortal sickness, the tremendous driving influence which is often part of a passionately active and not very wise personality. That certitude and insistence of Mrs. Harrington's could hammer you finally into believing or doing almost anything. Phyllis wondered how much his mother's heartbroken adoration and pity might have had to do with making her son as hopeless-minded as he was. Naturally, the mother-in-law-elect she had acquired in such a strange way became very fond of Phyllis. But indeed there was something very gay and sweet and honest-minded about the girl, a something which gave people the feeling that they were very wise in liking her. Some people you are fond of against your will. When people cared for Phyllis it was with a quite irrational feeling that they were doing a sensible thing. They never gave any of the credit to her very real, though almost invisible, charm. She never saw Allan Harrington on any of the Sunday visits. She was sure the servants thought she did, for she knew that every one in the great, dark old house knew her as the young lady who was to marry Mr. Allan. She believed that she was supposed to be an old family friend, perhaps a distant relative. She did not want to see Allan. But she did want to be as good to his little, tensely-loving mother as she could, and reassure her about Allan's future care. And she succeeded. It was on a Friday about two that the summons came. Phyllis had thought she expected it, but when the call came to her over the library telephone she found herself as badly frightened as she had been the first time she went to the Harrington house. She shivered as she laid down the dater she was using, and called the other librarian to take her desk. Fortunately, between one and four the morning and evening shifts overlapped, and there was some one to take her place. "Mrs. Harrington cannot last out the night," came Mr. De Guenther's clear, precise voice over the telephone, without preface. "I have arranged with Mr. Johnston. You can go at once. You had better pack a suit-case, for you possibly may not be able to get back to your boarding-place." So it was to happen now! Phyllis felt, with her substitute in her place, her own wraps on, and her feet taking her swiftly towards her goal, as if she were offering herself to be made a nun, or have a hand or foot cut off, or paying herself away in some awful, irrevocable fashion. She packed, mechanically, all the pretty things Mrs. De Guenther had given her, and nothing else. She found herself at the door of her room with the locked suit-case in her hand, and not even a nail-file of the things belonging to her old self in it. She shook herself together, managed to laugh a little, and returned and put in such things as she thought she would require for the night. Then she went. She always remembered that journey as long as she lived; her hands and feet and tongue going on, buying tickets, giving directions--and her mind, like a naughty child, catching at everything as they went, and screaming to be allowed to go back home, back to the dusty, matter-of-course library and the dreary little boarding-house bedroom! VII They were all waiting for her, in what felt like a hideously quiet semicircle, in Allan's great dark room. Mrs. Harrington, deadly pale, and giving an impression of keeping herself alive only by force of that wonderful fighting vitality of hers, lay almost at length in her wheel-chair. There was a clergyman in vestments. There were the De Guenthers; Mr. De Guenther only a little more precise than his every-day habit was, Mrs. De Guenther crying a little, softly and furtively. As for Allan Harrington, he lay just as she had seen him that other time, white and moveless, seeming scarcely conscious except by an effort. Only she noticed a slight contraction, as of pain, between his brows. "Phyllis has come," panted Mrs. Harrington. "Now it will be--all right. You must marry him quickly--quickly, do you hear, Phyllis? Oh, people never will--do--what I want them to----" "Yes--yes, indeed, dear," said Phyllis, taking her hands soothingly. "We're going to attend to it right away. See, everything is ready." It occurred to her that Mrs. Harrington was not half as correct in her playing of the part of a dying woman as she would have seen to it that anyone else was; also, that things did not seem legal without the wolfhound. Then she was shocked at herself for such irrelevant thoughts. The thing to do was to keep poor Mrs. Harrington quieted. So she beckoned the clergyman and the De Guenthers nearer, and herself sped the marrying of herself to Allan Harrington. ... When you are being married to a Crusader on a tomb, the easiest way is to kneel down by him. Phyllis registered this fact in her mind quite blankly, as something which might be of use to remember in future.... The marrying took an unnecessarily long time, it seemed to her. It did not seem as if she were being married at all. It all seemed to concern somebody else. When it came to the putting on of the wedding-ring, she found herself, very naturally, guiding Allan's relaxed fingers to hold it in its successive places, and finally slip it on the wedding-finger. And somehow having to do that checked the chilly awe she had had before of Allan Harrington. It made her feel quite simply sorry for him, as if he were one of her poor little boys in trouble. And when it was all over she bent pitifully before she thought, and kissed one white, cold cheek. He seemed so tragically helpless, yet more alive, in some way, since she had touched his hand to guide it. Then, as her lips brushed his cheek, she recoiled and colored a little. She had felt that slight roughness which a man's cheek, however close-shaven, always has--the _man_-feel. It made her realize unreasonably that it was a man she had married, after all, not a stone image nor a sick child--a live man! With the thought, or rather instinct, came a swift terror of what she had done, and a swift impulse to rise. She was half-way risen from her knees when a hand on her shoulder, and the clergyman's voice in her ear, checked her. "Not yet," he murmured almost inaudibly. "Stay as you are till--till Mrs. Harrington is wheeled from the room." Phyllis understood. She remained as she was, her body a shield before Allan Harrington's eyes, her hand just withdrawing from his shoulder, till she heard the closing of the door, and a sigh as of relaxed tension from the three people around her. Then she rose. Allan lay still with closed eyelids. It seemed to her that he had flushed, if ever so faintly, at the touch of her lips on his cheek. She laid his hand on the coverlet with her own roughened, ringed one, and followed the others out, into the room where the dead woman had been taken, leaving him with his attendant. The rest of the evening Phyllis went about in a queer-keyed, almost light-hearted frame of mind. It was only the reaction from the long-expected terror that was over now, but it felt indecorous. It was just as well, however. Some one's head had to be kept. The servants were upset, of course, and there were many arrangements to be made. She and Mr. De Guenther worked steadily together, telephoning, ordering, guiding, straightening out all the tangles. There never was a wedding, she thought, where the bride did so much of the work! She even remembered to see personally that Allan's dinner was sent up to him. The servants had doubtless been told to come to her for orders--at any rate, they did. Phyllis had not had much experience in running a house, but a good deal in keeping her head. And that, after all, is the main thing. She had a far-off feeling as if she were hearing some other young woman giving swift, poised, executive orders. She rather admired her. After dinner the De Guenthers went. And Phyllis Braithwaite, the little Liberry Teacher who had been living in a hall bedroom on much less money than she needed, found herself alone, sole mistress of the great Harrington house, a corps of servants, a husband passive enough to satisfy the most militant suffragette, a check-book, a wistful wolfhound, and five hundred dollars, cash, for current expenses. The last weighed on her mind more than all the rest put together. "Why, I don't know how to make Current Expenses out of all that!" she had said to Mr. De Guenther. "It looks to me exactly like about ten months' salary! I'm perfectly certain I shall get up in my sleep and try to pay my board ahead with it, so I shan't have it all spent before the ten months are up! There was a blue bead necklace," she went on meditatively, "in the Five-and-Ten, that I always wanted to buy. Only I never quite felt I could afford it. Oh, just imagine going to the Five-and-Ten and buying at least five dollars' worth of things you didn't need!" "You have great discretionary powers--great discretionary powers, my dear, you will find!" Mr. De Guenther had said, as he patted her shoulder. Phyllis took it as a compliment at the time. "Discretionary powers" sounded as if he thought she was a quite intelligent young person. It did not occur to her till he had gone, and she was alone with her check-book, that it meant she had a good deal of liberty to do as she liked. It seemed to be expected of her to stay. Nobody even suggested a possibility of her going home again, even to pack her trunk. Mrs. De Guenther casually volunteered to do that, a little after the housekeeper had told her where her rooms were. She had been consulting with the housekeeper for what seemed ages, when she happened to want some pins for something, and asked for her suit-case. "It's in your rooms," said the housekeeper. "Mrs. Harrington--the late Mrs. Harrington, I should say----" Phyllis stopped listening at this point. Who was the present Mrs. Harrington? she wondered before she thought--and then remembered. Why--_she_ was! So there was no Phyllis Braithwaite any more! Of course not.... Yet she had always liked the name so--well, a last name was a small thing to give up.... Into her mind fitted an incongruous, silly story she had heard once at the library, about a girl whose last name was Rose, and whose parents christened her Wild, because the combination appealed to them. And then she married a man named Bull.... Meanwhile the housekeeper had been going on. ... "She had the bedroom and bath opening from the other side of Mr. Allan's day-room ready for you, madam. It's been ready several weeks." "Has it?" said Phyllis. It was like Mrs. Harrington, that careful planning of even where she should be put. "Is Mr. Harrington in his day-room now?" For some reason she did not attempt to give herself, she did not want to see him again just now. Besides, it was nearly eleven and time a very tired girl was in bed. She wanted a good night's rest, before she had to get up and be Mrs. Harrington, with Allan and the check-book and the Current Expenses all tied to her. Some one had laid everything out for her in the bedroom; the filmy new nightgown over a chair, the blue satin mules underneath, her plain toilet-things on a dressing-table, and over another chair the exquisite ivory crepe negligee with its floating rose ribbons. She took a hasty bath--there was so much hot water that she was quite reconciled for a moment to being a check-booked and wolf hounded Mrs. Harrington--and slid straight into bed without even stopping to braid her loosened, honey-colored hair. It seemed to her that she was barely asleep when there came an urgent knocking at her door. "Yes?" she said sleepily, looking mechanically for her alarm-clock as she switched on the light. "What is it, please?" "It's I, Wallis, Mr. Allan's man, Madame," said a nervous voice. "Mr. Allan's very bad. I've done all the usual things, but nothing seems to quiet him. He hates doctors so, and they make him so wrought up--please could you come, ma'am? He says as how all of us are all dead--oh, _please_, Mrs. Harrington!" There was panic in the man's voice. "All right," said Phyllis sleepily, dropping to the floor as she spoke with the rapidity that only the alarm-clock-broken know. She snatched the negligee around her, and thrust her feet hastily into the blue satin slippers--why, she was actually using her wedding finery! And what an easily upset person that man was! But everybody in the house seemed to have nerves on edge. It was no wonder about Allan--he wanted his mother, of course, poor boy! She felt, as she ran fleetly across the long room that separated her sleeping quarters from her husband's, the same mixture of pity and timidity that she had felt with him before. Poor boy! Poor, silent, beautiful statue, with his one friend gone! She opened the door and entered swiftly into his room. She was not thinking about herself at all, only of how she could help Allan, but there must have been something about her of the picture-book angel to the pain-racked man, lying tensely at length in the room's darkest corner. Her long, dully gold hair, loosening from its twist, flew out about her, and her face was still flushed with sleep. There was a something about her that was vividly alight and alive, perhaps the light in her blue eyes. From what the man had said Phyllis had thought Allan was delirious, but she saw at once that he was only in severe pain, and talking more disconnectedly, perhaps, than the slow-minded Englishman could follow. He did not look like a statue now. His cheeks were burning with evident pain, and his yellow-brown eyes, wide-open, and dilated to darkness, stared straight out. His hands were clenching and unclenching, and his head moved restlessly from side to side. Every nerve and muscle, she could see, was taut. "They're all dead," he muttered. "Father and Mother and Louise--and I--only I'm not dead enough to bury. Oh, God, I wish I was!" That wasn't delirium; it was something more like heart-break. Phyllis moved closer to him, and dropped one of her sleep-warm hands on his cold, clenched one. "Oh, poor boy!" she said. "I'm so sorry--so sorry!" She closed her hands tight over both his. Some of her strong young vitality must have passed between them and helped him, for almost immediately his tenseness relaxed a little, and he looked at her. "You--you're not a nurse," he said. "They go around--like--like a--vault----" She had caught his attention! That was a good deal, she felt. She forgot everything about him, except that he was some one to be comforted, and her charge. She sat down on the bed by him, still holding tight to his hands. "No, indeed," she said, bending nearer him, her long loose hair falling forward about her resolutely-smiling young face. "Don't you remember seeing me? I never was a nurse." "What--are you?" he asked feebly. "I'm--why, the children call me the Liberry Teacher," she answered. It occurred to her that it would be better to talk on brightly at random than to risk speaking of his mother to him, as she must if she reminded him of their marriage. "I spend my days in a basement, making bad little boys get so interested in the Higher Culture that they'll forget to shoot crap and smash windows." One of the things which had aided Phyllis to rise from desk-assistant to one of the Children's Room librarians was a very sweet and carrying voice--a voice which arrested even a child's attention,

teeth

How many times the word 'teeth' appears in the text?

with him--do you think you could do that? But I always cry so before I'm through--I cry and cry--my poor, helpless boy--he was so strong and bright! And you are sure you are conscientious----" At this point Phyllis stopped the flow of Mrs. Harrington's conversation firmly, if sweetly. "Yes, indeed," she said cheerfully. "But you know, if I'm not, Mr. De Guenther can stop all my allowance. It wouldn't be to my own interest not to fulfil my duties faithfully." "Yes, that is true," said Mrs. Harrington. "That was a good thought of mine. My husband always said I was an unusual woman where business was concerned." So they went on the principle that she had no honor beyond working for what she would get out of it! Although she had made the suggestion herself, Phyllis's cheeks burned, and she was about to answer sharply. Then somehow the poor, anxious, loving mother's absolute preoccupation with her son struck her as right after all. "If it were my son," thought Phyllis, "I wouldn't worry about any strange hired girl's feelings either, maybe. I'd just think about him.... I promise I'll look after Mr. Harrington's welfare as if he were my own brother!" she ended aloud impulsively. "Indeed, you may trust me." "I am--sure you will," panted Mrs. Harrington. "You look like--a good girl, and--and old enough to be responsible--twenty-eight--thirty?" "Not very far from that," said Phyllis serenely. "And you are sure you will know when the attendants are neglectful? I speak to them all the time, but I never can be sure.... And now you'd better see poor Allan. This is one of his good days. Just think, dear Isabel, he spoke to me twice without my speaking to him this morning!" "Oh--must I?" asked Phyllis, dismayed. "Couldn't I wait till--till it happens?" Mrs. Harrington actually laughed a little at her shyness, lighting up like a girl. Phyllis felt dimly, though she tried not to, that through it all her mother-in-law-elect was taking pleasure in the dramatic side of the situation she had engineered. "Oh, my dear, you must see him. He expects you," she answered almost gayly. The procession of three moved down the long room towards a door, Phyllis's hand guiding the wheel-chair. She was surprised to find herself shaking with fright. Just what she expected to find beyond the door she did not know, but it must have been some horror, for it was with a heart-bound of wild relief that she finally made out Allan Harrington, lying white in the darkened place. A Crusader on a tomb. Yes, he looked like that. In the room's half-dusk the pallor of his still, clear-featured face and his long, clear-cut hands was nearly the same as the whiteness of the couch-draperies. His hair, yellow-brown and waving, flung back from his forehead like a crest, and his dark brows and lashes made the only note of darkness about him. To Phyllis's beauty-loving eyes he seemed so perfect an image that she could have watched him for hours. "Here's Miss Braithwaite, my poor darling," said his mother. "The young lady we have been talking about so long." The Crusader lifted his eyelids and let them fall again. "Is she?" he said listlessly. "Don't you want to talk to her, darling boy?" his mother persisted, half out of breath, but still full of that unrebuffable, loving energy and insistence which she would probably keep to the last minute of her life. "No," said the Crusader, still in those empty, listless tones. "I'd rather not talk. I'm tired." His mother seemed not at all put out. "Of course, darling," she said, kissing him. She sat by him still, however, and poured out sentence after sentence of question, insistence, imploration, and pity, eliciting no answer at all. Phyllis wondered how it would feel to have to lie still and have that done to you for a term of years. The result of her wonderment was a decision to forgive her unenthusiastic future bridegroom for what she had at first been ready to slap him. Presently Mrs. Harrington's breath flagged, and the three women went away, back to the room they had been in before. Phyllis sat and let herself be talked to for a little longer. Then she rose impulsively. "May I go back and see your son again for just a minute?" she asked, and had gone before Mrs. Harrington had finished her permission. She darted into the dark room before her courage had time to fail, and stood by the white couch again. "Mr. Harrington," she said clearly, "I'm sorry you're tired, but I'm afraid I am going to have to ask you to listen to me. You know, don't you, that your mother plans to have me marry you, for a sort of interested head-nurse? Are you willing to have it happen? Because I won't do it unless you really prefer it." The heavy white lids half-lifted again. "I don't mind," said Allan Harrington listlessly. "I suppose you are quiet and trustworthy, or De Guenther wouldn't have sent you. It will give mother a little peace and it makes no difference to me." He closed his eyes and the subject at the same time. "Well, then, that's all right," said Phyllis cheerfully, and started to go. Then, drawn back by a sudden, nervous temper-impulse, she moved back on him. "And let me tell you," she added, half-laughing, half-impertinently, "that if you ever get into my quiet, trustworthy clutches you may have an awful time! You're a very spoiled invalid." She whisked out of the room before he could have gone very far with his reply. But he had not cared to reply, apparently. He lay unmoved and unmoving. Phyllis discovered, poising breathless on the threshold, that somehow she had seen his eyes. They had been a little like the wolfhound's, a sort of wistful gold-brown. For some reason she found that Allan Harrington's attitude of absolute detachment made the whole affair seem much easier for her. And when Mrs. Harrington slipped a solitaire diamond into her hand as she went, instead of disliking it she enjoyed its feel on her finger, and the flash of it in the light. She thanked Mrs. Harrington for it with real gratitude. But it made her feel more than ever engaged to marry her mother-in-law. She walked home rather silently with Mrs. De Guenther. Only at the foot of the De Guenther steps, she made one absent remark. "He must have been delightful," she said, "when he was alive!" VI After a week of the old bustling, dusty hard work, the Liberry Teacher's visit to the De Guenthers' and the subsequent one at the Harringtons', and even her sparkling white ring, seemed part of a queer story she had finished and put back on the shelf. The ring was the most real thing, because it was something of a worry. She didn't dare leave it at home, nor did she want to wear it. She finally sewed it in a chamois bag that she safety-pinned under her shirt-waist. Then she dismissed it from her mind also. There is very little time in a Liberry Teacher's life for meditation. Only once in a while would come to her the vision of the wistful Harrington wolfhound following his inadequate patch of sunlight, or of the dusky room where Allan Harrington lay inert and white, and looking like a wonderful carved statue on a tomb. She began to do a little to her clothes, but not very much, because she had neither time nor money. Mr. De Guenther had wanted her to take some money in advance, but she had refused. She did not want it till she had earned it, and, anyway, it would have made the whole thing so real, she knew, that she would have backed out. "And it isn't as if I were going to a lover," she defended herself to Mrs. De Guenther with a little wistful smile. "Nobody will know what I have on, any more than they do now." Mrs. De Guenther gave a scandalized little cry. Her attitude was determinedly that it was just an ordinary marriage, as good an excuse for sentiment and pretty frocks as any other. "My dear child," she replied firmly, "you are going to have one pretty frock and one really good street-suit _now_, or I will know why! The rest you may get yourself after the wedding, but you must obey me in this. Nonsense!--you can get a half-day, as you call it, perfectly well! What's Albert in politics for, if he can't get favors for his friends!" And, in effect, it proved that Albert was in politics to some purpose, for orders came up from the Head's office within twenty minutes after Mrs. De Guenther had used the telephone on her husband, that Miss Braithwaite was to have a half-day immediately--as far as she could make out, in order to transact city affairs! She felt as if the angels had told her she could have the last fortnight over again, as a favor, or something of the sort. A half-day out of turn was something nobody had ever heard of. She was even too surprised to object to the frock part of the situation. She tried to stand out a little longer, but it's a very stoical young woman who can refuse to have pretty clothes bought for her, and the end of it was a seat in a salon which she had always considered so expensive that you scarcely ought to look in the window. "Had it better be a black suit?" asked Mrs. De Guenther doubtfully, as the tall lady in floppy charmeuse hovered haughtily about them, expecting orders. "It seems horrible to buy mourning when dear Angela is not yet passed away, but it would only be showing proper respect; and I remember my own dear mother planned all our mourning outfits while she was dying. It was quite a pleasure to her." Phyllis kept her face straight, and slipped one persuasive hand through her friend's arm. "I don't believe I _could_ buy mourning, dear," she said. "And--oh, if you knew how long I'd wanted a really _blue_ blue suit! Only, it would have been too vivid to wear well--I always knew that--because you can only afford one every other year. And"--Phyllis rather diffidently voiced a thought which had been in the back of her mind for a long time--"if I'm going to be much around Mr. Harrington, don't you think cheerful clothes would be best? Everything in that house seems sombre enough now." "Perhaps you are right, dear child," said Mrs. De Guenther. "I hope you may be the means of putting a great deal of brightness into poor Allan's life before he joins his mother." "Oh, don't!" cried Phyllis impulsively. Somehow she could not bear to think of Allan Harrington's dying. He was too beautiful to be dead, where nobody could see him any more. Besides, Phyllis privately considered that a long vacation before he joined his mother would be only the fair thing for "poor Allan." Youth sides with youth. And--the clear-cut white lines of him rose in her memory and stayed there. She could almost hear that poor, tired, toneless voice of his, that was yet so deep and so perfectly accented.... She bought docilely whatever her guide directed, and woke from a species of gentle daze at the afternoon's end to find Mrs. De Guenther beaming with the weary rapture of the successful shopper, and herself the proprietress of a turquoise velvet walking-suit, a hat to match, a pale blue evening frock, a pale green between-dress with lovely clinging lines, and a heavenly white crepe thing with rosy ribbons and filmy shadow-laces--the negligee of one's dreams. There were also slippers and shoes and stockings and--this was really too bad of Mrs. De Guenther--a half-dozen set of lingerie, straight through. Mrs. De Guenther sat and continued to beam joyously over the array, in Phyllis's little bedroom. "It's my present, dearie," she said calmly. "So you needn't worry about using Angela's money. Gracious, it's been _lovely_! I haven't had such a good time since my husband's little grand-niece came on for a week. There's nothing like dressing a girl, after all." And Phyllis could only kiss her. But when her guest had gone she laid all the boxes of finery under her bed, the only place where there was any room. She would not take any of it out, she determined, till her summons came. But on second thought, she wore the blue velvet street-suit on Sunday visits to Mrs. Harrington, which became--she never knew just when or how--a regular thing. The vivid blue made her eyes nearly sky-color, and brightened her hair very satisfactorily. She was taking more time and trouble over her looks now--one has to live up to a turquoise velvet hat and coat! She found herself, too, becoming very genuinely fond of the restless, anxiously loving, passionate, unwise child who dwelt in Mrs. Harrington's frail elderly body and had almost worn it out. She sat, long hours of every Sunday afternoon, holding Mrs. Harrington's thin little hot hands, and listening to her swift, italicised monologues about Allan--what he must do, what he must not do, how he must be looked after, how his mother had treated him, how his wishes must be ascertained and followed. "Though all he wants now is dark and quiet," said his mother piteously. "I don't even go in there now to cry." She spoke as if it were an established ritual. Had she been using her son's sick-room, Phyllis wondered, as a regular weeping-place? She could feel in Mrs. Harrington, even in this mortal sickness, the tremendous driving influence which is often part of a passionately active and not very wise personality. That certitude and insistence of Mrs. Harrington's could hammer you finally into believing or doing almost anything. Phyllis wondered how much his mother's heartbroken adoration and pity might have had to do with making her son as hopeless-minded as he was. Naturally, the mother-in-law-elect she had acquired in such a strange way became very fond of Phyllis. But indeed there was something very gay and sweet and honest-minded about the girl, a something which gave people the feeling that they were very wise in liking her. Some people you are fond of against your will. When people cared for Phyllis it was with a quite irrational feeling that they were doing a sensible thing. They never gave any of the credit to her very real, though almost invisible, charm. She never saw Allan Harrington on any of the Sunday visits. She was sure the servants thought she did, for she knew that every one in the great, dark old house knew her as the young lady who was to marry Mr. Allan. She believed that she was supposed to be an old family friend, perhaps a distant relative. She did not want to see Allan. But she did want to be as good to his little, tensely-loving mother as she could, and reassure her about Allan's future care. And she succeeded. It was on a Friday about two that the summons came. Phyllis had thought she expected it, but when the call came to her over the library telephone she found herself as badly frightened as she had been the first time she went to the Harrington house. She shivered as she laid down the dater she was using, and called the other librarian to take her desk. Fortunately, between one and four the morning and evening shifts overlapped, and there was some one to take her place. "Mrs. Harrington cannot last out the night," came Mr. De Guenther's clear, precise voice over the telephone, without preface. "I have arranged with Mr. Johnston. You can go at once. You had better pack a suit-case, for you possibly may not be able to get back to your boarding-place." So it was to happen now! Phyllis felt, with her substitute in her place, her own wraps on, and her feet taking her swiftly towards her goal, as if she were offering herself to be made a nun, or have a hand or foot cut off, or paying herself away in some awful, irrevocable fashion. She packed, mechanically, all the pretty things Mrs. De Guenther had given her, and nothing else. She found herself at the door of her room with the locked suit-case in her hand, and not even a nail-file of the things belonging to her old self in it. She shook herself together, managed to laugh a little, and returned and put in such things as she thought she would require for the night. Then she went. She always remembered that journey as long as she lived; her hands and feet and tongue going on, buying tickets, giving directions--and her mind, like a naughty child, catching at everything as they went, and screaming to be allowed to go back home, back to the dusty, matter-of-course library and the dreary little boarding-house bedroom! VII They were all waiting for her, in what felt like a hideously quiet semicircle, in Allan's great dark room. Mrs. Harrington, deadly pale, and giving an impression of keeping herself alive only by force of that wonderful fighting vitality of hers, lay almost at length in her wheel-chair. There was a clergyman in vestments. There were the De Guenthers; Mr. De Guenther only a little more precise than his every-day habit was, Mrs. De Guenther crying a little, softly and furtively. As for Allan Harrington, he lay just as she had seen him that other time, white and moveless, seeming scarcely conscious except by an effort. Only she noticed a slight contraction, as of pain, between his brows. "Phyllis has come," panted Mrs. Harrington. "Now it will be--all right. You must marry him quickly--quickly, do you hear, Phyllis? Oh, people never will--do--what I want them to----" "Yes--yes, indeed, dear," said Phyllis, taking her hands soothingly. "We're going to attend to it right away. See, everything is ready." It occurred to her that Mrs. Harrington was not half as correct in her playing of the part of a dying woman as she would have seen to it that anyone else was; also, that things did not seem legal without the wolfhound. Then she was shocked at herself for such irrelevant thoughts. The thing to do was to keep poor Mrs. Harrington quieted. So she beckoned the clergyman and the De Guenthers nearer, and herself sped the marrying of herself to Allan Harrington. ... When you are being married to a Crusader on a tomb, the easiest way is to kneel down by him. Phyllis registered this fact in her mind quite blankly, as something which might be of use to remember in future.... The marrying took an unnecessarily long time, it seemed to her. It did not seem as if she were being married at all. It all seemed to concern somebody else. When it came to the putting on of the wedding-ring, she found herself, very naturally, guiding Allan's relaxed fingers to hold it in its successive places, and finally slip it on the wedding-finger. And somehow having to do that checked the chilly awe she had had before of Allan Harrington. It made her feel quite simply sorry for him, as if he were one of her poor little boys in trouble. And when it was all over she bent pitifully before she thought, and kissed one white, cold cheek. He seemed so tragically helpless, yet more alive, in some way, since she had touched his hand to guide it. Then, as her lips brushed his cheek, she recoiled and colored a little. She had felt that slight roughness which a man's cheek, however close-shaven, always has--the _man_-feel. It made her realize unreasonably that it was a man she had married, after all, not a stone image nor a sick child--a live man! With the thought, or rather instinct, came a swift terror of what she had done, and a swift impulse to rise. She was half-way risen from her knees when a hand on her shoulder, and the clergyman's voice in her ear, checked her. "Not yet," he murmured almost inaudibly. "Stay as you are till--till Mrs. Harrington is wheeled from the room." Phyllis understood. She remained as she was, her body a shield before Allan Harrington's eyes, her hand just withdrawing from his shoulder, till she heard the closing of the door, and a sigh as of relaxed tension from the three people around her. Then she rose. Allan lay still with closed eyelids. It seemed to her that he had flushed, if ever so faintly, at the touch of her lips on his cheek. She laid his hand on the coverlet with her own roughened, ringed one, and followed the others out, into the room where the dead woman had been taken, leaving him with his attendant. The rest of the evening Phyllis went about in a queer-keyed, almost light-hearted frame of mind. It was only the reaction from the long-expected terror that was over now, but it felt indecorous. It was just as well, however. Some one's head had to be kept. The servants were upset, of course, and there were many arrangements to be made. She and Mr. De Guenther worked steadily together, telephoning, ordering, guiding, straightening out all the tangles. There never was a wedding, she thought, where the bride did so much of the work! She even remembered to see personally that Allan's dinner was sent up to him. The servants had doubtless been told to come to her for orders--at any rate, they did. Phyllis had not had much experience in running a house, but a good deal in keeping her head. And that, after all, is the main thing. She had a far-off feeling as if she were hearing some other young woman giving swift, poised, executive orders. She rather admired her. After dinner the De Guenthers went. And Phyllis Braithwaite, the little Liberry Teacher who had been living in a hall bedroom on much less money than she needed, found herself alone, sole mistress of the great Harrington house, a corps of servants, a husband passive enough to satisfy the most militant suffragette, a check-book, a wistful wolfhound, and five hundred dollars, cash, for current expenses. The last weighed on her mind more than all the rest put together. "Why, I don't know how to make Current Expenses out of all that!" she had said to Mr. De Guenther. "It looks to me exactly like about ten months' salary! I'm perfectly certain I shall get up in my sleep and try to pay my board ahead with it, so I shan't have it all spent before the ten months are up! There was a blue bead necklace," she went on meditatively, "in the Five-and-Ten, that I always wanted to buy. Only I never quite felt I could afford it. Oh, just imagine going to the Five-and-Ten and buying at least five dollars' worth of things you didn't need!" "You have great discretionary powers--great discretionary powers, my dear, you will find!" Mr. De Guenther had said, as he patted her shoulder. Phyllis took it as a compliment at the time. "Discretionary powers" sounded as if he thought she was a quite intelligent young person. It did not occur to her till he had gone, and she was alone with her check-book, that it meant she had a good deal of liberty to do as she liked. It seemed to be expected of her to stay. Nobody even suggested a possibility of her going home again, even to pack her trunk. Mrs. De Guenther casually volunteered to do that, a little after the housekeeper had told her where her rooms were. She had been consulting with the housekeeper for what seemed ages, when she happened to want some pins for something, and asked for her suit-case. "It's in your rooms," said the housekeeper. "Mrs. Harrington--the late Mrs. Harrington, I should say----" Phyllis stopped listening at this point. Who was the present Mrs. Harrington? she wondered before she thought--and then remembered. Why--_she_ was! So there was no Phyllis Braithwaite any more! Of course not.... Yet she had always liked the name so--well, a last name was a small thing to give up.... Into her mind fitted an incongruous, silly story she had heard once at the library, about a girl whose last name was Rose, and whose parents christened her Wild, because the combination appealed to them. And then she married a man named Bull.... Meanwhile the housekeeper had been going on. ... "She had the bedroom and bath opening from the other side of Mr. Allan's day-room ready for you, madam. It's been ready several weeks." "Has it?" said Phyllis. It was like Mrs. Harrington, that careful planning of even where she should be put. "Is Mr. Harrington in his day-room now?" For some reason she did not attempt to give herself, she did not want to see him again just now. Besides, it was nearly eleven and time a very tired girl was in bed. She wanted a good night's rest, before she had to get up and be Mrs. Harrington, with Allan and the check-book and the Current Expenses all tied to her. Some one had laid everything out for her in the bedroom; the filmy new nightgown over a chair, the blue satin mules underneath, her plain toilet-things on a dressing-table, and over another chair the exquisite ivory crepe negligee with its floating rose ribbons. She took a hasty bath--there was so much hot water that she was quite reconciled for a moment to being a check-booked and wolf hounded Mrs. Harrington--and slid straight into bed without even stopping to braid her loosened, honey-colored hair. It seemed to her that she was barely asleep when there came an urgent knocking at her door. "Yes?" she said sleepily, looking mechanically for her alarm-clock as she switched on the light. "What is it, please?" "It's I, Wallis, Mr. Allan's man, Madame," said a nervous voice. "Mr. Allan's very bad. I've done all the usual things, but nothing seems to quiet him. He hates doctors so, and they make him so wrought up--please could you come, ma'am? He says as how all of us are all dead--oh, _please_, Mrs. Harrington!" There was panic in the man's voice. "All right," said Phyllis sleepily, dropping to the floor as she spoke with the rapidity that only the alarm-clock-broken know. She snatched the negligee around her, and thrust her feet hastily into the blue satin slippers--why, she was actually using her wedding finery! And what an easily upset person that man was! But everybody in the house seemed to have nerves on edge. It was no wonder about Allan--he wanted his mother, of course, poor boy! She felt, as she ran fleetly across the long room that separated her sleeping quarters from her husband's, the same mixture of pity and timidity that she had felt with him before. Poor boy! Poor, silent, beautiful statue, with his one friend gone! She opened the door and entered swiftly into his room. She was not thinking about herself at all, only of how she could help Allan, but there must have been something about her of the picture-book angel to the pain-racked man, lying tensely at length in the room's darkest corner. Her long, dully gold hair, loosening from its twist, flew out about her, and her face was still flushed with sleep. There was a something about her that was vividly alight and alive, perhaps the light in her blue eyes. From what the man had said Phyllis had thought Allan was delirious, but she saw at once that he was only in severe pain, and talking more disconnectedly, perhaps, than the slow-minded Englishman could follow. He did not look like a statue now. His cheeks were burning with evident pain, and his yellow-brown eyes, wide-open, and dilated to darkness, stared straight out. His hands were clenching and unclenching, and his head moved restlessly from side to side. Every nerve and muscle, she could see, was taut. "They're all dead," he muttered. "Father and Mother and Louise--and I--only I'm not dead enough to bury. Oh, God, I wish I was!" That wasn't delirium; it was something more like heart-break. Phyllis moved closer to him, and dropped one of her sleep-warm hands on his cold, clenched one. "Oh, poor boy!" she said. "I'm so sorry--so sorry!" She closed her hands tight over both his. Some of her strong young vitality must have passed between them and helped him, for almost immediately his tenseness relaxed a little, and he looked at her. "You--you're not a nurse," he said. "They go around--like--like a--vault----" She had caught his attention! That was a good deal, she felt. She forgot everything about him, except that he was some one to be comforted, and her charge. She sat down on the bed by him, still holding tight to his hands. "No, indeed," she said, bending nearer him, her long loose hair falling forward about her resolutely-smiling young face. "Don't you remember seeing me? I never was a nurse." "What--are you?" he asked feebly. "I'm--why, the children call me the Liberry Teacher," she answered. It occurred to her that it would be better to talk on brightly at random than to risk speaking of his mother to him, as she must if she reminded him of their marriage. "I spend my days in a basement, making bad little boys get so interested in the Higher Culture that they'll forget to shoot crap and smash windows." One of the things which had aided Phyllis to rise from desk-assistant to one of the Children's Room librarians was a very sweet and carrying voice--a voice which arrested even a child's attention,

years

How many times the word 'years' appears in the text?

with him--do you think you could do that? But I always cry so before I'm through--I cry and cry--my poor, helpless boy--he was so strong and bright! And you are sure you are conscientious----" At this point Phyllis stopped the flow of Mrs. Harrington's conversation firmly, if sweetly. "Yes, indeed," she said cheerfully. "But you know, if I'm not, Mr. De Guenther can stop all my allowance. It wouldn't be to my own interest not to fulfil my duties faithfully." "Yes, that is true," said Mrs. Harrington. "That was a good thought of mine. My husband always said I was an unusual woman where business was concerned." So they went on the principle that she had no honor beyond working for what she would get out of it! Although she had made the suggestion herself, Phyllis's cheeks burned, and she was about to answer sharply. Then somehow the poor, anxious, loving mother's absolute preoccupation with her son struck her as right after all. "If it were my son," thought Phyllis, "I wouldn't worry about any strange hired girl's feelings either, maybe. I'd just think about him.... I promise I'll look after Mr. Harrington's welfare as if he were my own brother!" she ended aloud impulsively. "Indeed, you may trust me." "I am--sure you will," panted Mrs. Harrington. "You look like--a good girl, and--and old enough to be responsible--twenty-eight--thirty?" "Not very far from that," said Phyllis serenely. "And you are sure you will know when the attendants are neglectful? I speak to them all the time, but I never can be sure.... And now you'd better see poor Allan. This is one of his good days. Just think, dear Isabel, he spoke to me twice without my speaking to him this morning!" "Oh--must I?" asked Phyllis, dismayed. "Couldn't I wait till--till it happens?" Mrs. Harrington actually laughed a little at her shyness, lighting up like a girl. Phyllis felt dimly, though she tried not to, that through it all her mother-in-law-elect was taking pleasure in the dramatic side of the situation she had engineered. "Oh, my dear, you must see him. He expects you," she answered almost gayly. The procession of three moved down the long room towards a door, Phyllis's hand guiding the wheel-chair. She was surprised to find herself shaking with fright. Just what she expected to find beyond the door she did not know, but it must have been some horror, for it was with a heart-bound of wild relief that she finally made out Allan Harrington, lying white in the darkened place. A Crusader on a tomb. Yes, he looked like that. In the room's half-dusk the pallor of his still, clear-featured face and his long, clear-cut hands was nearly the same as the whiteness of the couch-draperies. His hair, yellow-brown and waving, flung back from his forehead like a crest, and his dark brows and lashes made the only note of darkness about him. To Phyllis's beauty-loving eyes he seemed so perfect an image that she could have watched him for hours. "Here's Miss Braithwaite, my poor darling," said his mother. "The young lady we have been talking about so long." The Crusader lifted his eyelids and let them fall again. "Is she?" he said listlessly. "Don't you want to talk to her, darling boy?" his mother persisted, half out of breath, but still full of that unrebuffable, loving energy and insistence which she would probably keep to the last minute of her life. "No," said the Crusader, still in those empty, listless tones. "I'd rather not talk. I'm tired." His mother seemed not at all put out. "Of course, darling," she said, kissing him. She sat by him still, however, and poured out sentence after sentence of question, insistence, imploration, and pity, eliciting no answer at all. Phyllis wondered how it would feel to have to lie still and have that done to you for a term of years. The result of her wonderment was a decision to forgive her unenthusiastic future bridegroom for what she had at first been ready to slap him. Presently Mrs. Harrington's breath flagged, and the three women went away, back to the room they had been in before. Phyllis sat and let herself be talked to for a little longer. Then she rose impulsively. "May I go back and see your son again for just a minute?" she asked, and had gone before Mrs. Harrington had finished her permission. She darted into the dark room before her courage had time to fail, and stood by the white couch again. "Mr. Harrington," she said clearly, "I'm sorry you're tired, but I'm afraid I am going to have to ask you to listen to me. You know, don't you, that your mother plans to have me marry you, for a sort of interested head-nurse? Are you willing to have it happen? Because I won't do it unless you really prefer it." The heavy white lids half-lifted again. "I don't mind," said Allan Harrington listlessly. "I suppose you are quiet and trustworthy, or De Guenther wouldn't have sent you. It will give mother a little peace and it makes no difference to me." He closed his eyes and the subject at the same time. "Well, then, that's all right," said Phyllis cheerfully, and started to go. Then, drawn back by a sudden, nervous temper-impulse, she moved back on him. "And let me tell you," she added, half-laughing, half-impertinently, "that if you ever get into my quiet, trustworthy clutches you may have an awful time! You're a very spoiled invalid." She whisked out of the room before he could have gone very far with his reply. But he had not cared to reply, apparently. He lay unmoved and unmoving. Phyllis discovered, poising breathless on the threshold, that somehow she had seen his eyes. They had been a little like the wolfhound's, a sort of wistful gold-brown. For some reason she found that Allan Harrington's attitude of absolute detachment made the whole affair seem much easier for her. And when Mrs. Harrington slipped a solitaire diamond into her hand as she went, instead of disliking it she enjoyed its feel on her finger, and the flash of it in the light. She thanked Mrs. Harrington for it with real gratitude. But it made her feel more than ever engaged to marry her mother-in-law. She walked home rather silently with Mrs. De Guenther. Only at the foot of the De Guenther steps, she made one absent remark. "He must have been delightful," she said, "when he was alive!" VI After a week of the old bustling, dusty hard work, the Liberry Teacher's visit to the De Guenthers' and the subsequent one at the Harringtons', and even her sparkling white ring, seemed part of a queer story she had finished and put back on the shelf. The ring was the most real thing, because it was something of a worry. She didn't dare leave it at home, nor did she want to wear it. She finally sewed it in a chamois bag that she safety-pinned under her shirt-waist. Then she dismissed it from her mind also. There is very little time in a Liberry Teacher's life for meditation. Only once in a while would come to her the vision of the wistful Harrington wolfhound following his inadequate patch of sunlight, or of the dusky room where Allan Harrington lay inert and white, and looking like a wonderful carved statue on a tomb. She began to do a little to her clothes, but not very much, because she had neither time nor money. Mr. De Guenther had wanted her to take some money in advance, but she had refused. She did not want it till she had earned it, and, anyway, it would have made the whole thing so real, she knew, that she would have backed out. "And it isn't as if I were going to a lover," she defended herself to Mrs. De Guenther with a little wistful smile. "Nobody will know what I have on, any more than they do now." Mrs. De Guenther gave a scandalized little cry. Her attitude was determinedly that it was just an ordinary marriage, as good an excuse for sentiment and pretty frocks as any other. "My dear child," she replied firmly, "you are going to have one pretty frock and one really good street-suit _now_, or I will know why! The rest you may get yourself after the wedding, but you must obey me in this. Nonsense!--you can get a half-day, as you call it, perfectly well! What's Albert in politics for, if he can't get favors for his friends!" And, in effect, it proved that Albert was in politics to some purpose, for orders came up from the Head's office within twenty minutes after Mrs. De Guenther had used the telephone on her husband, that Miss Braithwaite was to have a half-day immediately--as far as she could make out, in order to transact city affairs! She felt as if the angels had told her she could have the last fortnight over again, as a favor, or something of the sort. A half-day out of turn was something nobody had ever heard of. She was even too surprised to object to the frock part of the situation. She tried to stand out a little longer, but it's a very stoical young woman who can refuse to have pretty clothes bought for her, and the end of it was a seat in a salon which she had always considered so expensive that you scarcely ought to look in the window. "Had it better be a black suit?" asked Mrs. De Guenther doubtfully, as the tall lady in floppy charmeuse hovered haughtily about them, expecting orders. "It seems horrible to buy mourning when dear Angela is not yet passed away, but it would only be showing proper respect; and I remember my own dear mother planned all our mourning outfits while she was dying. It was quite a pleasure to her." Phyllis kept her face straight, and slipped one persuasive hand through her friend's arm. "I don't believe I _could_ buy mourning, dear," she said. "And--oh, if you knew how long I'd wanted a really _blue_ blue suit! Only, it would have been too vivid to wear well--I always knew that--because you can only afford one every other year. And"--Phyllis rather diffidently voiced a thought which had been in the back of her mind for a long time--"if I'm going to be much around Mr. Harrington, don't you think cheerful clothes would be best? Everything in that house seems sombre enough now." "Perhaps you are right, dear child," said Mrs. De Guenther. "I hope you may be the means of putting a great deal of brightness into poor Allan's life before he joins his mother." "Oh, don't!" cried Phyllis impulsively. Somehow she could not bear to think of Allan Harrington's dying. He was too beautiful to be dead, where nobody could see him any more. Besides, Phyllis privately considered that a long vacation before he joined his mother would be only the fair thing for "poor Allan." Youth sides with youth. And--the clear-cut white lines of him rose in her memory and stayed there. She could almost hear that poor, tired, toneless voice of his, that was yet so deep and so perfectly accented.... She bought docilely whatever her guide directed, and woke from a species of gentle daze at the afternoon's end to find Mrs. De Guenther beaming with the weary rapture of the successful shopper, and herself the proprietress of a turquoise velvet walking-suit, a hat to match, a pale blue evening frock, a pale green between-dress with lovely clinging lines, and a heavenly white crepe thing with rosy ribbons and filmy shadow-laces--the negligee of one's dreams. There were also slippers and shoes and stockings and--this was really too bad of Mrs. De Guenther--a half-dozen set of lingerie, straight through. Mrs. De Guenther sat and continued to beam joyously over the array, in Phyllis's little bedroom. "It's my present, dearie," she said calmly. "So you needn't worry about using Angela's money. Gracious, it's been _lovely_! I haven't had such a good time since my husband's little grand-niece came on for a week. There's nothing like dressing a girl, after all." And Phyllis could only kiss her. But when her guest had gone she laid all the boxes of finery under her bed, the only place where there was any room. She would not take any of it out, she determined, till her summons came. But on second thought, she wore the blue velvet street-suit on Sunday visits to Mrs. Harrington, which became--she never knew just when or how--a regular thing. The vivid blue made her eyes nearly sky-color, and brightened her hair very satisfactorily. She was taking more time and trouble over her looks now--one has to live up to a turquoise velvet hat and coat! She found herself, too, becoming very genuinely fond of the restless, anxiously loving, passionate, unwise child who dwelt in Mrs. Harrington's frail elderly body and had almost worn it out. She sat, long hours of every Sunday afternoon, holding Mrs. Harrington's thin little hot hands, and listening to her swift, italicised monologues about Allan--what he must do, what he must not do, how he must be looked after, how his mother had treated him, how his wishes must be ascertained and followed. "Though all he wants now is dark and quiet," said his mother piteously. "I don't even go in there now to cry." She spoke as if it were an established ritual. Had she been using her son's sick-room, Phyllis wondered, as a regular weeping-place? She could feel in Mrs. Harrington, even in this mortal sickness, the tremendous driving influence which is often part of a passionately active and not very wise personality. That certitude and insistence of Mrs. Harrington's could hammer you finally into believing or doing almost anything. Phyllis wondered how much his mother's heartbroken adoration and pity might have had to do with making her son as hopeless-minded as he was. Naturally, the mother-in-law-elect she had acquired in such a strange way became very fond of Phyllis. But indeed there was something very gay and sweet and honest-minded about the girl, a something which gave people the feeling that they were very wise in liking her. Some people you are fond of against your will. When people cared for Phyllis it was with a quite irrational feeling that they were doing a sensible thing. They never gave any of the credit to her very real, though almost invisible, charm. She never saw Allan Harrington on any of the Sunday visits. She was sure the servants thought she did, for she knew that every one in the great, dark old house knew her as the young lady who was to marry Mr. Allan. She believed that she was supposed to be an old family friend, perhaps a distant relative. She did not want to see Allan. But she did want to be as good to his little, tensely-loving mother as she could, and reassure her about Allan's future care. And she succeeded. It was on a Friday about two that the summons came. Phyllis had thought she expected it, but when the call came to her over the library telephone she found herself as badly frightened as she had been the first time she went to the Harrington house. She shivered as she laid down the dater she was using, and called the other librarian to take her desk. Fortunately, between one and four the morning and evening shifts overlapped, and there was some one to take her place. "Mrs. Harrington cannot last out the night," came Mr. De Guenther's clear, precise voice over the telephone, without preface. "I have arranged with Mr. Johnston. You can go at once. You had better pack a suit-case, for you possibly may not be able to get back to your boarding-place." So it was to happen now! Phyllis felt, with her substitute in her place, her own wraps on, and her feet taking her swiftly towards her goal, as if she were offering herself to be made a nun, or have a hand or foot cut off, or paying herself away in some awful, irrevocable fashion. She packed, mechanically, all the pretty things Mrs. De Guenther had given her, and nothing else. She found herself at the door of her room with the locked suit-case in her hand, and not even a nail-file of the things belonging to her old self in it. She shook herself together, managed to laugh a little, and returned and put in such things as she thought she would require for the night. Then she went. She always remembered that journey as long as she lived; her hands and feet and tongue going on, buying tickets, giving directions--and her mind, like a naughty child, catching at everything as they went, and screaming to be allowed to go back home, back to the dusty, matter-of-course library and the dreary little boarding-house bedroom! VII They were all waiting for her, in what felt like a hideously quiet semicircle, in Allan's great dark room. Mrs. Harrington, deadly pale, and giving an impression of keeping herself alive only by force of that wonderful fighting vitality of hers, lay almost at length in her wheel-chair. There was a clergyman in vestments. There were the De Guenthers; Mr. De Guenther only a little more precise than his every-day habit was, Mrs. De Guenther crying a little, softly and furtively. As for Allan Harrington, he lay just as she had seen him that other time, white and moveless, seeming scarcely conscious except by an effort. Only she noticed a slight contraction, as of pain, between his brows. "Phyllis has come," panted Mrs. Harrington. "Now it will be--all right. You must marry him quickly--quickly, do you hear, Phyllis? Oh, people never will--do--what I want them to----" "Yes--yes, indeed, dear," said Phyllis, taking her hands soothingly. "We're going to attend to it right away. See, everything is ready." It occurred to her that Mrs. Harrington was not half as correct in her playing of the part of a dying woman as she would have seen to it that anyone else was; also, that things did not seem legal without the wolfhound. Then she was shocked at herself for such irrelevant thoughts. The thing to do was to keep poor Mrs. Harrington quieted. So she beckoned the clergyman and the De Guenthers nearer, and herself sped the marrying of herself to Allan Harrington. ... When you are being married to a Crusader on a tomb, the easiest way is to kneel down by him. Phyllis registered this fact in her mind quite blankly, as something which might be of use to remember in future.... The marrying took an unnecessarily long time, it seemed to her. It did not seem as if she were being married at all. It all seemed to concern somebody else. When it came to the putting on of the wedding-ring, she found herself, very naturally, guiding Allan's relaxed fingers to hold it in its successive places, and finally slip it on the wedding-finger. And somehow having to do that checked the chilly awe she had had before of Allan Harrington. It made her feel quite simply sorry for him, as if he were one of her poor little boys in trouble. And when it was all over she bent pitifully before she thought, and kissed one white, cold cheek. He seemed so tragically helpless, yet more alive, in some way, since she had touched his hand to guide it. Then, as her lips brushed his cheek, she recoiled and colored a little. She had felt that slight roughness which a man's cheek, however close-shaven, always has--the _man_-feel. It made her realize unreasonably that it was a man she had married, after all, not a stone image nor a sick child--a live man! With the thought, or rather instinct, came a swift terror of what she had done, and a swift impulse to rise. She was half-way risen from her knees when a hand on her shoulder, and the clergyman's voice in her ear, checked her. "Not yet," he murmured almost inaudibly. "Stay as you are till--till Mrs. Harrington is wheeled from the room." Phyllis understood. She remained as she was, her body a shield before Allan Harrington's eyes, her hand just withdrawing from his shoulder, till she heard the closing of the door, and a sigh as of relaxed tension from the three people around her. Then she rose. Allan lay still with closed eyelids. It seemed to her that he had flushed, if ever so faintly, at the touch of her lips on his cheek. She laid his hand on the coverlet with her own roughened, ringed one, and followed the others out, into the room where the dead woman had been taken, leaving him with his attendant. The rest of the evening Phyllis went about in a queer-keyed, almost light-hearted frame of mind. It was only the reaction from the long-expected terror that was over now, but it felt indecorous. It was just as well, however. Some one's head had to be kept. The servants were upset, of course, and there were many arrangements to be made. She and Mr. De Guenther worked steadily together, telephoning, ordering, guiding, straightening out all the tangles. There never was a wedding, she thought, where the bride did so much of the work! She even remembered to see personally that Allan's dinner was sent up to him. The servants had doubtless been told to come to her for orders--at any rate, they did. Phyllis had not had much experience in running a house, but a good deal in keeping her head. And that, after all, is the main thing. She had a far-off feeling as if she were hearing some other young woman giving swift, poised, executive orders. She rather admired her. After dinner the De Guenthers went. And Phyllis Braithwaite, the little Liberry Teacher who had been living in a hall bedroom on much less money than she needed, found herself alone, sole mistress of the great Harrington house, a corps of servants, a husband passive enough to satisfy the most militant suffragette, a check-book, a wistful wolfhound, and five hundred dollars, cash, for current expenses. The last weighed on her mind more than all the rest put together. "Why, I don't know how to make Current Expenses out of all that!" she had said to Mr. De Guenther. "It looks to me exactly like about ten months' salary! I'm perfectly certain I shall get up in my sleep and try to pay my board ahead with it, so I shan't have it all spent before the ten months are up! There was a blue bead necklace," she went on meditatively, "in the Five-and-Ten, that I always wanted to buy. Only I never quite felt I could afford it. Oh, just imagine going to the Five-and-Ten and buying at least five dollars' worth of things you didn't need!" "You have great discretionary powers--great discretionary powers, my dear, you will find!" Mr. De Guenther had said, as he patted her shoulder. Phyllis took it as a compliment at the time. "Discretionary powers" sounded as if he thought she was a quite intelligent young person. It did not occur to her till he had gone, and she was alone with her check-book, that it meant she had a good deal of liberty to do as she liked. It seemed to be expected of her to stay. Nobody even suggested a possibility of her going home again, even to pack her trunk. Mrs. De Guenther casually volunteered to do that, a little after the housekeeper had told her where her rooms were. She had been consulting with the housekeeper for what seemed ages, when she happened to want some pins for something, and asked for her suit-case. "It's in your rooms," said the housekeeper. "Mrs. Harrington--the late Mrs. Harrington, I should say----" Phyllis stopped listening at this point. Who was the present Mrs. Harrington? she wondered before she thought--and then remembered. Why--_she_ was! So there was no Phyllis Braithwaite any more! Of course not.... Yet she had always liked the name so--well, a last name was a small thing to give up.... Into her mind fitted an incongruous, silly story she had heard once at the library, about a girl whose last name was Rose, and whose parents christened her Wild, because the combination appealed to them. And then she married a man named Bull.... Meanwhile the housekeeper had been going on. ... "She had the bedroom and bath opening from the other side of Mr. Allan's day-room ready for you, madam. It's been ready several weeks." "Has it?" said Phyllis. It was like Mrs. Harrington, that careful planning of even where she should be put. "Is Mr. Harrington in his day-room now?" For some reason she did not attempt to give herself, she did not want to see him again just now. Besides, it was nearly eleven and time a very tired girl was in bed. She wanted a good night's rest, before she had to get up and be Mrs. Harrington, with Allan and the check-book and the Current Expenses all tied to her. Some one had laid everything out for her in the bedroom; the filmy new nightgown over a chair, the blue satin mules underneath, her plain toilet-things on a dressing-table, and over another chair the exquisite ivory crepe negligee with its floating rose ribbons. She took a hasty bath--there was so much hot water that she was quite reconciled for a moment to being a check-booked and wolf hounded Mrs. Harrington--and slid straight into bed without even stopping to braid her loosened, honey-colored hair. It seemed to her that she was barely asleep when there came an urgent knocking at her door. "Yes?" she said sleepily, looking mechanically for her alarm-clock as she switched on the light. "What is it, please?" "It's I, Wallis, Mr. Allan's man, Madame," said a nervous voice. "Mr. Allan's very bad. I've done all the usual things, but nothing seems to quiet him. He hates doctors so, and they make him so wrought up--please could you come, ma'am? He says as how all of us are all dead--oh, _please_, Mrs. Harrington!" There was panic in the man's voice. "All right," said Phyllis sleepily, dropping to the floor as she spoke with the rapidity that only the alarm-clock-broken know. She snatched the negligee around her, and thrust her feet hastily into the blue satin slippers--why, she was actually using her wedding finery! And what an easily upset person that man was! But everybody in the house seemed to have nerves on edge. It was no wonder about Allan--he wanted his mother, of course, poor boy! She felt, as she ran fleetly across the long room that separated her sleeping quarters from her husband's, the same mixture of pity and timidity that she had felt with him before. Poor boy! Poor, silent, beautiful statue, with his one friend gone! She opened the door and entered swiftly into his room. She was not thinking about herself at all, only of how she could help Allan, but there must have been something about her of the picture-book angel to the pain-racked man, lying tensely at length in the room's darkest corner. Her long, dully gold hair, loosening from its twist, flew out about her, and her face was still flushed with sleep. There was a something about her that was vividly alight and alive, perhaps the light in her blue eyes. From what the man had said Phyllis had thought Allan was delirious, but she saw at once that he was only in severe pain, and talking more disconnectedly, perhaps, than the slow-minded Englishman could follow. He did not look like a statue now. His cheeks were burning with evident pain, and his yellow-brown eyes, wide-open, and dilated to darkness, stared straight out. His hands were clenching and unclenching, and his head moved restlessly from side to side. Every nerve and muscle, she could see, was taut. "They're all dead," he muttered. "Father and Mother and Louise--and I--only I'm not dead enough to bury. Oh, God, I wish I was!" That wasn't delirium; it was something more like heart-break. Phyllis moved closer to him, and dropped one of her sleep-warm hands on his cold, clenched one. "Oh, poor boy!" she said. "I'm so sorry--so sorry!" She closed her hands tight over both his. Some of her strong young vitality must have passed between them and helped him, for almost immediately his tenseness relaxed a little, and he looked at her. "You--you're not a nurse," he said. "They go around--like--like a--vault----" She had caught his attention! That was a good deal, she felt. She forgot everything about him, except that he was some one to be comforted, and her charge. She sat down on the bed by him, still holding tight to his hands. "No, indeed," she said, bending nearer him, her long loose hair falling forward about her resolutely-smiling young face. "Don't you remember seeing me? I never was a nurse." "What--are you?" he asked feebly. "I'm--why, the children call me the Liberry Teacher," she answered. It occurred to her that it would be better to talk on brightly at random than to risk speaking of his mother to him, as she must if she reminded him of their marriage. "I spend my days in a basement, making bad little boys get so interested in the Higher Culture that they'll forget to shoot crap and smash windows." One of the things which had aided Phyllis to rise from desk-assistant to one of the Children's Room librarians was a very sweet and carrying voice--a voice which arrested even a child's attention,

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with him--do you think you could do that? But I always cry so before I'm through--I cry and cry--my poor, helpless boy--he was so strong and bright! And you are sure you are conscientious----" At this point Phyllis stopped the flow of Mrs. Harrington's conversation firmly, if sweetly. "Yes, indeed," she said cheerfully. "But you know, if I'm not, Mr. De Guenther can stop all my allowance. It wouldn't be to my own interest not to fulfil my duties faithfully." "Yes, that is true," said Mrs. Harrington. "That was a good thought of mine. My husband always said I was an unusual woman where business was concerned." So they went on the principle that she had no honor beyond working for what she would get out of it! Although she had made the suggestion herself, Phyllis's cheeks burned, and she was about to answer sharply. Then somehow the poor, anxious, loving mother's absolute preoccupation with her son struck her as right after all. "If it were my son," thought Phyllis, "I wouldn't worry about any strange hired girl's feelings either, maybe. I'd just think about him.... I promise I'll look after Mr. Harrington's welfare as if he were my own brother!" she ended aloud impulsively. "Indeed, you may trust me." "I am--sure you will," panted Mrs. Harrington. "You look like--a good girl, and--and old enough to be responsible--twenty-eight--thirty?" "Not very far from that," said Phyllis serenely. "And you are sure you will know when the attendants are neglectful? I speak to them all the time, but I never can be sure.... And now you'd better see poor Allan. This is one of his good days. Just think, dear Isabel, he spoke to me twice without my speaking to him this morning!" "Oh--must I?" asked Phyllis, dismayed. "Couldn't I wait till--till it happens?" Mrs. Harrington actually laughed a little at her shyness, lighting up like a girl. Phyllis felt dimly, though she tried not to, that through it all her mother-in-law-elect was taking pleasure in the dramatic side of the situation she had engineered. "Oh, my dear, you must see him. He expects you," she answered almost gayly. The procession of three moved down the long room towards a door, Phyllis's hand guiding the wheel-chair. She was surprised to find herself shaking with fright. Just what she expected to find beyond the door she did not know, but it must have been some horror, for it was with a heart-bound of wild relief that she finally made out Allan Harrington, lying white in the darkened place. A Crusader on a tomb. Yes, he looked like that. In the room's half-dusk the pallor of his still, clear-featured face and his long, clear-cut hands was nearly the same as the whiteness of the couch-draperies. His hair, yellow-brown and waving, flung back from his forehead like a crest, and his dark brows and lashes made the only note of darkness about him. To Phyllis's beauty-loving eyes he seemed so perfect an image that she could have watched him for hours. "Here's Miss Braithwaite, my poor darling," said his mother. "The young lady we have been talking about so long." The Crusader lifted his eyelids and let them fall again. "Is she?" he said listlessly. "Don't you want to talk to her, darling boy?" his mother persisted, half out of breath, but still full of that unrebuffable, loving energy and insistence which she would probably keep to the last minute of her life. "No," said the Crusader, still in those empty, listless tones. "I'd rather not talk. I'm tired." His mother seemed not at all put out. "Of course, darling," she said, kissing him. She sat by him still, however, and poured out sentence after sentence of question, insistence, imploration, and pity, eliciting no answer at all. Phyllis wondered how it would feel to have to lie still and have that done to you for a term of years. The result of her wonderment was a decision to forgive her unenthusiastic future bridegroom for what she had at first been ready to slap him. Presently Mrs. Harrington's breath flagged, and the three women went away, back to the room they had been in before. Phyllis sat and let herself be talked to for a little longer. Then she rose impulsively. "May I go back and see your son again for just a minute?" she asked, and had gone before Mrs. Harrington had finished her permission. She darted into the dark room before her courage had time to fail, and stood by the white couch again. "Mr. Harrington," she said clearly, "I'm sorry you're tired, but I'm afraid I am going to have to ask you to listen to me. You know, don't you, that your mother plans to have me marry you, for a sort of interested head-nurse? Are you willing to have it happen? Because I won't do it unless you really prefer it." The heavy white lids half-lifted again. "I don't mind," said Allan Harrington listlessly. "I suppose you are quiet and trustworthy, or De Guenther wouldn't have sent you. It will give mother a little peace and it makes no difference to me." He closed his eyes and the subject at the same time. "Well, then, that's all right," said Phyllis cheerfully, and started to go. Then, drawn back by a sudden, nervous temper-impulse, she moved back on him. "And let me tell you," she added, half-laughing, half-impertinently, "that if you ever get into my quiet, trustworthy clutches you may have an awful time! You're a very spoiled invalid." She whisked out of the room before he could have gone very far with his reply. But he had not cared to reply, apparently. He lay unmoved and unmoving. Phyllis discovered, poising breathless on the threshold, that somehow she had seen his eyes. They had been a little like the wolfhound's, a sort of wistful gold-brown. For some reason she found that Allan Harrington's attitude of absolute detachment made the whole affair seem much easier for her. And when Mrs. Harrington slipped a solitaire diamond into her hand as she went, instead of disliking it she enjoyed its feel on her finger, and the flash of it in the light. She thanked Mrs. Harrington for it with real gratitude. But it made her feel more than ever engaged to marry her mother-in-law. She walked home rather silently with Mrs. De Guenther. Only at the foot of the De Guenther steps, she made one absent remark. "He must have been delightful," she said, "when he was alive!" VI After a week of the old bustling, dusty hard work, the Liberry Teacher's visit to the De Guenthers' and the subsequent one at the Harringtons', and even her sparkling white ring, seemed part of a queer story she had finished and put back on the shelf. The ring was the most real thing, because it was something of a worry. She didn't dare leave it at home, nor did she want to wear it. She finally sewed it in a chamois bag that she safety-pinned under her shirt-waist. Then she dismissed it from her mind also. There is very little time in a Liberry Teacher's life for meditation. Only once in a while would come to her the vision of the wistful Harrington wolfhound following his inadequate patch of sunlight, or of the dusky room where Allan Harrington lay inert and white, and looking like a wonderful carved statue on a tomb. She began to do a little to her clothes, but not very much, because she had neither time nor money. Mr. De Guenther had wanted her to take some money in advance, but she had refused. She did not want it till she had earned it, and, anyway, it would have made the whole thing so real, she knew, that she would have backed out. "And it isn't as if I were going to a lover," she defended herself to Mrs. De Guenther with a little wistful smile. "Nobody will know what I have on, any more than they do now." Mrs. De Guenther gave a scandalized little cry. Her attitude was determinedly that it was just an ordinary marriage, as good an excuse for sentiment and pretty frocks as any other. "My dear child," she replied firmly, "you are going to have one pretty frock and one really good street-suit _now_, or I will know why! The rest you may get yourself after the wedding, but you must obey me in this. Nonsense!--you can get a half-day, as you call it, perfectly well! What's Albert in politics for, if he can't get favors for his friends!" And, in effect, it proved that Albert was in politics to some purpose, for orders came up from the Head's office within twenty minutes after Mrs. De Guenther had used the telephone on her husband, that Miss Braithwaite was to have a half-day immediately--as far as she could make out, in order to transact city affairs! She felt as if the angels had told her she could have the last fortnight over again, as a favor, or something of the sort. A half-day out of turn was something nobody had ever heard of. She was even too surprised to object to the frock part of the situation. She tried to stand out a little longer, but it's a very stoical young woman who can refuse to have pretty clothes bought for her, and the end of it was a seat in a salon which she had always considered so expensive that you scarcely ought to look in the window. "Had it better be a black suit?" asked Mrs. De Guenther doubtfully, as the tall lady in floppy charmeuse hovered haughtily about them, expecting orders. "It seems horrible to buy mourning when dear Angela is not yet passed away, but it would only be showing proper respect; and I remember my own dear mother planned all our mourning outfits while she was dying. It was quite a pleasure to her." Phyllis kept her face straight, and slipped one persuasive hand through her friend's arm. "I don't believe I _could_ buy mourning, dear," she said. "And--oh, if you knew how long I'd wanted a really _blue_ blue suit! Only, it would have been too vivid to wear well--I always knew that--because you can only afford one every other year. And"--Phyllis rather diffidently voiced a thought which had been in the back of her mind for a long time--"if I'm going to be much around Mr. Harrington, don't you think cheerful clothes would be best? Everything in that house seems sombre enough now." "Perhaps you are right, dear child," said Mrs. De Guenther. "I hope you may be the means of putting a great deal of brightness into poor Allan's life before he joins his mother." "Oh, don't!" cried Phyllis impulsively. Somehow she could not bear to think of Allan Harrington's dying. He was too beautiful to be dead, where nobody could see him any more. Besides, Phyllis privately considered that a long vacation before he joined his mother would be only the fair thing for "poor Allan." Youth sides with youth. And--the clear-cut white lines of him rose in her memory and stayed there. She could almost hear that poor, tired, toneless voice of his, that was yet so deep and so perfectly accented.... She bought docilely whatever her guide directed, and woke from a species of gentle daze at the afternoon's end to find Mrs. De Guenther beaming with the weary rapture of the successful shopper, and herself the proprietress of a turquoise velvet walking-suit, a hat to match, a pale blue evening frock, a pale green between-dress with lovely clinging lines, and a heavenly white crepe thing with rosy ribbons and filmy shadow-laces--the negligee of one's dreams. There were also slippers and shoes and stockings and--this was really too bad of Mrs. De Guenther--a half-dozen set of lingerie, straight through. Mrs. De Guenther sat and continued to beam joyously over the array, in Phyllis's little bedroom. "It's my present, dearie," she said calmly. "So you needn't worry about using Angela's money. Gracious, it's been _lovely_! I haven't had such a good time since my husband's little grand-niece came on for a week. There's nothing like dressing a girl, after all." And Phyllis could only kiss her. But when her guest had gone she laid all the boxes of finery under her bed, the only place where there was any room. She would not take any of it out, she determined, till her summons came. But on second thought, she wore the blue velvet street-suit on Sunday visits to Mrs. Harrington, which became--she never knew just when or how--a regular thing. The vivid blue made her eyes nearly sky-color, and brightened her hair very satisfactorily. She was taking more time and trouble over her looks now--one has to live up to a turquoise velvet hat and coat! She found herself, too, becoming very genuinely fond of the restless, anxiously loving, passionate, unwise child who dwelt in Mrs. Harrington's frail elderly body and had almost worn it out. She sat, long hours of every Sunday afternoon, holding Mrs. Harrington's thin little hot hands, and listening to her swift, italicised monologues about Allan--what he must do, what he must not do, how he must be looked after, how his mother had treated him, how his wishes must be ascertained and followed. "Though all he wants now is dark and quiet," said his mother piteously. "I don't even go in there now to cry." She spoke as if it were an established ritual. Had she been using her son's sick-room, Phyllis wondered, as a regular weeping-place? She could feel in Mrs. Harrington, even in this mortal sickness, the tremendous driving influence which is often part of a passionately active and not very wise personality. That certitude and insistence of Mrs. Harrington's could hammer you finally into believing or doing almost anything. Phyllis wondered how much his mother's heartbroken adoration and pity might have had to do with making her son as hopeless-minded as he was. Naturally, the mother-in-law-elect she had acquired in such a strange way became very fond of Phyllis. But indeed there was something very gay and sweet and honest-minded about the girl, a something which gave people the feeling that they were very wise in liking her. Some people you are fond of against your will. When people cared for Phyllis it was with a quite irrational feeling that they were doing a sensible thing. They never gave any of the credit to her very real, though almost invisible, charm. She never saw Allan Harrington on any of the Sunday visits. She was sure the servants thought she did, for she knew that every one in the great, dark old house knew her as the young lady who was to marry Mr. Allan. She believed that she was supposed to be an old family friend, perhaps a distant relative. She did not want to see Allan. But she did want to be as good to his little, tensely-loving mother as she could, and reassure her about Allan's future care. And she succeeded. It was on a Friday about two that the summons came. Phyllis had thought she expected it, but when the call came to her over the library telephone she found herself as badly frightened as she had been the first time she went to the Harrington house. She shivered as she laid down the dater she was using, and called the other librarian to take her desk. Fortunately, between one and four the morning and evening shifts overlapped, and there was some one to take her place. "Mrs. Harrington cannot last out the night," came Mr. De Guenther's clear, precise voice over the telephone, without preface. "I have arranged with Mr. Johnston. You can go at once. You had better pack a suit-case, for you possibly may not be able to get back to your boarding-place." So it was to happen now! Phyllis felt, with her substitute in her place, her own wraps on, and her feet taking her swiftly towards her goal, as if she were offering herself to be made a nun, or have a hand or foot cut off, or paying herself away in some awful, irrevocable fashion. She packed, mechanically, all the pretty things Mrs. De Guenther had given her, and nothing else. She found herself at the door of her room with the locked suit-case in her hand, and not even a nail-file of the things belonging to her old self in it. She shook herself together, managed to laugh a little, and returned and put in such things as she thought she would require for the night. Then she went. She always remembered that journey as long as she lived; her hands and feet and tongue going on, buying tickets, giving directions--and her mind, like a naughty child, catching at everything as they went, and screaming to be allowed to go back home, back to the dusty, matter-of-course library and the dreary little boarding-house bedroom! VII They were all waiting for her, in what felt like a hideously quiet semicircle, in Allan's great dark room. Mrs. Harrington, deadly pale, and giving an impression of keeping herself alive only by force of that wonderful fighting vitality of hers, lay almost at length in her wheel-chair. There was a clergyman in vestments. There were the De Guenthers; Mr. De Guenther only a little more precise than his every-day habit was, Mrs. De Guenther crying a little, softly and furtively. As for Allan Harrington, he lay just as she had seen him that other time, white and moveless, seeming scarcely conscious except by an effort. Only she noticed a slight contraction, as of pain, between his brows. "Phyllis has come," panted Mrs. Harrington. "Now it will be--all right. You must marry him quickly--quickly, do you hear, Phyllis? Oh, people never will--do--what I want them to----" "Yes--yes, indeed, dear," said Phyllis, taking her hands soothingly. "We're going to attend to it right away. See, everything is ready." It occurred to her that Mrs. Harrington was not half as correct in her playing of the part of a dying woman as she would have seen to it that anyone else was; also, that things did not seem legal without the wolfhound. Then she was shocked at herself for such irrelevant thoughts. The thing to do was to keep poor Mrs. Harrington quieted. So she beckoned the clergyman and the De Guenthers nearer, and herself sped the marrying of herself to Allan Harrington. ... When you are being married to a Crusader on a tomb, the easiest way is to kneel down by him. Phyllis registered this fact in her mind quite blankly, as something which might be of use to remember in future.... The marrying took an unnecessarily long time, it seemed to her. It did not seem as if she were being married at all. It all seemed to concern somebody else. When it came to the putting on of the wedding-ring, she found herself, very naturally, guiding Allan's relaxed fingers to hold it in its successive places, and finally slip it on the wedding-finger. And somehow having to do that checked the chilly awe she had had before of Allan Harrington. It made her feel quite simply sorry for him, as if he were one of her poor little boys in trouble. And when it was all over she bent pitifully before she thought, and kissed one white, cold cheek. He seemed so tragically helpless, yet more alive, in some way, since she had touched his hand to guide it. Then, as her lips brushed his cheek, she recoiled and colored a little. She had felt that slight roughness which a man's cheek, however close-shaven, always has--the _man_-feel. It made her realize unreasonably that it was a man she had married, after all, not a stone image nor a sick child--a live man! With the thought, or rather instinct, came a swift terror of what she had done, and a swift impulse to rise. She was half-way risen from her knees when a hand on her shoulder, and the clergyman's voice in her ear, checked her. "Not yet," he murmured almost inaudibly. "Stay as you are till--till Mrs. Harrington is wheeled from the room." Phyllis understood. She remained as she was, her body a shield before Allan Harrington's eyes, her hand just withdrawing from his shoulder, till she heard the closing of the door, and a sigh as of relaxed tension from the three people around her. Then she rose. Allan lay still with closed eyelids. It seemed to her that he had flushed, if ever so faintly, at the touch of her lips on his cheek. She laid his hand on the coverlet with her own roughened, ringed one, and followed the others out, into the room where the dead woman had been taken, leaving him with his attendant. The rest of the evening Phyllis went about in a queer-keyed, almost light-hearted frame of mind. It was only the reaction from the long-expected terror that was over now, but it felt indecorous. It was just as well, however. Some one's head had to be kept. The servants were upset, of course, and there were many arrangements to be made. She and Mr. De Guenther worked steadily together, telephoning, ordering, guiding, straightening out all the tangles. There never was a wedding, she thought, where the bride did so much of the work! She even remembered to see personally that Allan's dinner was sent up to him. The servants had doubtless been told to come to her for orders--at any rate, they did. Phyllis had not had much experience in running a house, but a good deal in keeping her head. And that, after all, is the main thing. She had a far-off feeling as if she were hearing some other young woman giving swift, poised, executive orders. She rather admired her. After dinner the De Guenthers went. And Phyllis Braithwaite, the little Liberry Teacher who had been living in a hall bedroom on much less money than she needed, found herself alone, sole mistress of the great Harrington house, a corps of servants, a husband passive enough to satisfy the most militant suffragette, a check-book, a wistful wolfhound, and five hundred dollars, cash, for current expenses. The last weighed on her mind more than all the rest put together. "Why, I don't know how to make Current Expenses out of all that!" she had said to Mr. De Guenther. "It looks to me exactly like about ten months' salary! I'm perfectly certain I shall get up in my sleep and try to pay my board ahead with it, so I shan't have it all spent before the ten months are up! There was a blue bead necklace," she went on meditatively, "in the Five-and-Ten, that I always wanted to buy. Only I never quite felt I could afford it. Oh, just imagine going to the Five-and-Ten and buying at least five dollars' worth of things you didn't need!" "You have great discretionary powers--great discretionary powers, my dear, you will find!" Mr. De Guenther had said, as he patted her shoulder. Phyllis took it as a compliment at the time. "Discretionary powers" sounded as if he thought she was a quite intelligent young person. It did not occur to her till he had gone, and she was alone with her check-book, that it meant she had a good deal of liberty to do as she liked. It seemed to be expected of her to stay. Nobody even suggested a possibility of her going home again, even to pack her trunk. Mrs. De Guenther casually volunteered to do that, a little after the housekeeper had told her where her rooms were. She had been consulting with the housekeeper for what seemed ages, when she happened to want some pins for something, and asked for her suit-case. "It's in your rooms," said the housekeeper. "Mrs. Harrington--the late Mrs. Harrington, I should say----" Phyllis stopped listening at this point. Who was the present Mrs. Harrington? she wondered before she thought--and then remembered. Why--_she_ was! So there was no Phyllis Braithwaite any more! Of course not.... Yet she had always liked the name so--well, a last name was a small thing to give up.... Into her mind fitted an incongruous, silly story she had heard once at the library, about a girl whose last name was Rose, and whose parents christened her Wild, because the combination appealed to them. And then she married a man named Bull.... Meanwhile the housekeeper had been going on. ... "She had the bedroom and bath opening from the other side of Mr. Allan's day-room ready for you, madam. It's been ready several weeks." "Has it?" said Phyllis. It was like Mrs. Harrington, that careful planning of even where she should be put. "Is Mr. Harrington in his day-room now?" For some reason she did not attempt to give herself, she did not want to see him again just now. Besides, it was nearly eleven and time a very tired girl was in bed. She wanted a good night's rest, before she had to get up and be Mrs. Harrington, with Allan and the check-book and the Current Expenses all tied to her. Some one had laid everything out for her in the bedroom; the filmy new nightgown over a chair, the blue satin mules underneath, her plain toilet-things on a dressing-table, and over another chair the exquisite ivory crepe negligee with its floating rose ribbons. She took a hasty bath--there was so much hot water that she was quite reconciled for a moment to being a check-booked and wolf hounded Mrs. Harrington--and slid straight into bed without even stopping to braid her loosened, honey-colored hair. It seemed to her that she was barely asleep when there came an urgent knocking at her door. "Yes?" she said sleepily, looking mechanically for her alarm-clock as she switched on the light. "What is it, please?" "It's I, Wallis, Mr. Allan's man, Madame," said a nervous voice. "Mr. Allan's very bad. I've done all the usual things, but nothing seems to quiet him. He hates doctors so, and they make him so wrought up--please could you come, ma'am? He says as how all of us are all dead--oh, _please_, Mrs. Harrington!" There was panic in the man's voice. "All right," said Phyllis sleepily, dropping to the floor as she spoke with the rapidity that only the alarm-clock-broken know. She snatched the negligee around her, and thrust her feet hastily into the blue satin slippers--why, she was actually using her wedding finery! And what an easily upset person that man was! But everybody in the house seemed to have nerves on edge. It was no wonder about Allan--he wanted his mother, of course, poor boy! She felt, as she ran fleetly across the long room that separated her sleeping quarters from her husband's, the same mixture of pity and timidity that she had felt with him before. Poor boy! Poor, silent, beautiful statue, with his one friend gone! She opened the door and entered swiftly into his room. She was not thinking about herself at all, only of how she could help Allan, but there must have been something about her of the picture-book angel to the pain-racked man, lying tensely at length in the room's darkest corner. Her long, dully gold hair, loosening from its twist, flew out about her, and her face was still flushed with sleep. There was a something about her that was vividly alight and alive, perhaps the light in her blue eyes. From what the man had said Phyllis had thought Allan was delirious, but she saw at once that he was only in severe pain, and talking more disconnectedly, perhaps, than the slow-minded Englishman could follow. He did not look like a statue now. His cheeks were burning with evident pain, and his yellow-brown eyes, wide-open, and dilated to darkness, stared straight out. His hands were clenching and unclenching, and his head moved restlessly from side to side. Every nerve and muscle, she could see, was taut. "They're all dead," he muttered. "Father and Mother and Louise--and I--only I'm not dead enough to bury. Oh, God, I wish I was!" That wasn't delirium; it was something more like heart-break. Phyllis moved closer to him, and dropped one of her sleep-warm hands on his cold, clenched one. "Oh, poor boy!" she said. "I'm so sorry--so sorry!" She closed her hands tight over both his. Some of her strong young vitality must have passed between them and helped him, for almost immediately his tenseness relaxed a little, and he looked at her. "You--you're not a nurse," he said. "They go around--like--like a--vault----" She had caught his attention! That was a good deal, she felt. She forgot everything about him, except that he was some one to be comforted, and her charge. She sat down on the bed by him, still holding tight to his hands. "No, indeed," she said, bending nearer him, her long loose hair falling forward about her resolutely-smiling young face. "Don't you remember seeing me? I never was a nurse." "What--are you?" he asked feebly. "I'm--why, the children call me the Liberry Teacher," she answered. It occurred to her that it would be better to talk on brightly at random than to risk speaking of his mother to him, as she must if she reminded him of their marriage. "I spend my days in a basement, making bad little boys get so interested in the Higher Culture that they'll forget to shoot crap and smash windows." One of the things which had aided Phyllis to rise from desk-assistant to one of the Children's Room librarians was a very sweet and carrying voice--a voice which arrested even a child's attention,

dared

How many times the word 'dared' appears in the text?

with him--do you think you could do that? But I always cry so before I'm through--I cry and cry--my poor, helpless boy--he was so strong and bright! And you are sure you are conscientious----" At this point Phyllis stopped the flow of Mrs. Harrington's conversation firmly, if sweetly. "Yes, indeed," she said cheerfully. "But you know, if I'm not, Mr. De Guenther can stop all my allowance. It wouldn't be to my own interest not to fulfil my duties faithfully." "Yes, that is true," said Mrs. Harrington. "That was a good thought of mine. My husband always said I was an unusual woman where business was concerned." So they went on the principle that she had no honor beyond working for what she would get out of it! Although she had made the suggestion herself, Phyllis's cheeks burned, and she was about to answer sharply. Then somehow the poor, anxious, loving mother's absolute preoccupation with her son struck her as right after all. "If it were my son," thought Phyllis, "I wouldn't worry about any strange hired girl's feelings either, maybe. I'd just think about him.... I promise I'll look after Mr. Harrington's welfare as if he were my own brother!" she ended aloud impulsively. "Indeed, you may trust me." "I am--sure you will," panted Mrs. Harrington. "You look like--a good girl, and--and old enough to be responsible--twenty-eight--thirty?" "Not very far from that," said Phyllis serenely. "And you are sure you will know when the attendants are neglectful? I speak to them all the time, but I never can be sure.... And now you'd better see poor Allan. This is one of his good days. Just think, dear Isabel, he spoke to me twice without my speaking to him this morning!" "Oh--must I?" asked Phyllis, dismayed. "Couldn't I wait till--till it happens?" Mrs. Harrington actually laughed a little at her shyness, lighting up like a girl. Phyllis felt dimly, though she tried not to, that through it all her mother-in-law-elect was taking pleasure in the dramatic side of the situation she had engineered. "Oh, my dear, you must see him. He expects you," she answered almost gayly. The procession of three moved down the long room towards a door, Phyllis's hand guiding the wheel-chair. She was surprised to find herself shaking with fright. Just what she expected to find beyond the door she did not know, but it must have been some horror, for it was with a heart-bound of wild relief that she finally made out Allan Harrington, lying white in the darkened place. A Crusader on a tomb. Yes, he looked like that. In the room's half-dusk the pallor of his still, clear-featured face and his long, clear-cut hands was nearly the same as the whiteness of the couch-draperies. His hair, yellow-brown and waving, flung back from his forehead like a crest, and his dark brows and lashes made the only note of darkness about him. To Phyllis's beauty-loving eyes he seemed so perfect an image that she could have watched him for hours. "Here's Miss Braithwaite, my poor darling," said his mother. "The young lady we have been talking about so long." The Crusader lifted his eyelids and let them fall again. "Is she?" he said listlessly. "Don't you want to talk to her, darling boy?" his mother persisted, half out of breath, but still full of that unrebuffable, loving energy and insistence which she would probably keep to the last minute of her life. "No," said the Crusader, still in those empty, listless tones. "I'd rather not talk. I'm tired." His mother seemed not at all put out. "Of course, darling," she said, kissing him. She sat by him still, however, and poured out sentence after sentence of question, insistence, imploration, and pity, eliciting no answer at all. Phyllis wondered how it would feel to have to lie still and have that done to you for a term of years. The result of her wonderment was a decision to forgive her unenthusiastic future bridegroom for what she had at first been ready to slap him. Presently Mrs. Harrington's breath flagged, and the three women went away, back to the room they had been in before. Phyllis sat and let herself be talked to for a little longer. Then she rose impulsively. "May I go back and see your son again for just a minute?" she asked, and had gone before Mrs. Harrington had finished her permission. She darted into the dark room before her courage had time to fail, and stood by the white couch again. "Mr. Harrington," she said clearly, "I'm sorry you're tired, but I'm afraid I am going to have to ask you to listen to me. You know, don't you, that your mother plans to have me marry you, for a sort of interested head-nurse? Are you willing to have it happen? Because I won't do it unless you really prefer it." The heavy white lids half-lifted again. "I don't mind," said Allan Harrington listlessly. "I suppose you are quiet and trustworthy, or De Guenther wouldn't have sent you. It will give mother a little peace and it makes no difference to me." He closed his eyes and the subject at the same time. "Well, then, that's all right," said Phyllis cheerfully, and started to go. Then, drawn back by a sudden, nervous temper-impulse, she moved back on him. "And let me tell you," she added, half-laughing, half-impertinently, "that if you ever get into my quiet, trustworthy clutches you may have an awful time! You're a very spoiled invalid." She whisked out of the room before he could have gone very far with his reply. But he had not cared to reply, apparently. He lay unmoved and unmoving. Phyllis discovered, poising breathless on the threshold, that somehow she had seen his eyes. They had been a little like the wolfhound's, a sort of wistful gold-brown. For some reason she found that Allan Harrington's attitude of absolute detachment made the whole affair seem much easier for her. And when Mrs. Harrington slipped a solitaire diamond into her hand as she went, instead of disliking it she enjoyed its feel on her finger, and the flash of it in the light. She thanked Mrs. Harrington for it with real gratitude. But it made her feel more than ever engaged to marry her mother-in-law. She walked home rather silently with Mrs. De Guenther. Only at the foot of the De Guenther steps, she made one absent remark. "He must have been delightful," she said, "when he was alive!" VI After a week of the old bustling, dusty hard work, the Liberry Teacher's visit to the De Guenthers' and the subsequent one at the Harringtons', and even her sparkling white ring, seemed part of a queer story she had finished and put back on the shelf. The ring was the most real thing, because it was something of a worry. She didn't dare leave it at home, nor did she want to wear it. She finally sewed it in a chamois bag that she safety-pinned under her shirt-waist. Then she dismissed it from her mind also. There is very little time in a Liberry Teacher's life for meditation. Only once in a while would come to her the vision of the wistful Harrington wolfhound following his inadequate patch of sunlight, or of the dusky room where Allan Harrington lay inert and white, and looking like a wonderful carved statue on a tomb. She began to do a little to her clothes, but not very much, because she had neither time nor money. Mr. De Guenther had wanted her to take some money in advance, but she had refused. She did not want it till she had earned it, and, anyway, it would have made the whole thing so real, she knew, that she would have backed out. "And it isn't as if I were going to a lover," she defended herself to Mrs. De Guenther with a little wistful smile. "Nobody will know what I have on, any more than they do now." Mrs. De Guenther gave a scandalized little cry. Her attitude was determinedly that it was just an ordinary marriage, as good an excuse for sentiment and pretty frocks as any other. "My dear child," she replied firmly, "you are going to have one pretty frock and one really good street-suit _now_, or I will know why! The rest you may get yourself after the wedding, but you must obey me in this. Nonsense!--you can get a half-day, as you call it, perfectly well! What's Albert in politics for, if he can't get favors for his friends!" And, in effect, it proved that Albert was in politics to some purpose, for orders came up from the Head's office within twenty minutes after Mrs. De Guenther had used the telephone on her husband, that Miss Braithwaite was to have a half-day immediately--as far as she could make out, in order to transact city affairs! She felt as if the angels had told her she could have the last fortnight over again, as a favor, or something of the sort. A half-day out of turn was something nobody had ever heard of. She was even too surprised to object to the frock part of the situation. She tried to stand out a little longer, but it's a very stoical young woman who can refuse to have pretty clothes bought for her, and the end of it was a seat in a salon which she had always considered so expensive that you scarcely ought to look in the window. "Had it better be a black suit?" asked Mrs. De Guenther doubtfully, as the tall lady in floppy charmeuse hovered haughtily about them, expecting orders. "It seems horrible to buy mourning when dear Angela is not yet passed away, but it would only be showing proper respect; and I remember my own dear mother planned all our mourning outfits while she was dying. It was quite a pleasure to her." Phyllis kept her face straight, and slipped one persuasive hand through her friend's arm. "I don't believe I _could_ buy mourning, dear," she said. "And--oh, if you knew how long I'd wanted a really _blue_ blue suit! Only, it would have been too vivid to wear well--I always knew that--because you can only afford one every other year. And"--Phyllis rather diffidently voiced a thought which had been in the back of her mind for a long time--"if I'm going to be much around Mr. Harrington, don't you think cheerful clothes would be best? Everything in that house seems sombre enough now." "Perhaps you are right, dear child," said Mrs. De Guenther. "I hope you may be the means of putting a great deal of brightness into poor Allan's life before he joins his mother." "Oh, don't!" cried Phyllis impulsively. Somehow she could not bear to think of Allan Harrington's dying. He was too beautiful to be dead, where nobody could see him any more. Besides, Phyllis privately considered that a long vacation before he joined his mother would be only the fair thing for "poor Allan." Youth sides with youth. And--the clear-cut white lines of him rose in her memory and stayed there. She could almost hear that poor, tired, toneless voice of his, that was yet so deep and so perfectly accented.... She bought docilely whatever her guide directed, and woke from a species of gentle daze at the afternoon's end to find Mrs. De Guenther beaming with the weary rapture of the successful shopper, and herself the proprietress of a turquoise velvet walking-suit, a hat to match, a pale blue evening frock, a pale green between-dress with lovely clinging lines, and a heavenly white crepe thing with rosy ribbons and filmy shadow-laces--the negligee of one's dreams. There were also slippers and shoes and stockings and--this was really too bad of Mrs. De Guenther--a half-dozen set of lingerie, straight through. Mrs. De Guenther sat and continued to beam joyously over the array, in Phyllis's little bedroom. "It's my present, dearie," she said calmly. "So you needn't worry about using Angela's money. Gracious, it's been _lovely_! I haven't had such a good time since my husband's little grand-niece came on for a week. There's nothing like dressing a girl, after all." And Phyllis could only kiss her. But when her guest had gone she laid all the boxes of finery under her bed, the only place where there was any room. She would not take any of it out, she determined, till her summons came. But on second thought, she wore the blue velvet street-suit on Sunday visits to Mrs. Harrington, which became--she never knew just when or how--a regular thing. The vivid blue made her eyes nearly sky-color, and brightened her hair very satisfactorily. She was taking more time and trouble over her looks now--one has to live up to a turquoise velvet hat and coat! She found herself, too, becoming very genuinely fond of the restless, anxiously loving, passionate, unwise child who dwelt in Mrs. Harrington's frail elderly body and had almost worn it out. She sat, long hours of every Sunday afternoon, holding Mrs. Harrington's thin little hot hands, and listening to her swift, italicised monologues about Allan--what he must do, what he must not do, how he must be looked after, how his mother had treated him, how his wishes must be ascertained and followed. "Though all he wants now is dark and quiet," said his mother piteously. "I don't even go in there now to cry." She spoke as if it were an established ritual. Had she been using her son's sick-room, Phyllis wondered, as a regular weeping-place? She could feel in Mrs. Harrington, even in this mortal sickness, the tremendous driving influence which is often part of a passionately active and not very wise personality. That certitude and insistence of Mrs. Harrington's could hammer you finally into believing or doing almost anything. Phyllis wondered how much his mother's heartbroken adoration and pity might have had to do with making her son as hopeless-minded as he was. Naturally, the mother-in-law-elect she had acquired in such a strange way became very fond of Phyllis. But indeed there was something very gay and sweet and honest-minded about the girl, a something which gave people the feeling that they were very wise in liking her. Some people you are fond of against your will. When people cared for Phyllis it was with a quite irrational feeling that they were doing a sensible thing. They never gave any of the credit to her very real, though almost invisible, charm. She never saw Allan Harrington on any of the Sunday visits. She was sure the servants thought she did, for she knew that every one in the great, dark old house knew her as the young lady who was to marry Mr. Allan. She believed that she was supposed to be an old family friend, perhaps a distant relative. She did not want to see Allan. But she did want to be as good to his little, tensely-loving mother as she could, and reassure her about Allan's future care. And she succeeded. It was on a Friday about two that the summons came. Phyllis had thought she expected it, but when the call came to her over the library telephone she found herself as badly frightened as she had been the first time she went to the Harrington house. She shivered as she laid down the dater she was using, and called the other librarian to take her desk. Fortunately, between one and four the morning and evening shifts overlapped, and there was some one to take her place. "Mrs. Harrington cannot last out the night," came Mr. De Guenther's clear, precise voice over the telephone, without preface. "I have arranged with Mr. Johnston. You can go at once. You had better pack a suit-case, for you possibly may not be able to get back to your boarding-place." So it was to happen now! Phyllis felt, with her substitute in her place, her own wraps on, and her feet taking her swiftly towards her goal, as if she were offering herself to be made a nun, or have a hand or foot cut off, or paying herself away in some awful, irrevocable fashion. She packed, mechanically, all the pretty things Mrs. De Guenther had given her, and nothing else. She found herself at the door of her room with the locked suit-case in her hand, and not even a nail-file of the things belonging to her old self in it. She shook herself together, managed to laugh a little, and returned and put in such things as she thought she would require for the night. Then she went. She always remembered that journey as long as she lived; her hands and feet and tongue going on, buying tickets, giving directions--and her mind, like a naughty child, catching at everything as they went, and screaming to be allowed to go back home, back to the dusty, matter-of-course library and the dreary little boarding-house bedroom! VII They were all waiting for her, in what felt like a hideously quiet semicircle, in Allan's great dark room. Mrs. Harrington, deadly pale, and giving an impression of keeping herself alive only by force of that wonderful fighting vitality of hers, lay almost at length in her wheel-chair. There was a clergyman in vestments. There were the De Guenthers; Mr. De Guenther only a little more precise than his every-day habit was, Mrs. De Guenther crying a little, softly and furtively. As for Allan Harrington, he lay just as she had seen him that other time, white and moveless, seeming scarcely conscious except by an effort. Only she noticed a slight contraction, as of pain, between his brows. "Phyllis has come," panted Mrs. Harrington. "Now it will be--all right. You must marry him quickly--quickly, do you hear, Phyllis? Oh, people never will--do--what I want them to----" "Yes--yes, indeed, dear," said Phyllis, taking her hands soothingly. "We're going to attend to it right away. See, everything is ready." It occurred to her that Mrs. Harrington was not half as correct in her playing of the part of a dying woman as she would have seen to it that anyone else was; also, that things did not seem legal without the wolfhound. Then she was shocked at herself for such irrelevant thoughts. The thing to do was to keep poor Mrs. Harrington quieted. So she beckoned the clergyman and the De Guenthers nearer, and herself sped the marrying of herself to Allan Harrington. ... When you are being married to a Crusader on a tomb, the easiest way is to kneel down by him. Phyllis registered this fact in her mind quite blankly, as something which might be of use to remember in future.... The marrying took an unnecessarily long time, it seemed to her. It did not seem as if she were being married at all. It all seemed to concern somebody else. When it came to the putting on of the wedding-ring, she found herself, very naturally, guiding Allan's relaxed fingers to hold it in its successive places, and finally slip it on the wedding-finger. And somehow having to do that checked the chilly awe she had had before of Allan Harrington. It made her feel quite simply sorry for him, as if he were one of her poor little boys in trouble. And when it was all over she bent pitifully before she thought, and kissed one white, cold cheek. He seemed so tragically helpless, yet more alive, in some way, since she had touched his hand to guide it. Then, as her lips brushed his cheek, she recoiled and colored a little. She had felt that slight roughness which a man's cheek, however close-shaven, always has--the _man_-feel. It made her realize unreasonably that it was a man she had married, after all, not a stone image nor a sick child--a live man! With the thought, or rather instinct, came a swift terror of what she had done, and a swift impulse to rise. She was half-way risen from her knees when a hand on her shoulder, and the clergyman's voice in her ear, checked her. "Not yet," he murmured almost inaudibly. "Stay as you are till--till Mrs. Harrington is wheeled from the room." Phyllis understood. She remained as she was, her body a shield before Allan Harrington's eyes, her hand just withdrawing from his shoulder, till she heard the closing of the door, and a sigh as of relaxed tension from the three people around her. Then she rose. Allan lay still with closed eyelids. It seemed to her that he had flushed, if ever so faintly, at the touch of her lips on his cheek. She laid his hand on the coverlet with her own roughened, ringed one, and followed the others out, into the room where the dead woman had been taken, leaving him with his attendant. The rest of the evening Phyllis went about in a queer-keyed, almost light-hearted frame of mind. It was only the reaction from the long-expected terror that was over now, but it felt indecorous. It was just as well, however. Some one's head had to be kept. The servants were upset, of course, and there were many arrangements to be made. She and Mr. De Guenther worked steadily together, telephoning, ordering, guiding, straightening out all the tangles. There never was a wedding, she thought, where the bride did so much of the work! She even remembered to see personally that Allan's dinner was sent up to him. The servants had doubtless been told to come to her for orders--at any rate, they did. Phyllis had not had much experience in running a house, but a good deal in keeping her head. And that, after all, is the main thing. She had a far-off feeling as if she were hearing some other young woman giving swift, poised, executive orders. She rather admired her. After dinner the De Guenthers went. And Phyllis Braithwaite, the little Liberry Teacher who had been living in a hall bedroom on much less money than she needed, found herself alone, sole mistress of the great Harrington house, a corps of servants, a husband passive enough to satisfy the most militant suffragette, a check-book, a wistful wolfhound, and five hundred dollars, cash, for current expenses. The last weighed on her mind more than all the rest put together. "Why, I don't know how to make Current Expenses out of all that!" she had said to Mr. De Guenther. "It looks to me exactly like about ten months' salary! I'm perfectly certain I shall get up in my sleep and try to pay my board ahead with it, so I shan't have it all spent before the ten months are up! There was a blue bead necklace," she went on meditatively, "in the Five-and-Ten, that I always wanted to buy. Only I never quite felt I could afford it. Oh, just imagine going to the Five-and-Ten and buying at least five dollars' worth of things you didn't need!" "You have great discretionary powers--great discretionary powers, my dear, you will find!" Mr. De Guenther had said, as he patted her shoulder. Phyllis took it as a compliment at the time. "Discretionary powers" sounded as if he thought she was a quite intelligent young person. It did not occur to her till he had gone, and she was alone with her check-book, that it meant she had a good deal of liberty to do as she liked. It seemed to be expected of her to stay. Nobody even suggested a possibility of her going home again, even to pack her trunk. Mrs. De Guenther casually volunteered to do that, a little after the housekeeper had told her where her rooms were. She had been consulting with the housekeeper for what seemed ages, when she happened to want some pins for something, and asked for her suit-case. "It's in your rooms," said the housekeeper. "Mrs. Harrington--the late Mrs. Harrington, I should say----" Phyllis stopped listening at this point. Who was the present Mrs. Harrington? she wondered before she thought--and then remembered. Why--_she_ was! So there was no Phyllis Braithwaite any more! Of course not.... Yet she had always liked the name so--well, a last name was a small thing to give up.... Into her mind fitted an incongruous, silly story she had heard once at the library, about a girl whose last name was Rose, and whose parents christened her Wild, because the combination appealed to them. And then she married a man named Bull.... Meanwhile the housekeeper had been going on. ... "She had the bedroom and bath opening from the other side of Mr. Allan's day-room ready for you, madam. It's been ready several weeks." "Has it?" said Phyllis. It was like Mrs. Harrington, that careful planning of even where she should be put. "Is Mr. Harrington in his day-room now?" For some reason she did not attempt to give herself, she did not want to see him again just now. Besides, it was nearly eleven and time a very tired girl was in bed. She wanted a good night's rest, before she had to get up and be Mrs. Harrington, with Allan and the check-book and the Current Expenses all tied to her. Some one had laid everything out for her in the bedroom; the filmy new nightgown over a chair, the blue satin mules underneath, her plain toilet-things on a dressing-table, and over another chair the exquisite ivory crepe negligee with its floating rose ribbons. She took a hasty bath--there was so much hot water that she was quite reconciled for a moment to being a check-booked and wolf hounded Mrs. Harrington--and slid straight into bed without even stopping to braid her loosened, honey-colored hair. It seemed to her that she was barely asleep when there came an urgent knocking at her door. "Yes?" she said sleepily, looking mechanically for her alarm-clock as she switched on the light. "What is it, please?" "It's I, Wallis, Mr. Allan's man, Madame," said a nervous voice. "Mr. Allan's very bad. I've done all the usual things, but nothing seems to quiet him. He hates doctors so, and they make him so wrought up--please could you come, ma'am? He says as how all of us are all dead--oh, _please_, Mrs. Harrington!" There was panic in the man's voice. "All right," said Phyllis sleepily, dropping to the floor as she spoke with the rapidity that only the alarm-clock-broken know. She snatched the negligee around her, and thrust her feet hastily into the blue satin slippers--why, she was actually using her wedding finery! And what an easily upset person that man was! But everybody in the house seemed to have nerves on edge. It was no wonder about Allan--he wanted his mother, of course, poor boy! She felt, as she ran fleetly across the long room that separated her sleeping quarters from her husband's, the same mixture of pity and timidity that she had felt with him before. Poor boy! Poor, silent, beautiful statue, with his one friend gone! She opened the door and entered swiftly into his room. She was not thinking about herself at all, only of how she could help Allan, but there must have been something about her of the picture-book angel to the pain-racked man, lying tensely at length in the room's darkest corner. Her long, dully gold hair, loosening from its twist, flew out about her, and her face was still flushed with sleep. There was a something about her that was vividly alight and alive, perhaps the light in her blue eyes. From what the man had said Phyllis had thought Allan was delirious, but she saw at once that he was only in severe pain, and talking more disconnectedly, perhaps, than the slow-minded Englishman could follow. He did not look like a statue now. His cheeks were burning with evident pain, and his yellow-brown eyes, wide-open, and dilated to darkness, stared straight out. His hands were clenching and unclenching, and his head moved restlessly from side to side. Every nerve and muscle, she could see, was taut. "They're all dead," he muttered. "Father and Mother and Louise--and I--only I'm not dead enough to bury. Oh, God, I wish I was!" That wasn't delirium; it was something more like heart-break. Phyllis moved closer to him, and dropped one of her sleep-warm hands on his cold, clenched one. "Oh, poor boy!" she said. "I'm so sorry--so sorry!" She closed her hands tight over both his. Some of her strong young vitality must have passed between them and helped him, for almost immediately his tenseness relaxed a little, and he looked at her. "You--you're not a nurse," he said. "They go around--like--like a--vault----" She had caught his attention! That was a good deal, she felt. She forgot everything about him, except that he was some one to be comforted, and her charge. She sat down on the bed by him, still holding tight to his hands. "No, indeed," she said, bending nearer him, her long loose hair falling forward about her resolutely-smiling young face. "Don't you remember seeing me? I never was a nurse." "What--are you?" he asked feebly. "I'm--why, the children call me the Liberry Teacher," she answered. It occurred to her that it would be better to talk on brightly at random than to risk speaking of his mother to him, as she must if she reminded him of their marriage. "I spend my days in a basement, making bad little boys get so interested in the Higher Culture that they'll forget to shoot crap and smash windows." One of the things which had aided Phyllis to rise from desk-assistant to one of the Children's Room librarians was a very sweet and carrying voice--a voice which arrested even a child's attention,

peace

How many times the word 'peace' appears in the text?

with him--do you think you could do that? But I always cry so before I'm through--I cry and cry--my poor, helpless boy--he was so strong and bright! And you are sure you are conscientious----" At this point Phyllis stopped the flow of Mrs. Harrington's conversation firmly, if sweetly. "Yes, indeed," she said cheerfully. "But you know, if I'm not, Mr. De Guenther can stop all my allowance. It wouldn't be to my own interest not to fulfil my duties faithfully." "Yes, that is true," said Mrs. Harrington. "That was a good thought of mine. My husband always said I was an unusual woman where business was concerned." So they went on the principle that she had no honor beyond working for what she would get out of it! Although she had made the suggestion herself, Phyllis's cheeks burned, and she was about to answer sharply. Then somehow the poor, anxious, loving mother's absolute preoccupation with her son struck her as right after all. "If it were my son," thought Phyllis, "I wouldn't worry about any strange hired girl's feelings either, maybe. I'd just think about him.... I promise I'll look after Mr. Harrington's welfare as if he were my own brother!" she ended aloud impulsively. "Indeed, you may trust me." "I am--sure you will," panted Mrs. Harrington. "You look like--a good girl, and--and old enough to be responsible--twenty-eight--thirty?" "Not very far from that," said Phyllis serenely. "And you are sure you will know when the attendants are neglectful? I speak to them all the time, but I never can be sure.... And now you'd better see poor Allan. This is one of his good days. Just think, dear Isabel, he spoke to me twice without my speaking to him this morning!" "Oh--must I?" asked Phyllis, dismayed. "Couldn't I wait till--till it happens?" Mrs. Harrington actually laughed a little at her shyness, lighting up like a girl. Phyllis felt dimly, though she tried not to, that through it all her mother-in-law-elect was taking pleasure in the dramatic side of the situation she had engineered. "Oh, my dear, you must see him. He expects you," she answered almost gayly. The procession of three moved down the long room towards a door, Phyllis's hand guiding the wheel-chair. She was surprised to find herself shaking with fright. Just what she expected to find beyond the door she did not know, but it must have been some horror, for it was with a heart-bound of wild relief that she finally made out Allan Harrington, lying white in the darkened place. A Crusader on a tomb. Yes, he looked like that. In the room's half-dusk the pallor of his still, clear-featured face and his long, clear-cut hands was nearly the same as the whiteness of the couch-draperies. His hair, yellow-brown and waving, flung back from his forehead like a crest, and his dark brows and lashes made the only note of darkness about him. To Phyllis's beauty-loving eyes he seemed so perfect an image that she could have watched him for hours. "Here's Miss Braithwaite, my poor darling," said his mother. "The young lady we have been talking about so long." The Crusader lifted his eyelids and let them fall again. "Is she?" he said listlessly. "Don't you want to talk to her, darling boy?" his mother persisted, half out of breath, but still full of that unrebuffable, loving energy and insistence which she would probably keep to the last minute of her life. "No," said the Crusader, still in those empty, listless tones. "I'd rather not talk. I'm tired." His mother seemed not at all put out. "Of course, darling," she said, kissing him. She sat by him still, however, and poured out sentence after sentence of question, insistence, imploration, and pity, eliciting no answer at all. Phyllis wondered how it would feel to have to lie still and have that done to you for a term of years. The result of her wonderment was a decision to forgive her unenthusiastic future bridegroom for what she had at first been ready to slap him. Presently Mrs. Harrington's breath flagged, and the three women went away, back to the room they had been in before. Phyllis sat and let herself be talked to for a little longer. Then she rose impulsively. "May I go back and see your son again for just a minute?" she asked, and had gone before Mrs. Harrington had finished her permission. She darted into the dark room before her courage had time to fail, and stood by the white couch again. "Mr. Harrington," she said clearly, "I'm sorry you're tired, but I'm afraid I am going to have to ask you to listen to me. You know, don't you, that your mother plans to have me marry you, for a sort of interested head-nurse? Are you willing to have it happen? Because I won't do it unless you really prefer it." The heavy white lids half-lifted again. "I don't mind," said Allan Harrington listlessly. "I suppose you are quiet and trustworthy, or De Guenther wouldn't have sent you. It will give mother a little peace and it makes no difference to me." He closed his eyes and the subject at the same time. "Well, then, that's all right," said Phyllis cheerfully, and started to go. Then, drawn back by a sudden, nervous temper-impulse, she moved back on him. "And let me tell you," she added, half-laughing, half-impertinently, "that if you ever get into my quiet, trustworthy clutches you may have an awful time! You're a very spoiled invalid." She whisked out of the room before he could have gone very far with his reply. But he had not cared to reply, apparently. He lay unmoved and unmoving. Phyllis discovered, poising breathless on the threshold, that somehow she had seen his eyes. They had been a little like the wolfhound's, a sort of wistful gold-brown. For some reason she found that Allan Harrington's attitude of absolute detachment made the whole affair seem much easier for her. And when Mrs. Harrington slipped a solitaire diamond into her hand as she went, instead of disliking it she enjoyed its feel on her finger, and the flash of it in the light. She thanked Mrs. Harrington for it with real gratitude. But it made her feel more than ever engaged to marry her mother-in-law. She walked home rather silently with Mrs. De Guenther. Only at the foot of the De Guenther steps, she made one absent remark. "He must have been delightful," she said, "when he was alive!" VI After a week of the old bustling, dusty hard work, the Liberry Teacher's visit to the De Guenthers' and the subsequent one at the Harringtons', and even her sparkling white ring, seemed part of a queer story she had finished and put back on the shelf. The ring was the most real thing, because it was something of a worry. She didn't dare leave it at home, nor did she want to wear it. She finally sewed it in a chamois bag that she safety-pinned under her shirt-waist. Then she dismissed it from her mind also. There is very little time in a Liberry Teacher's life for meditation. Only once in a while would come to her the vision of the wistful Harrington wolfhound following his inadequate patch of sunlight, or of the dusky room where Allan Harrington lay inert and white, and looking like a wonderful carved statue on a tomb. She began to do a little to her clothes, but not very much, because she had neither time nor money. Mr. De Guenther had wanted her to take some money in advance, but she had refused. She did not want it till she had earned it, and, anyway, it would have made the whole thing so real, she knew, that she would have backed out. "And it isn't as if I were going to a lover," she defended herself to Mrs. De Guenther with a little wistful smile. "Nobody will know what I have on, any more than they do now." Mrs. De Guenther gave a scandalized little cry. Her attitude was determinedly that it was just an ordinary marriage, as good an excuse for sentiment and pretty frocks as any other. "My dear child," she replied firmly, "you are going to have one pretty frock and one really good street-suit _now_, or I will know why! The rest you may get yourself after the wedding, but you must obey me in this. Nonsense!--you can get a half-day, as you call it, perfectly well! What's Albert in politics for, if he can't get favors for his friends!" And, in effect, it proved that Albert was in politics to some purpose, for orders came up from the Head's office within twenty minutes after Mrs. De Guenther had used the telephone on her husband, that Miss Braithwaite was to have a half-day immediately--as far as she could make out, in order to transact city affairs! She felt as if the angels had told her she could have the last fortnight over again, as a favor, or something of the sort. A half-day out of turn was something nobody had ever heard of. She was even too surprised to object to the frock part of the situation. She tried to stand out a little longer, but it's a very stoical young woman who can refuse to have pretty clothes bought for her, and the end of it was a seat in a salon which she had always considered so expensive that you scarcely ought to look in the window. "Had it better be a black suit?" asked Mrs. De Guenther doubtfully, as the tall lady in floppy charmeuse hovered haughtily about them, expecting orders. "It seems horrible to buy mourning when dear Angela is not yet passed away, but it would only be showing proper respect; and I remember my own dear mother planned all our mourning outfits while she was dying. It was quite a pleasure to her." Phyllis kept her face straight, and slipped one persuasive hand through her friend's arm. "I don't believe I _could_ buy mourning, dear," she said. "And--oh, if you knew how long I'd wanted a really _blue_ blue suit! Only, it would have been too vivid to wear well--I always knew that--because you can only afford one every other year. And"--Phyllis rather diffidently voiced a thought which had been in the back of her mind for a long time--"if I'm going to be much around Mr. Harrington, don't you think cheerful clothes would be best? Everything in that house seems sombre enough now." "Perhaps you are right, dear child," said Mrs. De Guenther. "I hope you may be the means of putting a great deal of brightness into poor Allan's life before he joins his mother." "Oh, don't!" cried Phyllis impulsively. Somehow she could not bear to think of Allan Harrington's dying. He was too beautiful to be dead, where nobody could see him any more. Besides, Phyllis privately considered that a long vacation before he joined his mother would be only the fair thing for "poor Allan." Youth sides with youth. And--the clear-cut white lines of him rose in her memory and stayed there. She could almost hear that poor, tired, toneless voice of his, that was yet so deep and so perfectly accented.... She bought docilely whatever her guide directed, and woke from a species of gentle daze at the afternoon's end to find Mrs. De Guenther beaming with the weary rapture of the successful shopper, and herself the proprietress of a turquoise velvet walking-suit, a hat to match, a pale blue evening frock, a pale green between-dress with lovely clinging lines, and a heavenly white crepe thing with rosy ribbons and filmy shadow-laces--the negligee of one's dreams. There were also slippers and shoes and stockings and--this was really too bad of Mrs. De Guenther--a half-dozen set of lingerie, straight through. Mrs. De Guenther sat and continued to beam joyously over the array, in Phyllis's little bedroom. "It's my present, dearie," she said calmly. "So you needn't worry about using Angela's money. Gracious, it's been _lovely_! I haven't had such a good time since my husband's little grand-niece came on for a week. There's nothing like dressing a girl, after all." And Phyllis could only kiss her. But when her guest had gone she laid all the boxes of finery under her bed, the only place where there was any room. She would not take any of it out, she determined, till her summons came. But on second thought, she wore the blue velvet street-suit on Sunday visits to Mrs. Harrington, which became--she never knew just when or how--a regular thing. The vivid blue made her eyes nearly sky-color, and brightened her hair very satisfactorily. She was taking more time and trouble over her looks now--one has to live up to a turquoise velvet hat and coat! She found herself, too, becoming very genuinely fond of the restless, anxiously loving, passionate, unwise child who dwelt in Mrs. Harrington's frail elderly body and had almost worn it out. She sat, long hours of every Sunday afternoon, holding Mrs. Harrington's thin little hot hands, and listening to her swift, italicised monologues about Allan--what he must do, what he must not do, how he must be looked after, how his mother had treated him, how his wishes must be ascertained and followed. "Though all he wants now is dark and quiet," said his mother piteously. "I don't even go in there now to cry." She spoke as if it were an established ritual. Had she been using her son's sick-room, Phyllis wondered, as a regular weeping-place? She could feel in Mrs. Harrington, even in this mortal sickness, the tremendous driving influence which is often part of a passionately active and not very wise personality. That certitude and insistence of Mrs. Harrington's could hammer you finally into believing or doing almost anything. Phyllis wondered how much his mother's heartbroken adoration and pity might have had to do with making her son as hopeless-minded as he was. Naturally, the mother-in-law-elect she had acquired in such a strange way became very fond of Phyllis. But indeed there was something very gay and sweet and honest-minded about the girl, a something which gave people the feeling that they were very wise in liking her. Some people you are fond of against your will. When people cared for Phyllis it was with a quite irrational feeling that they were doing a sensible thing. They never gave any of the credit to her very real, though almost invisible, charm. She never saw Allan Harrington on any of the Sunday visits. She was sure the servants thought she did, for she knew that every one in the great, dark old house knew her as the young lady who was to marry Mr. Allan. She believed that she was supposed to be an old family friend, perhaps a distant relative. She did not want to see Allan. But she did want to be as good to his little, tensely-loving mother as she could, and reassure her about Allan's future care. And she succeeded. It was on a Friday about two that the summons came. Phyllis had thought she expected it, but when the call came to her over the library telephone she found herself as badly frightened as she had been the first time she went to the Harrington house. She shivered as she laid down the dater she was using, and called the other librarian to take her desk. Fortunately, between one and four the morning and evening shifts overlapped, and there was some one to take her place. "Mrs. Harrington cannot last out the night," came Mr. De Guenther's clear, precise voice over the telephone, without preface. "I have arranged with Mr. Johnston. You can go at once. You had better pack a suit-case, for you possibly may not be able to get back to your boarding-place." So it was to happen now! Phyllis felt, with her substitute in her place, her own wraps on, and her feet taking her swiftly towards her goal, as if she were offering herself to be made a nun, or have a hand or foot cut off, or paying herself away in some awful, irrevocable fashion. She packed, mechanically, all the pretty things Mrs. De Guenther had given her, and nothing else. She found herself at the door of her room with the locked suit-case in her hand, and not even a nail-file of the things belonging to her old self in it. She shook herself together, managed to laugh a little, and returned and put in such things as she thought she would require for the night. Then she went. She always remembered that journey as long as she lived; her hands and feet and tongue going on, buying tickets, giving directions--and her mind, like a naughty child, catching at everything as they went, and screaming to be allowed to go back home, back to the dusty, matter-of-course library and the dreary little boarding-house bedroom! VII They were all waiting for her, in what felt like a hideously quiet semicircle, in Allan's great dark room. Mrs. Harrington, deadly pale, and giving an impression of keeping herself alive only by force of that wonderful fighting vitality of hers, lay almost at length in her wheel-chair. There was a clergyman in vestments. There were the De Guenthers; Mr. De Guenther only a little more precise than his every-day habit was, Mrs. De Guenther crying a little, softly and furtively. As for Allan Harrington, he lay just as she had seen him that other time, white and moveless, seeming scarcely conscious except by an effort. Only she noticed a slight contraction, as of pain, between his brows. "Phyllis has come," panted Mrs. Harrington. "Now it will be--all right. You must marry him quickly--quickly, do you hear, Phyllis? Oh, people never will--do--what I want them to----" "Yes--yes, indeed, dear," said Phyllis, taking her hands soothingly. "We're going to attend to it right away. See, everything is ready." It occurred to her that Mrs. Harrington was not half as correct in her playing of the part of a dying woman as she would have seen to it that anyone else was; also, that things did not seem legal without the wolfhound. Then she was shocked at herself for such irrelevant thoughts. The thing to do was to keep poor Mrs. Harrington quieted. So she beckoned the clergyman and the De Guenthers nearer, and herself sped the marrying of herself to Allan Harrington. ... When you are being married to a Crusader on a tomb, the easiest way is to kneel down by him. Phyllis registered this fact in her mind quite blankly, as something which might be of use to remember in future.... The marrying took an unnecessarily long time, it seemed to her. It did not seem as if she were being married at all. It all seemed to concern somebody else. When it came to the putting on of the wedding-ring, she found herself, very naturally, guiding Allan's relaxed fingers to hold it in its successive places, and finally slip it on the wedding-finger. And somehow having to do that checked the chilly awe she had had before of Allan Harrington. It made her feel quite simply sorry for him, as if he were one of her poor little boys in trouble. And when it was all over she bent pitifully before she thought, and kissed one white, cold cheek. He seemed so tragically helpless, yet more alive, in some way, since she had touched his hand to guide it. Then, as her lips brushed his cheek, she recoiled and colored a little. She had felt that slight roughness which a man's cheek, however close-shaven, always has--the _man_-feel. It made her realize unreasonably that it was a man she had married, after all, not a stone image nor a sick child--a live man! With the thought, or rather instinct, came a swift terror of what she had done, and a swift impulse to rise. She was half-way risen from her knees when a hand on her shoulder, and the clergyman's voice in her ear, checked her. "Not yet," he murmured almost inaudibly. "Stay as you are till--till Mrs. Harrington is wheeled from the room." Phyllis understood. She remained as she was, her body a shield before Allan Harrington's eyes, her hand just withdrawing from his shoulder, till she heard the closing of the door, and a sigh as of relaxed tension from the three people around her. Then she rose. Allan lay still with closed eyelids. It seemed to her that he had flushed, if ever so faintly, at the touch of her lips on his cheek. She laid his hand on the coverlet with her own roughened, ringed one, and followed the others out, into the room where the dead woman had been taken, leaving him with his attendant. The rest of the evening Phyllis went about in a queer-keyed, almost light-hearted frame of mind. It was only the reaction from the long-expected terror that was over now, but it felt indecorous. It was just as well, however. Some one's head had to be kept. The servants were upset, of course, and there were many arrangements to be made. She and Mr. De Guenther worked steadily together, telephoning, ordering, guiding, straightening out all the tangles. There never was a wedding, she thought, where the bride did so much of the work! She even remembered to see personally that Allan's dinner was sent up to him. The servants had doubtless been told to come to her for orders--at any rate, they did. Phyllis had not had much experience in running a house, but a good deal in keeping her head. And that, after all, is the main thing. She had a far-off feeling as if she were hearing some other young woman giving swift, poised, executive orders. She rather admired her. After dinner the De Guenthers went. And Phyllis Braithwaite, the little Liberry Teacher who had been living in a hall bedroom on much less money than she needed, found herself alone, sole mistress of the great Harrington house, a corps of servants, a husband passive enough to satisfy the most militant suffragette, a check-book, a wistful wolfhound, and five hundred dollars, cash, for current expenses. The last weighed on her mind more than all the rest put together. "Why, I don't know how to make Current Expenses out of all that!" she had said to Mr. De Guenther. "It looks to me exactly like about ten months' salary! I'm perfectly certain I shall get up in my sleep and try to pay my board ahead with it, so I shan't have it all spent before the ten months are up! There was a blue bead necklace," she went on meditatively, "in the Five-and-Ten, that I always wanted to buy. Only I never quite felt I could afford it. Oh, just imagine going to the Five-and-Ten and buying at least five dollars' worth of things you didn't need!" "You have great discretionary powers--great discretionary powers, my dear, you will find!" Mr. De Guenther had said, as he patted her shoulder. Phyllis took it as a compliment at the time. "Discretionary powers" sounded as if he thought she was a quite intelligent young person. It did not occur to her till he had gone, and she was alone with her check-book, that it meant she had a good deal of liberty to do as she liked. It seemed to be expected of her to stay. Nobody even suggested a possibility of her going home again, even to pack her trunk. Mrs. De Guenther casually volunteered to do that, a little after the housekeeper had told her where her rooms were. She had been consulting with the housekeeper for what seemed ages, when she happened to want some pins for something, and asked for her suit-case. "It's in your rooms," said the housekeeper. "Mrs. Harrington--the late Mrs. Harrington, I should say----" Phyllis stopped listening at this point. Who was the present Mrs. Harrington? she wondered before she thought--and then remembered. Why--_she_ was! So there was no Phyllis Braithwaite any more! Of course not.... Yet she had always liked the name so--well, a last name was a small thing to give up.... Into her mind fitted an incongruous, silly story she had heard once at the library, about a girl whose last name was Rose, and whose parents christened her Wild, because the combination appealed to them. And then she married a man named Bull.... Meanwhile the housekeeper had been going on. ... "She had the bedroom and bath opening from the other side of Mr. Allan's day-room ready for you, madam. It's been ready several weeks." "Has it?" said Phyllis. It was like Mrs. Harrington, that careful planning of even where she should be put. "Is Mr. Harrington in his day-room now?" For some reason she did not attempt to give herself, she did not want to see him again just now. Besides, it was nearly eleven and time a very tired girl was in bed. She wanted a good night's rest, before she had to get up and be Mrs. Harrington, with Allan and the check-book and the Current Expenses all tied to her. Some one had laid everything out for her in the bedroom; the filmy new nightgown over a chair, the blue satin mules underneath, her plain toilet-things on a dressing-table, and over another chair the exquisite ivory crepe negligee with its floating rose ribbons. She took a hasty bath--there was so much hot water that she was quite reconciled for a moment to being a check-booked and wolf hounded Mrs. Harrington--and slid straight into bed without even stopping to braid her loosened, honey-colored hair. It seemed to her that she was barely asleep when there came an urgent knocking at her door. "Yes?" she said sleepily, looking mechanically for her alarm-clock as she switched on the light. "What is it, please?" "It's I, Wallis, Mr. Allan's man, Madame," said a nervous voice. "Mr. Allan's very bad. I've done all the usual things, but nothing seems to quiet him. He hates doctors so, and they make him so wrought up--please could you come, ma'am? He says as how all of us are all dead--oh, _please_, Mrs. Harrington!" There was panic in the man's voice. "All right," said Phyllis sleepily, dropping to the floor as she spoke with the rapidity that only the alarm-clock-broken know. She snatched the negligee around her, and thrust her feet hastily into the blue satin slippers--why, she was actually using her wedding finery! And what an easily upset person that man was! But everybody in the house seemed to have nerves on edge. It was no wonder about Allan--he wanted his mother, of course, poor boy! She felt, as she ran fleetly across the long room that separated her sleeping quarters from her husband's, the same mixture of pity and timidity that she had felt with him before. Poor boy! Poor, silent, beautiful statue, with his one friend gone! She opened the door and entered swiftly into his room. She was not thinking about herself at all, only of how she could help Allan, but there must have been something about her of the picture-book angel to the pain-racked man, lying tensely at length in the room's darkest corner. Her long, dully gold hair, loosening from its twist, flew out about her, and her face was still flushed with sleep. There was a something about her that was vividly alight and alive, perhaps the light in her blue eyes. From what the man had said Phyllis had thought Allan was delirious, but she saw at once that he was only in severe pain, and talking more disconnectedly, perhaps, than the slow-minded Englishman could follow. He did not look like a statue now. His cheeks were burning with evident pain, and his yellow-brown eyes, wide-open, and dilated to darkness, stared straight out. His hands were clenching and unclenching, and his head moved restlessly from side to side. Every nerve and muscle, she could see, was taut. "They're all dead," he muttered. "Father and Mother and Louise--and I--only I'm not dead enough to bury. Oh, God, I wish I was!" That wasn't delirium; it was something more like heart-break. Phyllis moved closer to him, and dropped one of her sleep-warm hands on his cold, clenched one. "Oh, poor boy!" she said. "I'm so sorry--so sorry!" She closed her hands tight over both his. Some of her strong young vitality must have passed between them and helped him, for almost immediately his tenseness relaxed a little, and he looked at her. "You--you're not a nurse," he said. "They go around--like--like a--vault----" She had caught his attention! That was a good deal, she felt. She forgot everything about him, except that he was some one to be comforted, and her charge. She sat down on the bed by him, still holding tight to his hands. "No, indeed," she said, bending nearer him, her long loose hair falling forward about her resolutely-smiling young face. "Don't you remember seeing me? I never was a nurse." "What--are you?" he asked feebly. "I'm--why, the children call me the Liberry Teacher," she answered. It occurred to her that it would be better to talk on brightly at random than to risk speaking of his mother to him, as she must if she reminded him of their marriage. "I spend my days in a basement, making bad little boys get so interested in the Higher Culture that they'll forget to shoot crap and smash windows." One of the things which had aided Phyllis to rise from desk-assistant to one of the Children's Room librarians was a very sweet and carrying voice--a voice which arrested even a child's attention,

let

How many times the word 'let' appears in the text?

with him--do you think you could do that? But I always cry so before I'm through--I cry and cry--my poor, helpless boy--he was so strong and bright! And you are sure you are conscientious----" At this point Phyllis stopped the flow of Mrs. Harrington's conversation firmly, if sweetly. "Yes, indeed," she said cheerfully. "But you know, if I'm not, Mr. De Guenther can stop all my allowance. It wouldn't be to my own interest not to fulfil my duties faithfully." "Yes, that is true," said Mrs. Harrington. "That was a good thought of mine. My husband always said I was an unusual woman where business was concerned." So they went on the principle that she had no honor beyond working for what she would get out of it! Although she had made the suggestion herself, Phyllis's cheeks burned, and she was about to answer sharply. Then somehow the poor, anxious, loving mother's absolute preoccupation with her son struck her as right after all. "If it were my son," thought Phyllis, "I wouldn't worry about any strange hired girl's feelings either, maybe. I'd just think about him.... I promise I'll look after Mr. Harrington's welfare as if he were my own brother!" she ended aloud impulsively. "Indeed, you may trust me." "I am--sure you will," panted Mrs. Harrington. "You look like--a good girl, and--and old enough to be responsible--twenty-eight--thirty?" "Not very far from that," said Phyllis serenely. "And you are sure you will know when the attendants are neglectful? I speak to them all the time, but I never can be sure.... And now you'd better see poor Allan. This is one of his good days. Just think, dear Isabel, he spoke to me twice without my speaking to him this morning!" "Oh--must I?" asked Phyllis, dismayed. "Couldn't I wait till--till it happens?" Mrs. Harrington actually laughed a little at her shyness, lighting up like a girl. Phyllis felt dimly, though she tried not to, that through it all her mother-in-law-elect was taking pleasure in the dramatic side of the situation she had engineered. "Oh, my dear, you must see him. He expects you," she answered almost gayly. The procession of three moved down the long room towards a door, Phyllis's hand guiding the wheel-chair. She was surprised to find herself shaking with fright. Just what she expected to find beyond the door she did not know, but it must have been some horror, for it was with a heart-bound of wild relief that she finally made out Allan Harrington, lying white in the darkened place. A Crusader on a tomb. Yes, he looked like that. In the room's half-dusk the pallor of his still, clear-featured face and his long, clear-cut hands was nearly the same as the whiteness of the couch-draperies. His hair, yellow-brown and waving, flung back from his forehead like a crest, and his dark brows and lashes made the only note of darkness about him. To Phyllis's beauty-loving eyes he seemed so perfect an image that she could have watched him for hours. "Here's Miss Braithwaite, my poor darling," said his mother. "The young lady we have been talking about so long." The Crusader lifted his eyelids and let them fall again. "Is she?" he said listlessly. "Don't you want to talk to her, darling boy?" his mother persisted, half out of breath, but still full of that unrebuffable, loving energy and insistence which she would probably keep to the last minute of her life. "No," said the Crusader, still in those empty, listless tones. "I'd rather not talk. I'm tired." His mother seemed not at all put out. "Of course, darling," she said, kissing him. She sat by him still, however, and poured out sentence after sentence of question, insistence, imploration, and pity, eliciting no answer at all. Phyllis wondered how it would feel to have to lie still and have that done to you for a term of years. The result of her wonderment was a decision to forgive her unenthusiastic future bridegroom for what she had at first been ready to slap him. Presently Mrs. Harrington's breath flagged, and the three women went away, back to the room they had been in before. Phyllis sat and let herself be talked to for a little longer. Then she rose impulsively. "May I go back and see your son again for just a minute?" she asked, and had gone before Mrs. Harrington had finished her permission. She darted into the dark room before her courage had time to fail, and stood by the white couch again. "Mr. Harrington," she said clearly, "I'm sorry you're tired, but I'm afraid I am going to have to ask you to listen to me. You know, don't you, that your mother plans to have me marry you, for a sort of interested head-nurse? Are you willing to have it happen? Because I won't do it unless you really prefer it." The heavy white lids half-lifted again. "I don't mind," said Allan Harrington listlessly. "I suppose you are quiet and trustworthy, or De Guenther wouldn't have sent you. It will give mother a little peace and it makes no difference to me." He closed his eyes and the subject at the same time. "Well, then, that's all right," said Phyllis cheerfully, and started to go. Then, drawn back by a sudden, nervous temper-impulse, she moved back on him. "And let me tell you," she added, half-laughing, half-impertinently, "that if you ever get into my quiet, trustworthy clutches you may have an awful time! You're a very spoiled invalid." She whisked out of the room before he could have gone very far with his reply. But he had not cared to reply, apparently. He lay unmoved and unmoving. Phyllis discovered, poising breathless on the threshold, that somehow she had seen his eyes. They had been a little like the wolfhound's, a sort of wistful gold-brown. For some reason she found that Allan Harrington's attitude of absolute detachment made the whole affair seem much easier for her. And when Mrs. Harrington slipped a solitaire diamond into her hand as she went, instead of disliking it she enjoyed its feel on her finger, and the flash of it in the light. She thanked Mrs. Harrington for it with real gratitude. But it made her feel more than ever engaged to marry her mother-in-law. She walked home rather silently with Mrs. De Guenther. Only at the foot of the De Guenther steps, she made one absent remark. "He must have been delightful," she said, "when he was alive!" VI After a week of the old bustling, dusty hard work, the Liberry Teacher's visit to the De Guenthers' and the subsequent one at the Harringtons', and even her sparkling white ring, seemed part of a queer story she had finished and put back on the shelf. The ring was the most real thing, because it was something of a worry. She didn't dare leave it at home, nor did she want to wear it. She finally sewed it in a chamois bag that she safety-pinned under her shirt-waist. Then she dismissed it from her mind also. There is very little time in a Liberry Teacher's life for meditation. Only once in a while would come to her the vision of the wistful Harrington wolfhound following his inadequate patch of sunlight, or of the dusky room where Allan Harrington lay inert and white, and looking like a wonderful carved statue on a tomb. She began to do a little to her clothes, but not very much, because she had neither time nor money. Mr. De Guenther had wanted her to take some money in advance, but she had refused. She did not want it till she had earned it, and, anyway, it would have made the whole thing so real, she knew, that she would have backed out. "And it isn't as if I were going to a lover," she defended herself to Mrs. De Guenther with a little wistful smile. "Nobody will know what I have on, any more than they do now." Mrs. De Guenther gave a scandalized little cry. Her attitude was determinedly that it was just an ordinary marriage, as good an excuse for sentiment and pretty frocks as any other. "My dear child," she replied firmly, "you are going to have one pretty frock and one really good street-suit _now_, or I will know why! The rest you may get yourself after the wedding, but you must obey me in this. Nonsense!--you can get a half-day, as you call it, perfectly well! What's Albert in politics for, if he can't get favors for his friends!" And, in effect, it proved that Albert was in politics to some purpose, for orders came up from the Head's office within twenty minutes after Mrs. De Guenther had used the telephone on her husband, that Miss Braithwaite was to have a half-day immediately--as far as she could make out, in order to transact city affairs! She felt as if the angels had told her she could have the last fortnight over again, as a favor, or something of the sort. A half-day out of turn was something nobody had ever heard of. She was even too surprised to object to the frock part of the situation. She tried to stand out a little longer, but it's a very stoical young woman who can refuse to have pretty clothes bought for her, and the end of it was a seat in a salon which she had always considered so expensive that you scarcely ought to look in the window. "Had it better be a black suit?" asked Mrs. De Guenther doubtfully, as the tall lady in floppy charmeuse hovered haughtily about them, expecting orders. "It seems horrible to buy mourning when dear Angela is not yet passed away, but it would only be showing proper respect; and I remember my own dear mother planned all our mourning outfits while she was dying. It was quite a pleasure to her." Phyllis kept her face straight, and slipped one persuasive hand through her friend's arm. "I don't believe I _could_ buy mourning, dear," she said. "And--oh, if you knew how long I'd wanted a really _blue_ blue suit! Only, it would have been too vivid to wear well--I always knew that--because you can only afford one every other year. And"--Phyllis rather diffidently voiced a thought which had been in the back of her mind for a long time--"if I'm going to be much around Mr. Harrington, don't you think cheerful clothes would be best? Everything in that house seems sombre enough now." "Perhaps you are right, dear child," said Mrs. De Guenther. "I hope you may be the means of putting a great deal of brightness into poor Allan's life before he joins his mother." "Oh, don't!" cried Phyllis impulsively. Somehow she could not bear to think of Allan Harrington's dying. He was too beautiful to be dead, where nobody could see him any more. Besides, Phyllis privately considered that a long vacation before he joined his mother would be only the fair thing for "poor Allan." Youth sides with youth. And--the clear-cut white lines of him rose in her memory and stayed there. She could almost hear that poor, tired, toneless voice of his, that was yet so deep and so perfectly accented.... She bought docilely whatever her guide directed, and woke from a species of gentle daze at the afternoon's end to find Mrs. De Guenther beaming with the weary rapture of the successful shopper, and herself the proprietress of a turquoise velvet walking-suit, a hat to match, a pale blue evening frock, a pale green between-dress with lovely clinging lines, and a heavenly white crepe thing with rosy ribbons and filmy shadow-laces--the negligee of one's dreams. There were also slippers and shoes and stockings and--this was really too bad of Mrs. De Guenther--a half-dozen set of lingerie, straight through. Mrs. De Guenther sat and continued to beam joyously over the array, in Phyllis's little bedroom. "It's my present, dearie," she said calmly. "So you needn't worry about using Angela's money. Gracious, it's been _lovely_! I haven't had such a good time since my husband's little grand-niece came on for a week. There's nothing like dressing a girl, after all." And Phyllis could only kiss her. But when her guest had gone she laid all the boxes of finery under her bed, the only place where there was any room. She would not take any of it out, she determined, till her summons came. But on second thought, she wore the blue velvet street-suit on Sunday visits to Mrs. Harrington, which became--she never knew just when or how--a regular thing. The vivid blue made her eyes nearly sky-color, and brightened her hair very satisfactorily. She was taking more time and trouble over her looks now--one has to live up to a turquoise velvet hat and coat! She found herself, too, becoming very genuinely fond of the restless, anxiously loving, passionate, unwise child who dwelt in Mrs. Harrington's frail elderly body and had almost worn it out. She sat, long hours of every Sunday afternoon, holding Mrs. Harrington's thin little hot hands, and listening to her swift, italicised monologues about Allan--what he must do, what he must not do, how he must be looked after, how his mother had treated him, how his wishes must be ascertained and followed. "Though all he wants now is dark and quiet," said his mother piteously. "I don't even go in there now to cry." She spoke as if it were an established ritual. Had she been using her son's sick-room, Phyllis wondered, as a regular weeping-place? She could feel in Mrs. Harrington, even in this mortal sickness, the tremendous driving influence which is often part of a passionately active and not very wise personality. That certitude and insistence of Mrs. Harrington's could hammer you finally into believing or doing almost anything. Phyllis wondered how much his mother's heartbroken adoration and pity might have had to do with making her son as hopeless-minded as he was. Naturally, the mother-in-law-elect she had acquired in such a strange way became very fond of Phyllis. But indeed there was something very gay and sweet and honest-minded about the girl, a something which gave people the feeling that they were very wise in liking her. Some people you are fond of against your will. When people cared for Phyllis it was with a quite irrational feeling that they were doing a sensible thing. They never gave any of the credit to her very real, though almost invisible, charm. She never saw Allan Harrington on any of the Sunday visits. She was sure the servants thought she did, for she knew that every one in the great, dark old house knew her as the young lady who was to marry Mr. Allan. She believed that she was supposed to be an old family friend, perhaps a distant relative. She did not want to see Allan. But she did want to be as good to his little, tensely-loving mother as she could, and reassure her about Allan's future care. And she succeeded. It was on a Friday about two that the summons came. Phyllis had thought she expected it, but when the call came to her over the library telephone she found herself as badly frightened as she had been the first time she went to the Harrington house. She shivered as she laid down the dater she was using, and called the other librarian to take her desk. Fortunately, between one and four the morning and evening shifts overlapped, and there was some one to take her place. "Mrs. Harrington cannot last out the night," came Mr. De Guenther's clear, precise voice over the telephone, without preface. "I have arranged with Mr. Johnston. You can go at once. You had better pack a suit-case, for you possibly may not be able to get back to your boarding-place." So it was to happen now! Phyllis felt, with her substitute in her place, her own wraps on, and her feet taking her swiftly towards her goal, as if she were offering herself to be made a nun, or have a hand or foot cut off, or paying herself away in some awful, irrevocable fashion. She packed, mechanically, all the pretty things Mrs. De Guenther had given her, and nothing else. She found herself at the door of her room with the locked suit-case in her hand, and not even a nail-file of the things belonging to her old self in it. She shook herself together, managed to laugh a little, and returned and put in such things as she thought she would require for the night. Then she went. She always remembered that journey as long as she lived; her hands and feet and tongue going on, buying tickets, giving directions--and her mind, like a naughty child, catching at everything as they went, and screaming to be allowed to go back home, back to the dusty, matter-of-course library and the dreary little boarding-house bedroom! VII They were all waiting for her, in what felt like a hideously quiet semicircle, in Allan's great dark room. Mrs. Harrington, deadly pale, and giving an impression of keeping herself alive only by force of that wonderful fighting vitality of hers, lay almost at length in her wheel-chair. There was a clergyman in vestments. There were the De Guenthers; Mr. De Guenther only a little more precise than his every-day habit was, Mrs. De Guenther crying a little, softly and furtively. As for Allan Harrington, he lay just as she had seen him that other time, white and moveless, seeming scarcely conscious except by an effort. Only she noticed a slight contraction, as of pain, between his brows. "Phyllis has come," panted Mrs. Harrington. "Now it will be--all right. You must marry him quickly--quickly, do you hear, Phyllis? Oh, people never will--do--what I want them to----" "Yes--yes, indeed, dear," said Phyllis, taking her hands soothingly. "We're going to attend to it right away. See, everything is ready." It occurred to her that Mrs. Harrington was not half as correct in her playing of the part of a dying woman as she would have seen to it that anyone else was; also, that things did not seem legal without the wolfhound. Then she was shocked at herself for such irrelevant thoughts. The thing to do was to keep poor Mrs. Harrington quieted. So she beckoned the clergyman and the De Guenthers nearer, and herself sped the marrying of herself to Allan Harrington. ... When you are being married to a Crusader on a tomb, the easiest way is to kneel down by him. Phyllis registered this fact in her mind quite blankly, as something which might be of use to remember in future.... The marrying took an unnecessarily long time, it seemed to her. It did not seem as if she were being married at all. It all seemed to concern somebody else. When it came to the putting on of the wedding-ring, she found herself, very naturally, guiding Allan's relaxed fingers to hold it in its successive places, and finally slip it on the wedding-finger. And somehow having to do that checked the chilly awe she had had before of Allan Harrington. It made her feel quite simply sorry for him, as if he were one of her poor little boys in trouble. And when it was all over she bent pitifully before she thought, and kissed one white, cold cheek. He seemed so tragically helpless, yet more alive, in some way, since she had touched his hand to guide it. Then, as her lips brushed his cheek, she recoiled and colored a little. She had felt that slight roughness which a man's cheek, however close-shaven, always has--the _man_-feel. It made her realize unreasonably that it was a man she had married, after all, not a stone image nor a sick child--a live man! With the thought, or rather instinct, came a swift terror of what she had done, and a swift impulse to rise. She was half-way risen from her knees when a hand on her shoulder, and the clergyman's voice in her ear, checked her. "Not yet," he murmured almost inaudibly. "Stay as you are till--till Mrs. Harrington is wheeled from the room." Phyllis understood. She remained as she was, her body a shield before Allan Harrington's eyes, her hand just withdrawing from his shoulder, till she heard the closing of the door, and a sigh as of relaxed tension from the three people around her. Then she rose. Allan lay still with closed eyelids. It seemed to her that he had flushed, if ever so faintly, at the touch of her lips on his cheek. She laid his hand on the coverlet with her own roughened, ringed one, and followed the others out, into the room where the dead woman had been taken, leaving him with his attendant. The rest of the evening Phyllis went about in a queer-keyed, almost light-hearted frame of mind. It was only the reaction from the long-expected terror that was over now, but it felt indecorous. It was just as well, however. Some one's head had to be kept. The servants were upset, of course, and there were many arrangements to be made. She and Mr. De Guenther worked steadily together, telephoning, ordering, guiding, straightening out all the tangles. There never was a wedding, she thought, where the bride did so much of the work! She even remembered to see personally that Allan's dinner was sent up to him. The servants had doubtless been told to come to her for orders--at any rate, they did. Phyllis had not had much experience in running a house, but a good deal in keeping her head. And that, after all, is the main thing. She had a far-off feeling as if she were hearing some other young woman giving swift, poised, executive orders. She rather admired her. After dinner the De Guenthers went. And Phyllis Braithwaite, the little Liberry Teacher who had been living in a hall bedroom on much less money than she needed, found herself alone, sole mistress of the great Harrington house, a corps of servants, a husband passive enough to satisfy the most militant suffragette, a check-book, a wistful wolfhound, and five hundred dollars, cash, for current expenses. The last weighed on her mind more than all the rest put together. "Why, I don't know how to make Current Expenses out of all that!" she had said to Mr. De Guenther. "It looks to me exactly like about ten months' salary! I'm perfectly certain I shall get up in my sleep and try to pay my board ahead with it, so I shan't have it all spent before the ten months are up! There was a blue bead necklace," she went on meditatively, "in the Five-and-Ten, that I always wanted to buy. Only I never quite felt I could afford it. Oh, just imagine going to the Five-and-Ten and buying at least five dollars' worth of things you didn't need!" "You have great discretionary powers--great discretionary powers, my dear, you will find!" Mr. De Guenther had said, as he patted her shoulder. Phyllis took it as a compliment at the time. "Discretionary powers" sounded as if he thought she was a quite intelligent young person. It did not occur to her till he had gone, and she was alone with her check-book, that it meant she had a good deal of liberty to do as she liked. It seemed to be expected of her to stay. Nobody even suggested a possibility of her going home again, even to pack her trunk. Mrs. De Guenther casually volunteered to do that, a little after the housekeeper had told her where her rooms were. She had been consulting with the housekeeper for what seemed ages, when she happened to want some pins for something, and asked for her suit-case. "It's in your rooms," said the housekeeper. "Mrs. Harrington--the late Mrs. Harrington, I should say----" Phyllis stopped listening at this point. Who was the present Mrs. Harrington? she wondered before she thought--and then remembered. Why--_she_ was! So there was no Phyllis Braithwaite any more! Of course not.... Yet she had always liked the name so--well, a last name was a small thing to give up.... Into her mind fitted an incongruous, silly story she had heard once at the library, about a girl whose last name was Rose, and whose parents christened her Wild, because the combination appealed to them. And then she married a man named Bull.... Meanwhile the housekeeper had been going on. ... "She had the bedroom and bath opening from the other side of Mr. Allan's day-room ready for you, madam. It's been ready several weeks." "Has it?" said Phyllis. It was like Mrs. Harrington, that careful planning of even where she should be put. "Is Mr. Harrington in his day-room now?" For some reason she did not attempt to give herself, she did not want to see him again just now. Besides, it was nearly eleven and time a very tired girl was in bed. She wanted a good night's rest, before she had to get up and be Mrs. Harrington, with Allan and the check-book and the Current Expenses all tied to her. Some one had laid everything out for her in the bedroom; the filmy new nightgown over a chair, the blue satin mules underneath, her plain toilet-things on a dressing-table, and over another chair the exquisite ivory crepe negligee with its floating rose ribbons. She took a hasty bath--there was so much hot water that she was quite reconciled for a moment to being a check-booked and wolf hounded Mrs. Harrington--and slid straight into bed without even stopping to braid her loosened, honey-colored hair. It seemed to her that she was barely asleep when there came an urgent knocking at her door. "Yes?" she said sleepily, looking mechanically for her alarm-clock as she switched on the light. "What is it, please?" "It's I, Wallis, Mr. Allan's man, Madame," said a nervous voice. "Mr. Allan's very bad. I've done all the usual things, but nothing seems to quiet him. He hates doctors so, and they make him so wrought up--please could you come, ma'am? He says as how all of us are all dead--oh, _please_, Mrs. Harrington!" There was panic in the man's voice. "All right," said Phyllis sleepily, dropping to the floor as she spoke with the rapidity that only the alarm-clock-broken know. She snatched the negligee around her, and thrust her feet hastily into the blue satin slippers--why, she was actually using her wedding finery! And what an easily upset person that man was! But everybody in the house seemed to have nerves on edge. It was no wonder about Allan--he wanted his mother, of course, poor boy! She felt, as she ran fleetly across the long room that separated her sleeping quarters from her husband's, the same mixture of pity and timidity that she had felt with him before. Poor boy! Poor, silent, beautiful statue, with his one friend gone! She opened the door and entered swiftly into his room. She was not thinking about herself at all, only of how she could help Allan, but there must have been something about her of the picture-book angel to the pain-racked man, lying tensely at length in the room's darkest corner. Her long, dully gold hair, loosening from its twist, flew out about her, and her face was still flushed with sleep. There was a something about her that was vividly alight and alive, perhaps the light in her blue eyes. From what the man had said Phyllis had thought Allan was delirious, but she saw at once that he was only in severe pain, and talking more disconnectedly, perhaps, than the slow-minded Englishman could follow. He did not look like a statue now. His cheeks were burning with evident pain, and his yellow-brown eyes, wide-open, and dilated to darkness, stared straight out. His hands were clenching and unclenching, and his head moved restlessly from side to side. Every nerve and muscle, she could see, was taut. "They're all dead," he muttered. "Father and Mother and Louise--and I--only I'm not dead enough to bury. Oh, God, I wish I was!" That wasn't delirium; it was something more like heart-break. Phyllis moved closer to him, and dropped one of her sleep-warm hands on his cold, clenched one. "Oh, poor boy!" she said. "I'm so sorry--so sorry!" She closed her hands tight over both his. Some of her strong young vitality must have passed between them and helped him, for almost immediately his tenseness relaxed a little, and he looked at her. "You--you're not a nurse," he said. "They go around--like--like a--vault----" She had caught his attention! That was a good deal, she felt. She forgot everything about him, except that he was some one to be comforted, and her charge. She sat down on the bed by him, still holding tight to his hands. "No, indeed," she said, bending nearer him, her long loose hair falling forward about her resolutely-smiling young face. "Don't you remember seeing me? I never was a nurse." "What--are you?" he asked feebly. "I'm--why, the children call me the Liberry Teacher," she answered. It occurred to her that it would be better to talk on brightly at random than to risk speaking of his mother to him, as she must if she reminded him of their marriage. "I spend my days in a basement, making bad little boys get so interested in the Higher Culture that they'll forget to shoot crap and smash windows." One of the things which had aided Phyllis to rise from desk-assistant to one of the Children's Room librarians was a very sweet and carrying voice--a voice which arrested even a child's attention,

vi

How many times the word 'vi' appears in the text?

with him--do you think you could do that? But I always cry so before I'm through--I cry and cry--my poor, helpless boy--he was so strong and bright! And you are sure you are conscientious----" At this point Phyllis stopped the flow of Mrs. Harrington's conversation firmly, if sweetly. "Yes, indeed," she said cheerfully. "But you know, if I'm not, Mr. De Guenther can stop all my allowance. It wouldn't be to my own interest not to fulfil my duties faithfully." "Yes, that is true," said Mrs. Harrington. "That was a good thought of mine. My husband always said I was an unusual woman where business was concerned." So they went on the principle that she had no honor beyond working for what she would get out of it! Although she had made the suggestion herself, Phyllis's cheeks burned, and she was about to answer sharply. Then somehow the poor, anxious, loving mother's absolute preoccupation with her son struck her as right after all. "If it were my son," thought Phyllis, "I wouldn't worry about any strange hired girl's feelings either, maybe. I'd just think about him.... I promise I'll look after Mr. Harrington's welfare as if he were my own brother!" she ended aloud impulsively. "Indeed, you may trust me." "I am--sure you will," panted Mrs. Harrington. "You look like--a good girl, and--and old enough to be responsible--twenty-eight--thirty?" "Not very far from that," said Phyllis serenely. "And you are sure you will know when the attendants are neglectful? I speak to them all the time, but I never can be sure.... And now you'd better see poor Allan. This is one of his good days. Just think, dear Isabel, he spoke to me twice without my speaking to him this morning!" "Oh--must I?" asked Phyllis, dismayed. "Couldn't I wait till--till it happens?" Mrs. Harrington actually laughed a little at her shyness, lighting up like a girl. Phyllis felt dimly, though she tried not to, that through it all her mother-in-law-elect was taking pleasure in the dramatic side of the situation she had engineered. "Oh, my dear, you must see him. He expects you," she answered almost gayly. The procession of three moved down the long room towards a door, Phyllis's hand guiding the wheel-chair. She was surprised to find herself shaking with fright. Just what she expected to find beyond the door she did not know, but it must have been some horror, for it was with a heart-bound of wild relief that she finally made out Allan Harrington, lying white in the darkened place. A Crusader on a tomb. Yes, he looked like that. In the room's half-dusk the pallor of his still, clear-featured face and his long, clear-cut hands was nearly the same as the whiteness of the couch-draperies. His hair, yellow-brown and waving, flung back from his forehead like a crest, and his dark brows and lashes made the only note of darkness about him. To Phyllis's beauty-loving eyes he seemed so perfect an image that she could have watched him for hours. "Here's Miss Braithwaite, my poor darling," said his mother. "The young lady we have been talking about so long." The Crusader lifted his eyelids and let them fall again. "Is she?" he said listlessly. "Don't you want to talk to her, darling boy?" his mother persisted, half out of breath, but still full of that unrebuffable, loving energy and insistence which she would probably keep to the last minute of her life. "No," said the Crusader, still in those empty, listless tones. "I'd rather not talk. I'm tired." His mother seemed not at all put out. "Of course, darling," she said, kissing him. She sat by him still, however, and poured out sentence after sentence of question, insistence, imploration, and pity, eliciting no answer at all. Phyllis wondered how it would feel to have to lie still and have that done to you for a term of years. The result of her wonderment was a decision to forgive her unenthusiastic future bridegroom for what she had at first been ready to slap him. Presently Mrs. Harrington's breath flagged, and the three women went away, back to the room they had been in before. Phyllis sat and let herself be talked to for a little longer. Then she rose impulsively. "May I go back and see your son again for just a minute?" she asked, and had gone before Mrs. Harrington had finished her permission. She darted into the dark room before her courage had time to fail, and stood by the white couch again. "Mr. Harrington," she said clearly, "I'm sorry you're tired, but I'm afraid I am going to have to ask you to listen to me. You know, don't you, that your mother plans to have me marry you, for a sort of interested head-nurse? Are you willing to have it happen? Because I won't do it unless you really prefer it." The heavy white lids half-lifted again. "I don't mind," said Allan Harrington listlessly. "I suppose you are quiet and trustworthy, or De Guenther wouldn't have sent you. It will give mother a little peace and it makes no difference to me." He closed his eyes and the subject at the same time. "Well, then, that's all right," said Phyllis cheerfully, and started to go. Then, drawn back by a sudden, nervous temper-impulse, she moved back on him. "And let me tell you," she added, half-laughing, half-impertinently, "that if you ever get into my quiet, trustworthy clutches you may have an awful time! You're a very spoiled invalid." She whisked out of the room before he could have gone very far with his reply. But he had not cared to reply, apparently. He lay unmoved and unmoving. Phyllis discovered, poising breathless on the threshold, that somehow she had seen his eyes. They had been a little like the wolfhound's, a sort of wistful gold-brown. For some reason she found that Allan Harrington's attitude of absolute detachment made the whole affair seem much easier for her. And when Mrs. Harrington slipped a solitaire diamond into her hand as she went, instead of disliking it she enjoyed its feel on her finger, and the flash of it in the light. She thanked Mrs. Harrington for it with real gratitude. But it made her feel more than ever engaged to marry her mother-in-law. She walked home rather silently with Mrs. De Guenther. Only at the foot of the De Guenther steps, she made one absent remark. "He must have been delightful," she said, "when he was alive!" VI After a week of the old bustling, dusty hard work, the Liberry Teacher's visit to the De Guenthers' and the subsequent one at the Harringtons', and even her sparkling white ring, seemed part of a queer story she had finished and put back on the shelf. The ring was the most real thing, because it was something of a worry. She didn't dare leave it at home, nor did she want to wear it. She finally sewed it in a chamois bag that she safety-pinned under her shirt-waist. Then she dismissed it from her mind also. There is very little time in a Liberry Teacher's life for meditation. Only once in a while would come to her the vision of the wistful Harrington wolfhound following his inadequate patch of sunlight, or of the dusky room where Allan Harrington lay inert and white, and looking like a wonderful carved statue on a tomb. She began to do a little to her clothes, but not very much, because she had neither time nor money. Mr. De Guenther had wanted her to take some money in advance, but she had refused. She did not want it till she had earned it, and, anyway, it would have made the whole thing so real, she knew, that she would have backed out. "And it isn't as if I were going to a lover," she defended herself to Mrs. De Guenther with a little wistful smile. "Nobody will know what I have on, any more than they do now." Mrs. De Guenther gave a scandalized little cry. Her attitude was determinedly that it was just an ordinary marriage, as good an excuse for sentiment and pretty frocks as any other. "My dear child," she replied firmly, "you are going to have one pretty frock and one really good street-suit _now_, or I will know why! The rest you may get yourself after the wedding, but you must obey me in this. Nonsense!--you can get a half-day, as you call it, perfectly well! What's Albert in politics for, if he can't get favors for his friends!" And, in effect, it proved that Albert was in politics to some purpose, for orders came up from the Head's office within twenty minutes after Mrs. De Guenther had used the telephone on her husband, that Miss Braithwaite was to have a half-day immediately--as far as she could make out, in order to transact city affairs! She felt as if the angels had told her she could have the last fortnight over again, as a favor, or something of the sort. A half-day out of turn was something nobody had ever heard of. She was even too surprised to object to the frock part of the situation. She tried to stand out a little longer, but it's a very stoical young woman who can refuse to have pretty clothes bought for her, and the end of it was a seat in a salon which she had always considered so expensive that you scarcely ought to look in the window. "Had it better be a black suit?" asked Mrs. De Guenther doubtfully, as the tall lady in floppy charmeuse hovered haughtily about them, expecting orders. "It seems horrible to buy mourning when dear Angela is not yet passed away, but it would only be showing proper respect; and I remember my own dear mother planned all our mourning outfits while she was dying. It was quite a pleasure to her." Phyllis kept her face straight, and slipped one persuasive hand through her friend's arm. "I don't believe I _could_ buy mourning, dear," she said. "And--oh, if you knew how long I'd wanted a really _blue_ blue suit! Only, it would have been too vivid to wear well--I always knew that--because you can only afford one every other year. And"--Phyllis rather diffidently voiced a thought which had been in the back of her mind for a long time--"if I'm going to be much around Mr. Harrington, don't you think cheerful clothes would be best? Everything in that house seems sombre enough now." "Perhaps you are right, dear child," said Mrs. De Guenther. "I hope you may be the means of putting a great deal of brightness into poor Allan's life before he joins his mother." "Oh, don't!" cried Phyllis impulsively. Somehow she could not bear to think of Allan Harrington's dying. He was too beautiful to be dead, where nobody could see him any more. Besides, Phyllis privately considered that a long vacation before he joined his mother would be only the fair thing for "poor Allan." Youth sides with youth. And--the clear-cut white lines of him rose in her memory and stayed there. She could almost hear that poor, tired, toneless voice of his, that was yet so deep and so perfectly accented.... She bought docilely whatever her guide directed, and woke from a species of gentle daze at the afternoon's end to find Mrs. De Guenther beaming with the weary rapture of the successful shopper, and herself the proprietress of a turquoise velvet walking-suit, a hat to match, a pale blue evening frock, a pale green between-dress with lovely clinging lines, and a heavenly white crepe thing with rosy ribbons and filmy shadow-laces--the negligee of one's dreams. There were also slippers and shoes and stockings and--this was really too bad of Mrs. De Guenther--a half-dozen set of lingerie, straight through. Mrs. De Guenther sat and continued to beam joyously over the array, in Phyllis's little bedroom. "It's my present, dearie," she said calmly. "So you needn't worry about using Angela's money. Gracious, it's been _lovely_! I haven't had such a good time since my husband's little grand-niece came on for a week. There's nothing like dressing a girl, after all." And Phyllis could only kiss her. But when her guest had gone she laid all the boxes of finery under her bed, the only place where there was any room. She would not take any of it out, she determined, till her summons came. But on second thought, she wore the blue velvet street-suit on Sunday visits to Mrs. Harrington, which became--she never knew just when or how--a regular thing. The vivid blue made her eyes nearly sky-color, and brightened her hair very satisfactorily. She was taking more time and trouble over her looks now--one has to live up to a turquoise velvet hat and coat! She found herself, too, becoming very genuinely fond of the restless, anxiously loving, passionate, unwise child who dwelt in Mrs. Harrington's frail elderly body and had almost worn it out. She sat, long hours of every Sunday afternoon, holding Mrs. Harrington's thin little hot hands, and listening to her swift, italicised monologues about Allan--what he must do, what he must not do, how he must be looked after, how his mother had treated him, how his wishes must be ascertained and followed. "Though all he wants now is dark and quiet," said his mother piteously. "I don't even go in there now to cry." She spoke as if it were an established ritual. Had she been using her son's sick-room, Phyllis wondered, as a regular weeping-place? She could feel in Mrs. Harrington, even in this mortal sickness, the tremendous driving influence which is often part of a passionately active and not very wise personality. That certitude and insistence of Mrs. Harrington's could hammer you finally into believing or doing almost anything. Phyllis wondered how much his mother's heartbroken adoration and pity might have had to do with making her son as hopeless-minded as he was. Naturally, the mother-in-law-elect she had acquired in such a strange way became very fond of Phyllis. But indeed there was something very gay and sweet and honest-minded about the girl, a something which gave people the feeling that they were very wise in liking her. Some people you are fond of against your will. When people cared for Phyllis it was with a quite irrational feeling that they were doing a sensible thing. They never gave any of the credit to her very real, though almost invisible, charm. She never saw Allan Harrington on any of the Sunday visits. She was sure the servants thought she did, for she knew that every one in the great, dark old house knew her as the young lady who was to marry Mr. Allan. She believed that she was supposed to be an old family friend, perhaps a distant relative. She did not want to see Allan. But she did want to be as good to his little, tensely-loving mother as she could, and reassure her about Allan's future care. And she succeeded. It was on a Friday about two that the summons came. Phyllis had thought she expected it, but when the call came to her over the library telephone she found herself as badly frightened as she had been the first time she went to the Harrington house. She shivered as she laid down the dater she was using, and called the other librarian to take her desk. Fortunately, between one and four the morning and evening shifts overlapped, and there was some one to take her place. "Mrs. Harrington cannot last out the night," came Mr. De Guenther's clear, precise voice over the telephone, without preface. "I have arranged with Mr. Johnston. You can go at once. You had better pack a suit-case, for you possibly may not be able to get back to your boarding-place." So it was to happen now! Phyllis felt, with her substitute in her place, her own wraps on, and her feet taking her swiftly towards her goal, as if she were offering herself to be made a nun, or have a hand or foot cut off, or paying herself away in some awful, irrevocable fashion. She packed, mechanically, all the pretty things Mrs. De Guenther had given her, and nothing else. She found herself at the door of her room with the locked suit-case in her hand, and not even a nail-file of the things belonging to her old self in it. She shook herself together, managed to laugh a little, and returned and put in such things as she thought she would require for the night. Then she went. She always remembered that journey as long as she lived; her hands and feet and tongue going on, buying tickets, giving directions--and her mind, like a naughty child, catching at everything as they went, and screaming to be allowed to go back home, back to the dusty, matter-of-course library and the dreary little boarding-house bedroom! VII They were all waiting for her, in what felt like a hideously quiet semicircle, in Allan's great dark room. Mrs. Harrington, deadly pale, and giving an impression of keeping herself alive only by force of that wonderful fighting vitality of hers, lay almost at length in her wheel-chair. There was a clergyman in vestments. There were the De Guenthers; Mr. De Guenther only a little more precise than his every-day habit was, Mrs. De Guenther crying a little, softly and furtively. As for Allan Harrington, he lay just as she had seen him that other time, white and moveless, seeming scarcely conscious except by an effort. Only she noticed a slight contraction, as of pain, between his brows. "Phyllis has come," panted Mrs. Harrington. "Now it will be--all right. You must marry him quickly--quickly, do you hear, Phyllis? Oh, people never will--do--what I want them to----" "Yes--yes, indeed, dear," said Phyllis, taking her hands soothingly. "We're going to attend to it right away. See, everything is ready." It occurred to her that Mrs. Harrington was not half as correct in her playing of the part of a dying woman as she would have seen to it that anyone else was; also, that things did not seem legal without the wolfhound. Then she was shocked at herself for such irrelevant thoughts. The thing to do was to keep poor Mrs. Harrington quieted. So she beckoned the clergyman and the De Guenthers nearer, and herself sped the marrying of herself to Allan Harrington. ... When you are being married to a Crusader on a tomb, the easiest way is to kneel down by him. Phyllis registered this fact in her mind quite blankly, as something which might be of use to remember in future.... The marrying took an unnecessarily long time, it seemed to her. It did not seem as if she were being married at all. It all seemed to concern somebody else. When it came to the putting on of the wedding-ring, she found herself, very naturally, guiding Allan's relaxed fingers to hold it in its successive places, and finally slip it on the wedding-finger. And somehow having to do that checked the chilly awe she had had before of Allan Harrington. It made her feel quite simply sorry for him, as if he were one of her poor little boys in trouble. And when it was all over she bent pitifully before she thought, and kissed one white, cold cheek. He seemed so tragically helpless, yet more alive, in some way, since she had touched his hand to guide it. Then, as her lips brushed his cheek, she recoiled and colored a little. She had felt that slight roughness which a man's cheek, however close-shaven, always has--the _man_-feel. It made her realize unreasonably that it was a man she had married, after all, not a stone image nor a sick child--a live man! With the thought, or rather instinct, came a swift terror of what she had done, and a swift impulse to rise. She was half-way risen from her knees when a hand on her shoulder, and the clergyman's voice in her ear, checked her. "Not yet," he murmured almost inaudibly. "Stay as you are till--till Mrs. Harrington is wheeled from the room." Phyllis understood. She remained as she was, her body a shield before Allan Harrington's eyes, her hand just withdrawing from his shoulder, till she heard the closing of the door, and a sigh as of relaxed tension from the three people around her. Then she rose. Allan lay still with closed eyelids. It seemed to her that he had flushed, if ever so faintly, at the touch of her lips on his cheek. She laid his hand on the coverlet with her own roughened, ringed one, and followed the others out, into the room where the dead woman had been taken, leaving him with his attendant. The rest of the evening Phyllis went about in a queer-keyed, almost light-hearted frame of mind. It was only the reaction from the long-expected terror that was over now, but it felt indecorous. It was just as well, however. Some one's head had to be kept. The servants were upset, of course, and there were many arrangements to be made. She and Mr. De Guenther worked steadily together, telephoning, ordering, guiding, straightening out all the tangles. There never was a wedding, she thought, where the bride did so much of the work! She even remembered to see personally that Allan's dinner was sent up to him. The servants had doubtless been told to come to her for orders--at any rate, they did. Phyllis had not had much experience in running a house, but a good deal in keeping her head. And that, after all, is the main thing. She had a far-off feeling as if she were hearing some other young woman giving swift, poised, executive orders. She rather admired her. After dinner the De Guenthers went. And Phyllis Braithwaite, the little Liberry Teacher who had been living in a hall bedroom on much less money than she needed, found herself alone, sole mistress of the great Harrington house, a corps of servants, a husband passive enough to satisfy the most militant suffragette, a check-book, a wistful wolfhound, and five hundred dollars, cash, for current expenses. The last weighed on her mind more than all the rest put together. "Why, I don't know how to make Current Expenses out of all that!" she had said to Mr. De Guenther. "It looks to me exactly like about ten months' salary! I'm perfectly certain I shall get up in my sleep and try to pay my board ahead with it, so I shan't have it all spent before the ten months are up! There was a blue bead necklace," she went on meditatively, "in the Five-and-Ten, that I always wanted to buy. Only I never quite felt I could afford it. Oh, just imagine going to the Five-and-Ten and buying at least five dollars' worth of things you didn't need!" "You have great discretionary powers--great discretionary powers, my dear, you will find!" Mr. De Guenther had said, as he patted her shoulder. Phyllis took it as a compliment at the time. "Discretionary powers" sounded as if he thought she was a quite intelligent young person. It did not occur to her till he had gone, and she was alone with her check-book, that it meant she had a good deal of liberty to do as she liked. It seemed to be expected of her to stay. Nobody even suggested a possibility of her going home again, even to pack her trunk. Mrs. De Guenther casually volunteered to do that, a little after the housekeeper had told her where her rooms were. She had been consulting with the housekeeper for what seemed ages, when she happened to want some pins for something, and asked for her suit-case. "It's in your rooms," said the housekeeper. "Mrs. Harrington--the late Mrs. Harrington, I should say----" Phyllis stopped listening at this point. Who was the present Mrs. Harrington? she wondered before she thought--and then remembered. Why--_she_ was! So there was no Phyllis Braithwaite any more! Of course not.... Yet she had always liked the name so--well, a last name was a small thing to give up.... Into her mind fitted an incongruous, silly story she had heard once at the library, about a girl whose last name was Rose, and whose parents christened her Wild, because the combination appealed to them. And then she married a man named Bull.... Meanwhile the housekeeper had been going on. ... "She had the bedroom and bath opening from the other side of Mr. Allan's day-room ready for you, madam. It's been ready several weeks." "Has it?" said Phyllis. It was like Mrs. Harrington, that careful planning of even where she should be put. "Is Mr. Harrington in his day-room now?" For some reason she did not attempt to give herself, she did not want to see him again just now. Besides, it was nearly eleven and time a very tired girl was in bed. She wanted a good night's rest, before she had to get up and be Mrs. Harrington, with Allan and the check-book and the Current Expenses all tied to her. Some one had laid everything out for her in the bedroom; the filmy new nightgown over a chair, the blue satin mules underneath, her plain toilet-things on a dressing-table, and over another chair the exquisite ivory crepe negligee with its floating rose ribbons. She took a hasty bath--there was so much hot water that she was quite reconciled for a moment to being a check-booked and wolf hounded Mrs. Harrington--and slid straight into bed without even stopping to braid her loosened, honey-colored hair. It seemed to her that she was barely asleep when there came an urgent knocking at her door. "Yes?" she said sleepily, looking mechanically for her alarm-clock as she switched on the light. "What is it, please?" "It's I, Wallis, Mr. Allan's man, Madame," said a nervous voice. "Mr. Allan's very bad. I've done all the usual things, but nothing seems to quiet him. He hates doctors so, and they make him so wrought up--please could you come, ma'am? He says as how all of us are all dead--oh, _please_, Mrs. Harrington!" There was panic in the man's voice. "All right," said Phyllis sleepily, dropping to the floor as she spoke with the rapidity that only the alarm-clock-broken know. She snatched the negligee around her, and thrust her feet hastily into the blue satin slippers--why, she was actually using her wedding finery! And what an easily upset person that man was! But everybody in the house seemed to have nerves on edge. It was no wonder about Allan--he wanted his mother, of course, poor boy! She felt, as she ran fleetly across the long room that separated her sleeping quarters from her husband's, the same mixture of pity and timidity that she had felt with him before. Poor boy! Poor, silent, beautiful statue, with his one friend gone! She opened the door and entered swiftly into his room. She was not thinking about herself at all, only of how she could help Allan, but there must have been something about her of the picture-book angel to the pain-racked man, lying tensely at length in the room's darkest corner. Her long, dully gold hair, loosening from its twist, flew out about her, and her face was still flushed with sleep. There was a something about her that was vividly alight and alive, perhaps the light in her blue eyes. From what the man had said Phyllis had thought Allan was delirious, but she saw at once that he was only in severe pain, and talking more disconnectedly, perhaps, than the slow-minded Englishman could follow. He did not look like a statue now. His cheeks were burning with evident pain, and his yellow-brown eyes, wide-open, and dilated to darkness, stared straight out. His hands were clenching and unclenching, and his head moved restlessly from side to side. Every nerve and muscle, she could see, was taut. "They're all dead," he muttered. "Father and Mother and Louise--and I--only I'm not dead enough to bury. Oh, God, I wish I was!" That wasn't delirium; it was something more like heart-break. Phyllis moved closer to him, and dropped one of her sleep-warm hands on his cold, clenched one. "Oh, poor boy!" she said. "I'm so sorry--so sorry!" She closed her hands tight over both his. Some of her strong young vitality must have passed between them and helped him, for almost immediately his tenseness relaxed a little, and he looked at her. "You--you're not a nurse," he said. "They go around--like--like a--vault----" She had caught his attention! That was a good deal, she felt. She forgot everything about him, except that he was some one to be comforted, and her charge. She sat down on the bed by him, still holding tight to his hands. "No, indeed," she said, bending nearer him, her long loose hair falling forward about her resolutely-smiling young face. "Don't you remember seeing me? I never was a nurse." "What--are you?" he asked feebly. "I'm--why, the children call me the Liberry Teacher," she answered. It occurred to her that it would be better to talk on brightly at random than to risk speaking of his mother to him, as she must if she reminded him of their marriage. "I spend my days in a basement, making bad little boys get so interested in the Higher Culture that they'll forget to shoot crap and smash windows." One of the things which had aided Phyllis to rise from desk-assistant to one of the Children's Room librarians was a very sweet and carrying voice--a voice which arrested even a child's attention,

pardon

How many times the word 'pardon' appears in the text?

with him--do you think you could do that? But I always cry so before I'm through--I cry and cry--my poor, helpless boy--he was so strong and bright! And you are sure you are conscientious----" At this point Phyllis stopped the flow of Mrs. Harrington's conversation firmly, if sweetly. "Yes, indeed," she said cheerfully. "But you know, if I'm not, Mr. De Guenther can stop all my allowance. It wouldn't be to my own interest not to fulfil my duties faithfully." "Yes, that is true," said Mrs. Harrington. "That was a good thought of mine. My husband always said I was an unusual woman where business was concerned." So they went on the principle that she had no honor beyond working for what she would get out of it! Although she had made the suggestion herself, Phyllis's cheeks burned, and she was about to answer sharply. Then somehow the poor, anxious, loving mother's absolute preoccupation with her son struck her as right after all. "If it were my son," thought Phyllis, "I wouldn't worry about any strange hired girl's feelings either, maybe. I'd just think about him.... I promise I'll look after Mr. Harrington's welfare as if he were my own brother!" she ended aloud impulsively. "Indeed, you may trust me." "I am--sure you will," panted Mrs. Harrington. "You look like--a good girl, and--and old enough to be responsible--twenty-eight--thirty?" "Not very far from that," said Phyllis serenely. "And you are sure you will know when the attendants are neglectful? I speak to them all the time, but I never can be sure.... And now you'd better see poor Allan. This is one of his good days. Just think, dear Isabel, he spoke to me twice without my speaking to him this morning!" "Oh--must I?" asked Phyllis, dismayed. "Couldn't I wait till--till it happens?" Mrs. Harrington actually laughed a little at her shyness, lighting up like a girl. Phyllis felt dimly, though she tried not to, that through it all her mother-in-law-elect was taking pleasure in the dramatic side of the situation she had engineered. "Oh, my dear, you must see him. He expects you," she answered almost gayly. The procession of three moved down the long room towards a door, Phyllis's hand guiding the wheel-chair. She was surprised to find herself shaking with fright. Just what she expected to find beyond the door she did not know, but it must have been some horror, for it was with a heart-bound of wild relief that she finally made out Allan Harrington, lying white in the darkened place. A Crusader on a tomb. Yes, he looked like that. In the room's half-dusk the pallor of his still, clear-featured face and his long, clear-cut hands was nearly the same as the whiteness of the couch-draperies. His hair, yellow-brown and waving, flung back from his forehead like a crest, and his dark brows and lashes made the only note of darkness about him. To Phyllis's beauty-loving eyes he seemed so perfect an image that she could have watched him for hours. "Here's Miss Braithwaite, my poor darling," said his mother. "The young lady we have been talking about so long." The Crusader lifted his eyelids and let them fall again. "Is she?" he said listlessly. "Don't you want to talk to her, darling boy?" his mother persisted, half out of breath, but still full of that unrebuffable, loving energy and insistence which she would probably keep to the last minute of her life. "No," said the Crusader, still in those empty, listless tones. "I'd rather not talk. I'm tired." His mother seemed not at all put out. "Of course, darling," she said, kissing him. She sat by him still, however, and poured out sentence after sentence of question, insistence, imploration, and pity, eliciting no answer at all. Phyllis wondered how it would feel to have to lie still and have that done to you for a term of years. The result of her wonderment was a decision to forgive her unenthusiastic future bridegroom for what she had at first been ready to slap him. Presently Mrs. Harrington's breath flagged, and the three women went away, back to the room they had been in before. Phyllis sat and let herself be talked to for a little longer. Then she rose impulsively. "May I go back and see your son again for just a minute?" she asked, and had gone before Mrs. Harrington had finished her permission. She darted into the dark room before her courage had time to fail, and stood by the white couch again. "Mr. Harrington," she said clearly, "I'm sorry you're tired, but I'm afraid I am going to have to ask you to listen to me. You know, don't you, that your mother plans to have me marry you, for a sort of interested head-nurse? Are you willing to have it happen? Because I won't do it unless you really prefer it." The heavy white lids half-lifted again. "I don't mind," said Allan Harrington listlessly. "I suppose you are quiet and trustworthy, or De Guenther wouldn't have sent you. It will give mother a little peace and it makes no difference to me." He closed his eyes and the subject at the same time. "Well, then, that's all right," said Phyllis cheerfully, and started to go. Then, drawn back by a sudden, nervous temper-impulse, she moved back on him. "And let me tell you," she added, half-laughing, half-impertinently, "that if you ever get into my quiet, trustworthy clutches you may have an awful time! You're a very spoiled invalid." She whisked out of the room before he could have gone very far with his reply. But he had not cared to reply, apparently. He lay unmoved and unmoving. Phyllis discovered, poising breathless on the threshold, that somehow she had seen his eyes. They had been a little like the wolfhound's, a sort of wistful gold-brown. For some reason she found that Allan Harrington's attitude of absolute detachment made the whole affair seem much easier for her. And when Mrs. Harrington slipped a solitaire diamond into her hand as she went, instead of disliking it she enjoyed its feel on her finger, and the flash of it in the light. She thanked Mrs. Harrington for it with real gratitude. But it made her feel more than ever engaged to marry her mother-in-law. She walked home rather silently with Mrs. De Guenther. Only at the foot of the De Guenther steps, she made one absent remark. "He must have been delightful," she said, "when he was alive!" VI After a week of the old bustling, dusty hard work, the Liberry Teacher's visit to the De Guenthers' and the subsequent one at the Harringtons', and even her sparkling white ring, seemed part of a queer story she had finished and put back on the shelf. The ring was the most real thing, because it was something of a worry. She didn't dare leave it at home, nor did she want to wear it. She finally sewed it in a chamois bag that she safety-pinned under her shirt-waist. Then she dismissed it from her mind also. There is very little time in a Liberry Teacher's life for meditation. Only once in a while would come to her the vision of the wistful Harrington wolfhound following his inadequate patch of sunlight, or of the dusky room where Allan Harrington lay inert and white, and looking like a wonderful carved statue on a tomb. She began to do a little to her clothes, but not very much, because she had neither time nor money. Mr. De Guenther had wanted her to take some money in advance, but she had refused. She did not want it till she had earned it, and, anyway, it would have made the whole thing so real, she knew, that she would have backed out. "And it isn't as if I were going to a lover," she defended herself to Mrs. De Guenther with a little wistful smile. "Nobody will know what I have on, any more than they do now." Mrs. De Guenther gave a scandalized little cry. Her attitude was determinedly that it was just an ordinary marriage, as good an excuse for sentiment and pretty frocks as any other. "My dear child," she replied firmly, "you are going to have one pretty frock and one really good street-suit _now_, or I will know why! The rest you may get yourself after the wedding, but you must obey me in this. Nonsense!--you can get a half-day, as you call it, perfectly well! What's Albert in politics for, if he can't get favors for his friends!" And, in effect, it proved that Albert was in politics to some purpose, for orders came up from the Head's office within twenty minutes after Mrs. De Guenther had used the telephone on her husband, that Miss Braithwaite was to have a half-day immediately--as far as she could make out, in order to transact city affairs! She felt as if the angels had told her she could have the last fortnight over again, as a favor, or something of the sort. A half-day out of turn was something nobody had ever heard of. She was even too surprised to object to the frock part of the situation. She tried to stand out a little longer, but it's a very stoical young woman who can refuse to have pretty clothes bought for her, and the end of it was a seat in a salon which she had always considered so expensive that you scarcely ought to look in the window. "Had it better be a black suit?" asked Mrs. De Guenther doubtfully, as the tall lady in floppy charmeuse hovered haughtily about them, expecting orders. "It seems horrible to buy mourning when dear Angela is not yet passed away, but it would only be showing proper respect; and I remember my own dear mother planned all our mourning outfits while she was dying. It was quite a pleasure to her." Phyllis kept her face straight, and slipped one persuasive hand through her friend's arm. "I don't believe I _could_ buy mourning, dear," she said. "And--oh, if you knew how long I'd wanted a really _blue_ blue suit! Only, it would have been too vivid to wear well--I always knew that--because you can only afford one every other year. And"--Phyllis rather diffidently voiced a thought which had been in the back of her mind for a long time--"if I'm going to be much around Mr. Harrington, don't you think cheerful clothes would be best? Everything in that house seems sombre enough now." "Perhaps you are right, dear child," said Mrs. De Guenther. "I hope you may be the means of putting a great deal of brightness into poor Allan's life before he joins his mother." "Oh, don't!" cried Phyllis impulsively. Somehow she could not bear to think of Allan Harrington's dying. He was too beautiful to be dead, where nobody could see him any more. Besides, Phyllis privately considered that a long vacation before he joined his mother would be only the fair thing for "poor Allan." Youth sides with youth. And--the clear-cut white lines of him rose in her memory and stayed there. She could almost hear that poor, tired, toneless voice of his, that was yet so deep and so perfectly accented.... She bought docilely whatever her guide directed, and woke from a species of gentle daze at the afternoon's end to find Mrs. De Guenther beaming with the weary rapture of the successful shopper, and herself the proprietress of a turquoise velvet walking-suit, a hat to match, a pale blue evening frock, a pale green between-dress with lovely clinging lines, and a heavenly white crepe thing with rosy ribbons and filmy shadow-laces--the negligee of one's dreams. There were also slippers and shoes and stockings and--this was really too bad of Mrs. De Guenther--a half-dozen set of lingerie, straight through. Mrs. De Guenther sat and continued to beam joyously over the array, in Phyllis's little bedroom. "It's my present, dearie," she said calmly. "So you needn't worry about using Angela's money. Gracious, it's been _lovely_! I haven't had such a good time since my husband's little grand-niece came on for a week. There's nothing like dressing a girl, after all." And Phyllis could only kiss her. But when her guest had gone she laid all the boxes of finery under her bed, the only place where there was any room. She would not take any of it out, she determined, till her summons came. But on second thought, she wore the blue velvet street-suit on Sunday visits to Mrs. Harrington, which became--she never knew just when or how--a regular thing. The vivid blue made her eyes nearly sky-color, and brightened her hair very satisfactorily. She was taking more time and trouble over her looks now--one has to live up to a turquoise velvet hat and coat! She found herself, too, becoming very genuinely fond of the restless, anxiously loving, passionate, unwise child who dwelt in Mrs. Harrington's frail elderly body and had almost worn it out. She sat, long hours of every Sunday afternoon, holding Mrs. Harrington's thin little hot hands, and listening to her swift, italicised monologues about Allan--what he must do, what he must not do, how he must be looked after, how his mother had treated him, how his wishes must be ascertained and followed. "Though all he wants now is dark and quiet," said his mother piteously. "I don't even go in there now to cry." She spoke as if it were an established ritual. Had she been using her son's sick-room, Phyllis wondered, as a regular weeping-place? She could feel in Mrs. Harrington, even in this mortal sickness, the tremendous driving influence which is often part of a passionately active and not very wise personality. That certitude and insistence of Mrs. Harrington's could hammer you finally into believing or doing almost anything. Phyllis wondered how much his mother's heartbroken adoration and pity might have had to do with making her son as hopeless-minded as he was. Naturally, the mother-in-law-elect she had acquired in such a strange way became very fond of Phyllis. But indeed there was something very gay and sweet and honest-minded about the girl, a something which gave people the feeling that they were very wise in liking her. Some people you are fond of against your will. When people cared for Phyllis it was with a quite irrational feeling that they were doing a sensible thing. They never gave any of the credit to her very real, though almost invisible, charm. She never saw Allan Harrington on any of the Sunday visits. She was sure the servants thought she did, for she knew that every one in the great, dark old house knew her as the young lady who was to marry Mr. Allan. She believed that she was supposed to be an old family friend, perhaps a distant relative. She did not want to see Allan. But she did want to be as good to his little, tensely-loving mother as she could, and reassure her about Allan's future care. And she succeeded. It was on a Friday about two that the summons came. Phyllis had thought she expected it, but when the call came to her over the library telephone she found herself as badly frightened as she had been the first time she went to the Harrington house. She shivered as she laid down the dater she was using, and called the other librarian to take her desk. Fortunately, between one and four the morning and evening shifts overlapped, and there was some one to take her place. "Mrs. Harrington cannot last out the night," came Mr. De Guenther's clear, precise voice over the telephone, without preface. "I have arranged with Mr. Johnston. You can go at once. You had better pack a suit-case, for you possibly may not be able to get back to your boarding-place." So it was to happen now! Phyllis felt, with her substitute in her place, her own wraps on, and her feet taking her swiftly towards her goal, as if she were offering herself to be made a nun, or have a hand or foot cut off, or paying herself away in some awful, irrevocable fashion. She packed, mechanically, all the pretty things Mrs. De Guenther had given her, and nothing else. She found herself at the door of her room with the locked suit-case in her hand, and not even a nail-file of the things belonging to her old self in it. She shook herself together, managed to laugh a little, and returned and put in such things as she thought she would require for the night. Then she went. She always remembered that journey as long as she lived; her hands and feet and tongue going on, buying tickets, giving directions--and her mind, like a naughty child, catching at everything as they went, and screaming to be allowed to go back home, back to the dusty, matter-of-course library and the dreary little boarding-house bedroom! VII They were all waiting for her, in what felt like a hideously quiet semicircle, in Allan's great dark room. Mrs. Harrington, deadly pale, and giving an impression of keeping herself alive only by force of that wonderful fighting vitality of hers, lay almost at length in her wheel-chair. There was a clergyman in vestments. There were the De Guenthers; Mr. De Guenther only a little more precise than his every-day habit was, Mrs. De Guenther crying a little, softly and furtively. As for Allan Harrington, he lay just as she had seen him that other time, white and moveless, seeming scarcely conscious except by an effort. Only she noticed a slight contraction, as of pain, between his brows. "Phyllis has come," panted Mrs. Harrington. "Now it will be--all right. You must marry him quickly--quickly, do you hear, Phyllis? Oh, people never will--do--what I want them to----" "Yes--yes, indeed, dear," said Phyllis, taking her hands soothingly. "We're going to attend to it right away. See, everything is ready." It occurred to her that Mrs. Harrington was not half as correct in her playing of the part of a dying woman as she would have seen to it that anyone else was; also, that things did not seem legal without the wolfhound. Then she was shocked at herself for such irrelevant thoughts. The thing to do was to keep poor Mrs. Harrington quieted. So she beckoned the clergyman and the De Guenthers nearer, and herself sped the marrying of herself to Allan Harrington. ... When you are being married to a Crusader on a tomb, the easiest way is to kneel down by him. Phyllis registered this fact in her mind quite blankly, as something which might be of use to remember in future.... The marrying took an unnecessarily long time, it seemed to her. It did not seem as if she were being married at all. It all seemed to concern somebody else. When it came to the putting on of the wedding-ring, she found herself, very naturally, guiding Allan's relaxed fingers to hold it in its successive places, and finally slip it on the wedding-finger. And somehow having to do that checked the chilly awe she had had before of Allan Harrington. It made her feel quite simply sorry for him, as if he were one of her poor little boys in trouble. And when it was all over she bent pitifully before she thought, and kissed one white, cold cheek. He seemed so tragically helpless, yet more alive, in some way, since she had touched his hand to guide it. Then, as her lips brushed his cheek, she recoiled and colored a little. She had felt that slight roughness which a man's cheek, however close-shaven, always has--the _man_-feel. It made her realize unreasonably that it was a man she had married, after all, not a stone image nor a sick child--a live man! With the thought, or rather instinct, came a swift terror of what she had done, and a swift impulse to rise. She was half-way risen from her knees when a hand on her shoulder, and the clergyman's voice in her ear, checked her. "Not yet," he murmured almost inaudibly. "Stay as you are till--till Mrs. Harrington is wheeled from the room." Phyllis understood. She remained as she was, her body a shield before Allan Harrington's eyes, her hand just withdrawing from his shoulder, till she heard the closing of the door, and a sigh as of relaxed tension from the three people around her. Then she rose. Allan lay still with closed eyelids. It seemed to her that he had flushed, if ever so faintly, at the touch of her lips on his cheek. She laid his hand on the coverlet with her own roughened, ringed one, and followed the others out, into the room where the dead woman had been taken, leaving him with his attendant. The rest of the evening Phyllis went about in a queer-keyed, almost light-hearted frame of mind. It was only the reaction from the long-expected terror that was over now, but it felt indecorous. It was just as well, however. Some one's head had to be kept. The servants were upset, of course, and there were many arrangements to be made. She and Mr. De Guenther worked steadily together, telephoning, ordering, guiding, straightening out all the tangles. There never was a wedding, she thought, where the bride did so much of the work! She even remembered to see personally that Allan's dinner was sent up to him. The servants had doubtless been told to come to her for orders--at any rate, they did. Phyllis had not had much experience in running a house, but a good deal in keeping her head. And that, after all, is the main thing. She had a far-off feeling as if she were hearing some other young woman giving swift, poised, executive orders. She rather admired her. After dinner the De Guenthers went. And Phyllis Braithwaite, the little Liberry Teacher who had been living in a hall bedroom on much less money than she needed, found herself alone, sole mistress of the great Harrington house, a corps of servants, a husband passive enough to satisfy the most militant suffragette, a check-book, a wistful wolfhound, and five hundred dollars, cash, for current expenses. The last weighed on her mind more than all the rest put together. "Why, I don't know how to make Current Expenses out of all that!" she had said to Mr. De Guenther. "It looks to me exactly like about ten months' salary! I'm perfectly certain I shall get up in my sleep and try to pay my board ahead with it, so I shan't have it all spent before the ten months are up! There was a blue bead necklace," she went on meditatively, "in the Five-and-Ten, that I always wanted to buy. Only I never quite felt I could afford it. Oh, just imagine going to the Five-and-Ten and buying at least five dollars' worth of things you didn't need!" "You have great discretionary powers--great discretionary powers, my dear, you will find!" Mr. De Guenther had said, as he patted her shoulder. Phyllis took it as a compliment at the time. "Discretionary powers" sounded as if he thought she was a quite intelligent young person. It did not occur to her till he had gone, and she was alone with her check-book, that it meant she had a good deal of liberty to do as she liked. It seemed to be expected of her to stay. Nobody even suggested a possibility of her going home again, even to pack her trunk. Mrs. De Guenther casually volunteered to do that, a little after the housekeeper had told her where her rooms were. She had been consulting with the housekeeper for what seemed ages, when she happened to want some pins for something, and asked for her suit-case. "It's in your rooms," said the housekeeper. "Mrs. Harrington--the late Mrs. Harrington, I should say----" Phyllis stopped listening at this point. Who was the present Mrs. Harrington? she wondered before she thought--and then remembered. Why--_she_ was! So there was no Phyllis Braithwaite any more! Of course not.... Yet she had always liked the name so--well, a last name was a small thing to give up.... Into her mind fitted an incongruous, silly story she had heard once at the library, about a girl whose last name was Rose, and whose parents christened her Wild, because the combination appealed to them. And then she married a man named Bull.... Meanwhile the housekeeper had been going on. ... "She had the bedroom and bath opening from the other side of Mr. Allan's day-room ready for you, madam. It's been ready several weeks." "Has it?" said Phyllis. It was like Mrs. Harrington, that careful planning of even where she should be put. "Is Mr. Harrington in his day-room now?" For some reason she did not attempt to give herself, she did not want to see him again just now. Besides, it was nearly eleven and time a very tired girl was in bed. She wanted a good night's rest, before she had to get up and be Mrs. Harrington, with Allan and the check-book and the Current Expenses all tied to her. Some one had laid everything out for her in the bedroom; the filmy new nightgown over a chair, the blue satin mules underneath, her plain toilet-things on a dressing-table, and over another chair the exquisite ivory crepe negligee with its floating rose ribbons. She took a hasty bath--there was so much hot water that she was quite reconciled for a moment to being a check-booked and wolf hounded Mrs. Harrington--and slid straight into bed without even stopping to braid her loosened, honey-colored hair. It seemed to her that she was barely asleep when there came an urgent knocking at her door. "Yes?" she said sleepily, looking mechanically for her alarm-clock as she switched on the light. "What is it, please?" "It's I, Wallis, Mr. Allan's man, Madame," said a nervous voice. "Mr. Allan's very bad. I've done all the usual things, but nothing seems to quiet him. He hates doctors so, and they make him so wrought up--please could you come, ma'am? He says as how all of us are all dead--oh, _please_, Mrs. Harrington!" There was panic in the man's voice. "All right," said Phyllis sleepily, dropping to the floor as she spoke with the rapidity that only the alarm-clock-broken know. She snatched the negligee around her, and thrust her feet hastily into the blue satin slippers--why, she was actually using her wedding finery! And what an easily upset person that man was! But everybody in the house seemed to have nerves on edge. It was no wonder about Allan--he wanted his mother, of course, poor boy! She felt, as she ran fleetly across the long room that separated her sleeping quarters from her husband's, the same mixture of pity and timidity that she had felt with him before. Poor boy! Poor, silent, beautiful statue, with his one friend gone! She opened the door and entered swiftly into his room. She was not thinking about herself at all, only of how she could help Allan, but there must have been something about her of the picture-book angel to the pain-racked man, lying tensely at length in the room's darkest corner. Her long, dully gold hair, loosening from its twist, flew out about her, and her face was still flushed with sleep. There was a something about her that was vividly alight and alive, perhaps the light in her blue eyes. From what the man had said Phyllis had thought Allan was delirious, but she saw at once that he was only in severe pain, and talking more disconnectedly, perhaps, than the slow-minded Englishman could follow. He did not look like a statue now. His cheeks were burning with evident pain, and his yellow-brown eyes, wide-open, and dilated to darkness, stared straight out. His hands were clenching and unclenching, and his head moved restlessly from side to side. Every nerve and muscle, she could see, was taut. "They're all dead," he muttered. "Father and Mother and Louise--and I--only I'm not dead enough to bury. Oh, God, I wish I was!" That wasn't delirium; it was something more like heart-break. Phyllis moved closer to him, and dropped one of her sleep-warm hands on his cold, clenched one. "Oh, poor boy!" she said. "I'm so sorry--so sorry!" She closed her hands tight over both his. Some of her strong young vitality must have passed between them and helped him, for almost immediately his tenseness relaxed a little, and he looked at her. "You--you're not a nurse," he said. "They go around--like--like a--vault----" She had caught his attention! That was a good deal, she felt. She forgot everything about him, except that he was some one to be comforted, and her charge. She sat down on the bed by him, still holding tight to his hands. "No, indeed," she said, bending nearer him, her long loose hair falling forward about her resolutely-smiling young face. "Don't you remember seeing me? I never was a nurse." "What--are you?" he asked feebly. "I'm--why, the children call me the Liberry Teacher," she answered. It occurred to her that it would be better to talk on brightly at random than to risk speaking of his mother to him, as she must if she reminded him of their marriage. "I spend my days in a basement, making bad little boys get so interested in the Higher Culture that they'll forget to shoot crap and smash windows." One of the things which had aided Phyllis to rise from desk-assistant to one of the Children's Room librarians was a very sweet and carrying voice--a voice which arrested even a child's attention,

trustworthy

How many times the word 'trustworthy' appears in the text?

with him--do you think you could do that? But I always cry so before I'm through--I cry and cry--my poor, helpless boy--he was so strong and bright! And you are sure you are conscientious----" At this point Phyllis stopped the flow of Mrs. Harrington's conversation firmly, if sweetly. "Yes, indeed," she said cheerfully. "But you know, if I'm not, Mr. De Guenther can stop all my allowance. It wouldn't be to my own interest not to fulfil my duties faithfully." "Yes, that is true," said Mrs. Harrington. "That was a good thought of mine. My husband always said I was an unusual woman where business was concerned." So they went on the principle that she had no honor beyond working for what she would get out of it! Although she had made the suggestion herself, Phyllis's cheeks burned, and she was about to answer sharply. Then somehow the poor, anxious, loving mother's absolute preoccupation with her son struck her as right after all. "If it were my son," thought Phyllis, "I wouldn't worry about any strange hired girl's feelings either, maybe. I'd just think about him.... I promise I'll look after Mr. Harrington's welfare as if he were my own brother!" she ended aloud impulsively. "Indeed, you may trust me." "I am--sure you will," panted Mrs. Harrington. "You look like--a good girl, and--and old enough to be responsible--twenty-eight--thirty?" "Not very far from that," said Phyllis serenely. "And you are sure you will know when the attendants are neglectful? I speak to them all the time, but I never can be sure.... And now you'd better see poor Allan. This is one of his good days. Just think, dear Isabel, he spoke to me twice without my speaking to him this morning!" "Oh--must I?" asked Phyllis, dismayed. "Couldn't I wait till--till it happens?" Mrs. Harrington actually laughed a little at her shyness, lighting up like a girl. Phyllis felt dimly, though she tried not to, that through it all her mother-in-law-elect was taking pleasure in the dramatic side of the situation she had engineered. "Oh, my dear, you must see him. He expects you," she answered almost gayly. The procession of three moved down the long room towards a door, Phyllis's hand guiding the wheel-chair. She was surprised to find herself shaking with fright. Just what she expected to find beyond the door she did not know, but it must have been some horror, for it was with a heart-bound of wild relief that she finally made out Allan Harrington, lying white in the darkened place. A Crusader on a tomb. Yes, he looked like that. In the room's half-dusk the pallor of his still, clear-featured face and his long, clear-cut hands was nearly the same as the whiteness of the couch-draperies. His hair, yellow-brown and waving, flung back from his forehead like a crest, and his dark brows and lashes made the only note of darkness about him. To Phyllis's beauty-loving eyes he seemed so perfect an image that she could have watched him for hours. "Here's Miss Braithwaite, my poor darling," said his mother. "The young lady we have been talking about so long." The Crusader lifted his eyelids and let them fall again. "Is she?" he said listlessly. "Don't you want to talk to her, darling boy?" his mother persisted, half out of breath, but still full of that unrebuffable, loving energy and insistence which she would probably keep to the last minute of her life. "No," said the Crusader, still in those empty, listless tones. "I'd rather not talk. I'm tired." His mother seemed not at all put out. "Of course, darling," she said, kissing him. She sat by him still, however, and poured out sentence after sentence of question, insistence, imploration, and pity, eliciting no answer at all. Phyllis wondered how it would feel to have to lie still and have that done to you for a term of years. The result of her wonderment was a decision to forgive her unenthusiastic future bridegroom for what she had at first been ready to slap him. Presently Mrs. Harrington's breath flagged, and the three women went away, back to the room they had been in before. Phyllis sat and let herself be talked to for a little longer. Then she rose impulsively. "May I go back and see your son again for just a minute?" she asked, and had gone before Mrs. Harrington had finished her permission. She darted into the dark room before her courage had time to fail, and stood by the white couch again. "Mr. Harrington," she said clearly, "I'm sorry you're tired, but I'm afraid I am going to have to ask you to listen to me. You know, don't you, that your mother plans to have me marry you, for a sort of interested head-nurse? Are you willing to have it happen? Because I won't do it unless you really prefer it." The heavy white lids half-lifted again. "I don't mind," said Allan Harrington listlessly. "I suppose you are quiet and trustworthy, or De Guenther wouldn't have sent you. It will give mother a little peace and it makes no difference to me." He closed his eyes and the subject at the same time. "Well, then, that's all right," said Phyllis cheerfully, and started to go. Then, drawn back by a sudden, nervous temper-impulse, she moved back on him. "And let me tell you," she added, half-laughing, half-impertinently, "that if you ever get into my quiet, trustworthy clutches you may have an awful time! You're a very spoiled invalid." She whisked out of the room before he could have gone very far with his reply. But he had not cared to reply, apparently. He lay unmoved and unmoving. Phyllis discovered, poising breathless on the threshold, that somehow she had seen his eyes. They had been a little like the wolfhound's, a sort of wistful gold-brown. For some reason she found that Allan Harrington's attitude of absolute detachment made the whole affair seem much easier for her. And when Mrs. Harrington slipped a solitaire diamond into her hand as she went, instead of disliking it she enjoyed its feel on her finger, and the flash of it in the light. She thanked Mrs. Harrington for it with real gratitude. But it made her feel more than ever engaged to marry her mother-in-law. She walked home rather silently with Mrs. De Guenther. Only at the foot of the De Guenther steps, she made one absent remark. "He must have been delightful," she said, "when he was alive!" VI After a week of the old bustling, dusty hard work, the Liberry Teacher's visit to the De Guenthers' and the subsequent one at the Harringtons', and even her sparkling white ring, seemed part of a queer story she had finished and put back on the shelf. The ring was the most real thing, because it was something of a worry. She didn't dare leave it at home, nor did she want to wear it. She finally sewed it in a chamois bag that she safety-pinned under her shirt-waist. Then she dismissed it from her mind also. There is very little time in a Liberry Teacher's life for meditation. Only once in a while would come to her the vision of the wistful Harrington wolfhound following his inadequate patch of sunlight, or of the dusky room where Allan Harrington lay inert and white, and looking like a wonderful carved statue on a tomb. She began to do a little to her clothes, but not very much, because she had neither time nor money. Mr. De Guenther had wanted her to take some money in advance, but she had refused. She did not want it till she had earned it, and, anyway, it would have made the whole thing so real, she knew, that she would have backed out. "And it isn't as if I were going to a lover," she defended herself to Mrs. De Guenther with a little wistful smile. "Nobody will know what I have on, any more than they do now." Mrs. De Guenther gave a scandalized little cry. Her attitude was determinedly that it was just an ordinary marriage, as good an excuse for sentiment and pretty frocks as any other. "My dear child," she replied firmly, "you are going to have one pretty frock and one really good street-suit _now_, or I will know why! The rest you may get yourself after the wedding, but you must obey me in this. Nonsense!--you can get a half-day, as you call it, perfectly well! What's Albert in politics for, if he can't get favors for his friends!" And, in effect, it proved that Albert was in politics to some purpose, for orders came up from the Head's office within twenty minutes after Mrs. De Guenther had used the telephone on her husband, that Miss Braithwaite was to have a half-day immediately--as far as she could make out, in order to transact city affairs! She felt as if the angels had told her she could have the last fortnight over again, as a favor, or something of the sort. A half-day out of turn was something nobody had ever heard of. She was even too surprised to object to the frock part of the situation. She tried to stand out a little longer, but it's a very stoical young woman who can refuse to have pretty clothes bought for her, and the end of it was a seat in a salon which she had always considered so expensive that you scarcely ought to look in the window. "Had it better be a black suit?" asked Mrs. De Guenther doubtfully, as the tall lady in floppy charmeuse hovered haughtily about them, expecting orders. "It seems horrible to buy mourning when dear Angela is not yet passed away, but it would only be showing proper respect; and I remember my own dear mother planned all our mourning outfits while she was dying. It was quite a pleasure to her." Phyllis kept her face straight, and slipped one persuasive hand through her friend's arm. "I don't believe I _could_ buy mourning, dear," she said. "And--oh, if you knew how long I'd wanted a really _blue_ blue suit! Only, it would have been too vivid to wear well--I always knew that--because you can only afford one every other year. And"--Phyllis rather diffidently voiced a thought which had been in the back of her mind for a long time--"if I'm going to be much around Mr. Harrington, don't you think cheerful clothes would be best? Everything in that house seems sombre enough now." "Perhaps you are right, dear child," said Mrs. De Guenther. "I hope you may be the means of putting a great deal of brightness into poor Allan's life before he joins his mother." "Oh, don't!" cried Phyllis impulsively. Somehow she could not bear to think of Allan Harrington's dying. He was too beautiful to be dead, where nobody could see him any more. Besides, Phyllis privately considered that a long vacation before he joined his mother would be only the fair thing for "poor Allan." Youth sides with youth. And--the clear-cut white lines of him rose in her memory and stayed there. She could almost hear that poor, tired, toneless voice of his, that was yet so deep and so perfectly accented.... She bought docilely whatever her guide directed, and woke from a species of gentle daze at the afternoon's end to find Mrs. De Guenther beaming with the weary rapture of the successful shopper, and herself the proprietress of a turquoise velvet walking-suit, a hat to match, a pale blue evening frock, a pale green between-dress with lovely clinging lines, and a heavenly white crepe thing with rosy ribbons and filmy shadow-laces--the negligee of one's dreams. There were also slippers and shoes and stockings and--this was really too bad of Mrs. De Guenther--a half-dozen set of lingerie, straight through. Mrs. De Guenther sat and continued to beam joyously over the array, in Phyllis's little bedroom. "It's my present, dearie," she said calmly. "So you needn't worry about using Angela's money. Gracious, it's been _lovely_! I haven't had such a good time since my husband's little grand-niece came on for a week. There's nothing like dressing a girl, after all." And Phyllis could only kiss her. But when her guest had gone she laid all the boxes of finery under her bed, the only place where there was any room. She would not take any of it out, she determined, till her summons came. But on second thought, she wore the blue velvet street-suit on Sunday visits to Mrs. Harrington, which became--she never knew just when or how--a regular thing. The vivid blue made her eyes nearly sky-color, and brightened her hair very satisfactorily. She was taking more time and trouble over her looks now--one has to live up to a turquoise velvet hat and coat! She found herself, too, becoming very genuinely fond of the restless, anxiously loving, passionate, unwise child who dwelt in Mrs. Harrington's frail elderly body and had almost worn it out. She sat, long hours of every Sunday afternoon, holding Mrs. Harrington's thin little hot hands, and listening to her swift, italicised monologues about Allan--what he must do, what he must not do, how he must be looked after, how his mother had treated him, how his wishes must be ascertained and followed. "Though all he wants now is dark and quiet," said his mother piteously. "I don't even go in there now to cry." She spoke as if it were an established ritual. Had she been using her son's sick-room, Phyllis wondered, as a regular weeping-place? She could feel in Mrs. Harrington, even in this mortal sickness, the tremendous driving influence which is often part of a passionately active and not very wise personality. That certitude and insistence of Mrs. Harrington's could hammer you finally into believing or doing almost anything. Phyllis wondered how much his mother's heartbroken adoration and pity might have had to do with making her son as hopeless-minded as he was. Naturally, the mother-in-law-elect she had acquired in such a strange way became very fond of Phyllis. But indeed there was something very gay and sweet and honest-minded about the girl, a something which gave people the feeling that they were very wise in liking her. Some people you are fond of against your will. When people cared for Phyllis it was with a quite irrational feeling that they were doing a sensible thing. They never gave any of the credit to her very real, though almost invisible, charm. She never saw Allan Harrington on any of the Sunday visits. She was sure the servants thought she did, for she knew that every one in the great, dark old house knew her as the young lady who was to marry Mr. Allan. She believed that she was supposed to be an old family friend, perhaps a distant relative. She did not want to see Allan. But she did want to be as good to his little, tensely-loving mother as she could, and reassure her about Allan's future care. And she succeeded. It was on a Friday about two that the summons came. Phyllis had thought she expected it, but when the call came to her over the library telephone she found herself as badly frightened as she had been the first time she went to the Harrington house. She shivered as she laid down the dater she was using, and called the other librarian to take her desk. Fortunately, between one and four the morning and evening shifts overlapped, and there was some one to take her place. "Mrs. Harrington cannot last out the night," came Mr. De Guenther's clear, precise voice over the telephone, without preface. "I have arranged with Mr. Johnston. You can go at once. You had better pack a suit-case, for you possibly may not be able to get back to your boarding-place." So it was to happen now! Phyllis felt, with her substitute in her place, her own wraps on, and her feet taking her swiftly towards her goal, as if she were offering herself to be made a nun, or have a hand or foot cut off, or paying herself away in some awful, irrevocable fashion. She packed, mechanically, all the pretty things Mrs. De Guenther had given her, and nothing else. She found herself at the door of her room with the locked suit-case in her hand, and not even a nail-file of the things belonging to her old self in it. She shook herself together, managed to laugh a little, and returned and put in such things as she thought she would require for the night. Then she went. She always remembered that journey as long as she lived; her hands and feet and tongue going on, buying tickets, giving directions--and her mind, like a naughty child, catching at everything as they went, and screaming to be allowed to go back home, back to the dusty, matter-of-course library and the dreary little boarding-house bedroom! VII They were all waiting for her, in what felt like a hideously quiet semicircle, in Allan's great dark room. Mrs. Harrington, deadly pale, and giving an impression of keeping herself alive only by force of that wonderful fighting vitality of hers, lay almost at length in her wheel-chair. There was a clergyman in vestments. There were the De Guenthers; Mr. De Guenther only a little more precise than his every-day habit was, Mrs. De Guenther crying a little, softly and furtively. As for Allan Harrington, he lay just as she had seen him that other time, white and moveless, seeming scarcely conscious except by an effort. Only she noticed a slight contraction, as of pain, between his brows. "Phyllis has come," panted Mrs. Harrington. "Now it will be--all right. You must marry him quickly--quickly, do you hear, Phyllis? Oh, people never will--do--what I want them to----" "Yes--yes, indeed, dear," said Phyllis, taking her hands soothingly. "We're going to attend to it right away. See, everything is ready." It occurred to her that Mrs. Harrington was not half as correct in her playing of the part of a dying woman as she would have seen to it that anyone else was; also, that things did not seem legal without the wolfhound. Then she was shocked at herself for such irrelevant thoughts. The thing to do was to keep poor Mrs. Harrington quieted. So she beckoned the clergyman and the De Guenthers nearer, and herself sped the marrying of herself to Allan Harrington. ... When you are being married to a Crusader on a tomb, the easiest way is to kneel down by him. Phyllis registered this fact in her mind quite blankly, as something which might be of use to remember in future.... The marrying took an unnecessarily long time, it seemed to her. It did not seem as if she were being married at all. It all seemed to concern somebody else. When it came to the putting on of the wedding-ring, she found herself, very naturally, guiding Allan's relaxed fingers to hold it in its successive places, and finally slip it on the wedding-finger. And somehow having to do that checked the chilly awe she had had before of Allan Harrington. It made her feel quite simply sorry for him, as if he were one of her poor little boys in trouble. And when it was all over she bent pitifully before she thought, and kissed one white, cold cheek. He seemed so tragically helpless, yet more alive, in some way, since she had touched his hand to guide it. Then, as her lips brushed his cheek, she recoiled and colored a little. She had felt that slight roughness which a man's cheek, however close-shaven, always has--the _man_-feel. It made her realize unreasonably that it was a man she had married, after all, not a stone image nor a sick child--a live man! With the thought, or rather instinct, came a swift terror of what she had done, and a swift impulse to rise. She was half-way risen from her knees when a hand on her shoulder, and the clergyman's voice in her ear, checked her. "Not yet," he murmured almost inaudibly. "Stay as you are till--till Mrs. Harrington is wheeled from the room." Phyllis understood. She remained as she was, her body a shield before Allan Harrington's eyes, her hand just withdrawing from his shoulder, till she heard the closing of the door, and a sigh as of relaxed tension from the three people around her. Then she rose. Allan lay still with closed eyelids. It seemed to her that he had flushed, if ever so faintly, at the touch of her lips on his cheek. She laid his hand on the coverlet with her own roughened, ringed one, and followed the others out, into the room where the dead woman had been taken, leaving him with his attendant. The rest of the evening Phyllis went about in a queer-keyed, almost light-hearted frame of mind. It was only the reaction from the long-expected terror that was over now, but it felt indecorous. It was just as well, however. Some one's head had to be kept. The servants were upset, of course, and there were many arrangements to be made. She and Mr. De Guenther worked steadily together, telephoning, ordering, guiding, straightening out all the tangles. There never was a wedding, she thought, where the bride did so much of the work! She even remembered to see personally that Allan's dinner was sent up to him. The servants had doubtless been told to come to her for orders--at any rate, they did. Phyllis had not had much experience in running a house, but a good deal in keeping her head. And that, after all, is the main thing. She had a far-off feeling as if she were hearing some other young woman giving swift, poised, executive orders. She rather admired her. After dinner the De Guenthers went. And Phyllis Braithwaite, the little Liberry Teacher who had been living in a hall bedroom on much less money than she needed, found herself alone, sole mistress of the great Harrington house, a corps of servants, a husband passive enough to satisfy the most militant suffragette, a check-book, a wistful wolfhound, and five hundred dollars, cash, for current expenses. The last weighed on her mind more than all the rest put together. "Why, I don't know how to make Current Expenses out of all that!" she had said to Mr. De Guenther. "It looks to me exactly like about ten months' salary! I'm perfectly certain I shall get up in my sleep and try to pay my board ahead with it, so I shan't have it all spent before the ten months are up! There was a blue bead necklace," she went on meditatively, "in the Five-and-Ten, that I always wanted to buy. Only I never quite felt I could afford it. Oh, just imagine going to the Five-and-Ten and buying at least five dollars' worth of things you didn't need!" "You have great discretionary powers--great discretionary powers, my dear, you will find!" Mr. De Guenther had said, as he patted her shoulder. Phyllis took it as a compliment at the time. "Discretionary powers" sounded as if he thought she was a quite intelligent young person. It did not occur to her till he had gone, and she was alone with her check-book, that it meant she had a good deal of liberty to do as she liked. It seemed to be expected of her to stay. Nobody even suggested a possibility of her going home again, even to pack her trunk. Mrs. De Guenther casually volunteered to do that, a little after the housekeeper had told her where her rooms were. She had been consulting with the housekeeper for what seemed ages, when she happened to want some pins for something, and asked for her suit-case. "It's in your rooms," said the housekeeper. "Mrs. Harrington--the late Mrs. Harrington, I should say----" Phyllis stopped listening at this point. Who was the present Mrs. Harrington? she wondered before she thought--and then remembered. Why--_she_ was! So there was no Phyllis Braithwaite any more! Of course not.... Yet she had always liked the name so--well, a last name was a small thing to give up.... Into her mind fitted an incongruous, silly story she had heard once at the library, about a girl whose last name was Rose, and whose parents christened her Wild, because the combination appealed to them. And then she married a man named Bull.... Meanwhile the housekeeper had been going on. ... "She had the bedroom and bath opening from the other side of Mr. Allan's day-room ready for you, madam. It's been ready several weeks." "Has it?" said Phyllis. It was like Mrs. Harrington, that careful planning of even where she should be put. "Is Mr. Harrington in his day-room now?" For some reason she did not attempt to give herself, she did not want to see him again just now. Besides, it was nearly eleven and time a very tired girl was in bed. She wanted a good night's rest, before she had to get up and be Mrs. Harrington, with Allan and the check-book and the Current Expenses all tied to her. Some one had laid everything out for her in the bedroom; the filmy new nightgown over a chair, the blue satin mules underneath, her plain toilet-things on a dressing-table, and over another chair the exquisite ivory crepe negligee with its floating rose ribbons. She took a hasty bath--there was so much hot water that she was quite reconciled for a moment to being a check-booked and wolf hounded Mrs. Harrington--and slid straight into bed without even stopping to braid her loosened, honey-colored hair. It seemed to her that she was barely asleep when there came an urgent knocking at her door. "Yes?" she said sleepily, looking mechanically for her alarm-clock as she switched on the light. "What is it, please?" "It's I, Wallis, Mr. Allan's man, Madame," said a nervous voice. "Mr. Allan's very bad. I've done all the usual things, but nothing seems to quiet him. He hates doctors so, and they make him so wrought up--please could you come, ma'am? He says as how all of us are all dead--oh, _please_, Mrs. Harrington!" There was panic in the man's voice. "All right," said Phyllis sleepily, dropping to the floor as she spoke with the rapidity that only the alarm-clock-broken know. She snatched the negligee around her, and thrust her feet hastily into the blue satin slippers--why, she was actually using her wedding finery! And what an easily upset person that man was! But everybody in the house seemed to have nerves on edge. It was no wonder about Allan--he wanted his mother, of course, poor boy! She felt, as she ran fleetly across the long room that separated her sleeping quarters from her husband's, the same mixture of pity and timidity that she had felt with him before. Poor boy! Poor, silent, beautiful statue, with his one friend gone! She opened the door and entered swiftly into his room. She was not thinking about herself at all, only of how she could help Allan, but there must have been something about her of the picture-book angel to the pain-racked man, lying tensely at length in the room's darkest corner. Her long, dully gold hair, loosening from its twist, flew out about her, and her face was still flushed with sleep. There was a something about her that was vividly alight and alive, perhaps the light in her blue eyes. From what the man had said Phyllis had thought Allan was delirious, but she saw at once that he was only in severe pain, and talking more disconnectedly, perhaps, than the slow-minded Englishman could follow. He did not look like a statue now. His cheeks were burning with evident pain, and his yellow-brown eyes, wide-open, and dilated to darkness, stared straight out. His hands were clenching and unclenching, and his head moved restlessly from side to side. Every nerve and muscle, she could see, was taut. "They're all dead," he muttered. "Father and Mother and Louise--and I--only I'm not dead enough to bury. Oh, God, I wish I was!" That wasn't delirium; it was something more like heart-break. Phyllis moved closer to him, and dropped one of her sleep-warm hands on his cold, clenched one. "Oh, poor boy!" she said. "I'm so sorry--so sorry!" She closed her hands tight over both his. Some of her strong young vitality must have passed between them and helped him, for almost immediately his tenseness relaxed a little, and he looked at her. "You--you're not a nurse," he said. "They go around--like--like a--vault----" She had caught his attention! That was a good deal, she felt. She forgot everything about him, except that he was some one to be comforted, and her charge. She sat down on the bed by him, still holding tight to his hands. "No, indeed," she said, bending nearer him, her long loose hair falling forward about her resolutely-smiling young face. "Don't you remember seeing me? I never was a nurse." "What--are you?" he asked feebly. "I'm--why, the children call me the Liberry Teacher," she answered. It occurred to her that it would be better to talk on brightly at random than to risk speaking of his mother to him, as she must if she reminded him of their marriage. "I spend my days in a basement, making bad little boys get so interested in the Higher Culture that they'll forget to shoot crap and smash windows." One of the things which had aided Phyllis to rise from desk-assistant to one of the Children's Room librarians was a very sweet and carrying voice--a voice which arrested even a child's attention,

parted

How many times the word 'parted' appears in the text?

with him--do you think you could do that? But I always cry so before I'm through--I cry and cry--my poor, helpless boy--he was so strong and bright! And you are sure you are conscientious----" At this point Phyllis stopped the flow of Mrs. Harrington's conversation firmly, if sweetly. "Yes, indeed," she said cheerfully. "But you know, if I'm not, Mr. De Guenther can stop all my allowance. It wouldn't be to my own interest not to fulfil my duties faithfully." "Yes, that is true," said Mrs. Harrington. "That was a good thought of mine. My husband always said I was an unusual woman where business was concerned." So they went on the principle that she had no honor beyond working for what she would get out of it! Although she had made the suggestion herself, Phyllis's cheeks burned, and she was about to answer sharply. Then somehow the poor, anxious, loving mother's absolute preoccupation with her son struck her as right after all. "If it were my son," thought Phyllis, "I wouldn't worry about any strange hired girl's feelings either, maybe. I'd just think about him.... I promise I'll look after Mr. Harrington's welfare as if he were my own brother!" she ended aloud impulsively. "Indeed, you may trust me." "I am--sure you will," panted Mrs. Harrington. "You look like--a good girl, and--and old enough to be responsible--twenty-eight--thirty?" "Not very far from that," said Phyllis serenely. "And you are sure you will know when the attendants are neglectful? I speak to them all the time, but I never can be sure.... And now you'd better see poor Allan. This is one of his good days. Just think, dear Isabel, he spoke to me twice without my speaking to him this morning!" "Oh--must I?" asked Phyllis, dismayed. "Couldn't I wait till--till it happens?" Mrs. Harrington actually laughed a little at her shyness, lighting up like a girl. Phyllis felt dimly, though she tried not to, that through it all her mother-in-law-elect was taking pleasure in the dramatic side of the situation she had engineered. "Oh, my dear, you must see him. He expects you," she answered almost gayly. The procession of three moved down the long room towards a door, Phyllis's hand guiding the wheel-chair. She was surprised to find herself shaking with fright. Just what she expected to find beyond the door she did not know, but it must have been some horror, for it was with a heart-bound of wild relief that she finally made out Allan Harrington, lying white in the darkened place. A Crusader on a tomb. Yes, he looked like that. In the room's half-dusk the pallor of his still, clear-featured face and his long, clear-cut hands was nearly the same as the whiteness of the couch-draperies. His hair, yellow-brown and waving, flung back from his forehead like a crest, and his dark brows and lashes made the only note of darkness about him. To Phyllis's beauty-loving eyes he seemed so perfect an image that she could have watched him for hours. "Here's Miss Braithwaite, my poor darling," said his mother. "The young lady we have been talking about so long." The Crusader lifted his eyelids and let them fall again. "Is she?" he said listlessly. "Don't you want to talk to her, darling boy?" his mother persisted, half out of breath, but still full of that unrebuffable, loving energy and insistence which she would probably keep to the last minute of her life. "No," said the Crusader, still in those empty, listless tones. "I'd rather not talk. I'm tired." His mother seemed not at all put out. "Of course, darling," she said, kissing him. She sat by him still, however, and poured out sentence after sentence of question, insistence, imploration, and pity, eliciting no answer at all. Phyllis wondered how it would feel to have to lie still and have that done to you for a term of years. The result of her wonderment was a decision to forgive her unenthusiastic future bridegroom for what she had at first been ready to slap him. Presently Mrs. Harrington's breath flagged, and the three women went away, back to the room they had been in before. Phyllis sat and let herself be talked to for a little longer. Then she rose impulsively. "May I go back and see your son again for just a minute?" she asked, and had gone before Mrs. Harrington had finished her permission. She darted into the dark room before her courage had time to fail, and stood by the white couch again. "Mr. Harrington," she said clearly, "I'm sorry you're tired, but I'm afraid I am going to have to ask you to listen to me. You know, don't you, that your mother plans to have me marry you, for a sort of interested head-nurse? Are you willing to have it happen? Because I won't do it unless you really prefer it." The heavy white lids half-lifted again. "I don't mind," said Allan Harrington listlessly. "I suppose you are quiet and trustworthy, or De Guenther wouldn't have sent you. It will give mother a little peace and it makes no difference to me." He closed his eyes and the subject at the same time. "Well, then, that's all right," said Phyllis cheerfully, and started to go. Then, drawn back by a sudden, nervous temper-impulse, she moved back on him. "And let me tell you," she added, half-laughing, half-impertinently, "that if you ever get into my quiet, trustworthy clutches you may have an awful time! You're a very spoiled invalid." She whisked out of the room before he could have gone very far with his reply. But he had not cared to reply, apparently. He lay unmoved and unmoving. Phyllis discovered, poising breathless on the threshold, that somehow she had seen his eyes. They had been a little like the wolfhound's, a sort of wistful gold-brown. For some reason she found that Allan Harrington's attitude of absolute detachment made the whole affair seem much easier for her. And when Mrs. Harrington slipped a solitaire diamond into her hand as she went, instead of disliking it she enjoyed its feel on her finger, and the flash of it in the light. She thanked Mrs. Harrington for it with real gratitude. But it made her feel more than ever engaged to marry her mother-in-law. She walked home rather silently with Mrs. De Guenther. Only at the foot of the De Guenther steps, she made one absent remark. "He must have been delightful," she said, "when he was alive!" VI After a week of the old bustling, dusty hard work, the Liberry Teacher's visit to the De Guenthers' and the subsequent one at the Harringtons', and even her sparkling white ring, seemed part of a queer story she had finished and put back on the shelf. The ring was the most real thing, because it was something of a worry. She didn't dare leave it at home, nor did she want to wear it. She finally sewed it in a chamois bag that she safety-pinned under her shirt-waist. Then she dismissed it from her mind also. There is very little time in a Liberry Teacher's life for meditation. Only once in a while would come to her the vision of the wistful Harrington wolfhound following his inadequate patch of sunlight, or of the dusky room where Allan Harrington lay inert and white, and looking like a wonderful carved statue on a tomb. She began to do a little to her clothes, but not very much, because she had neither time nor money. Mr. De Guenther had wanted her to take some money in advance, but she had refused. She did not want it till she had earned it, and, anyway, it would have made the whole thing so real, she knew, that she would have backed out. "And it isn't as if I were going to a lover," she defended herself to Mrs. De Guenther with a little wistful smile. "Nobody will know what I have on, any more than they do now." Mrs. De Guenther gave a scandalized little cry. Her attitude was determinedly that it was just an ordinary marriage, as good an excuse for sentiment and pretty frocks as any other. "My dear child," she replied firmly, "you are going to have one pretty frock and one really good street-suit _now_, or I will know why! The rest you may get yourself after the wedding, but you must obey me in this. Nonsense!--you can get a half-day, as you call it, perfectly well! What's Albert in politics for, if he can't get favors for his friends!" And, in effect, it proved that Albert was in politics to some purpose, for orders came up from the Head's office within twenty minutes after Mrs. De Guenther had used the telephone on her husband, that Miss Braithwaite was to have a half-day immediately--as far as she could make out, in order to transact city affairs! She felt as if the angels had told her she could have the last fortnight over again, as a favor, or something of the sort. A half-day out of turn was something nobody had ever heard of. She was even too surprised to object to the frock part of the situation. She tried to stand out a little longer, but it's a very stoical young woman who can refuse to have pretty clothes bought for her, and the end of it was a seat in a salon which she had always considered so expensive that you scarcely ought to look in the window. "Had it better be a black suit?" asked Mrs. De Guenther doubtfully, as the tall lady in floppy charmeuse hovered haughtily about them, expecting orders. "It seems horrible to buy mourning when dear Angela is not yet passed away, but it would only be showing proper respect; and I remember my own dear mother planned all our mourning outfits while she was dying. It was quite a pleasure to her." Phyllis kept her face straight, and slipped one persuasive hand through her friend's arm. "I don't believe I _could_ buy mourning, dear," she said. "And--oh, if you knew how long I'd wanted a really _blue_ blue suit! Only, it would have been too vivid to wear well--I always knew that--because you can only afford one every other year. And"--Phyllis rather diffidently voiced a thought which had been in the back of her mind for a long time--"if I'm going to be much around Mr. Harrington, don't you think cheerful clothes would be best? Everything in that house seems sombre enough now." "Perhaps you are right, dear child," said Mrs. De Guenther. "I hope you may be the means of putting a great deal of brightness into poor Allan's life before he joins his mother." "Oh, don't!" cried Phyllis impulsively. Somehow she could not bear to think of Allan Harrington's dying. He was too beautiful to be dead, where nobody could see him any more. Besides, Phyllis privately considered that a long vacation before he joined his mother would be only the fair thing for "poor Allan." Youth sides with youth. And--the clear-cut white lines of him rose in her memory and stayed there. She could almost hear that poor, tired, toneless voice of his, that was yet so deep and so perfectly accented.... She bought docilely whatever her guide directed, and woke from a species of gentle daze at the afternoon's end to find Mrs. De Guenther beaming with the weary rapture of the successful shopper, and herself the proprietress of a turquoise velvet walking-suit, a hat to match, a pale blue evening frock, a pale green between-dress with lovely clinging lines, and a heavenly white crepe thing with rosy ribbons and filmy shadow-laces--the negligee of one's dreams. There were also slippers and shoes and stockings and--this was really too bad of Mrs. De Guenther--a half-dozen set of lingerie, straight through. Mrs. De Guenther sat and continued to beam joyously over the array, in Phyllis's little bedroom. "It's my present, dearie," she said calmly. "So you needn't worry about using Angela's money. Gracious, it's been _lovely_! I haven't had such a good time since my husband's little grand-niece came on for a week. There's nothing like dressing a girl, after all." And Phyllis could only kiss her. But when her guest had gone she laid all the boxes of finery under her bed, the only place where there was any room. She would not take any of it out, she determined, till her summons came. But on second thought, she wore the blue velvet street-suit on Sunday visits to Mrs. Harrington, which became--she never knew just when or how--a regular thing. The vivid blue made her eyes nearly sky-color, and brightened her hair very satisfactorily. She was taking more time and trouble over her looks now--one has to live up to a turquoise velvet hat and coat! She found herself, too, becoming very genuinely fond of the restless, anxiously loving, passionate, unwise child who dwelt in Mrs. Harrington's frail elderly body and had almost worn it out. She sat, long hours of every Sunday afternoon, holding Mrs. Harrington's thin little hot hands, and listening to her swift, italicised monologues about Allan--what he must do, what he must not do, how he must be looked after, how his mother had treated him, how his wishes must be ascertained and followed. "Though all he wants now is dark and quiet," said his mother piteously. "I don't even go in there now to cry." She spoke as if it were an established ritual. Had she been using her son's sick-room, Phyllis wondered, as a regular weeping-place? She could feel in Mrs. Harrington, even in this mortal sickness, the tremendous driving influence which is often part of a passionately active and not very wise personality. That certitude and insistence of Mrs. Harrington's could hammer you finally into believing or doing almost anything. Phyllis wondered how much his mother's heartbroken adoration and pity might have had to do with making her son as hopeless-minded as he was. Naturally, the mother-in-law-elect she had acquired in such a strange way became very fond of Phyllis. But indeed there was something very gay and sweet and honest-minded about the girl, a something which gave people the feeling that they were very wise in liking her. Some people you are fond of against your will. When people cared for Phyllis it was with a quite irrational feeling that they were doing a sensible thing. They never gave any of the credit to her very real, though almost invisible, charm. She never saw Allan Harrington on any of the Sunday visits. She was sure the servants thought she did, for she knew that every one in the great, dark old house knew her as the young lady who was to marry Mr. Allan. She believed that she was supposed to be an old family friend, perhaps a distant relative. She did not want to see Allan. But she did want to be as good to his little, tensely-loving mother as she could, and reassure her about Allan's future care. And she succeeded. It was on a Friday about two that the summons came. Phyllis had thought she expected it, but when the call came to her over the library telephone she found herself as badly frightened as she had been the first time she went to the Harrington house. She shivered as she laid down the dater she was using, and called the other librarian to take her desk. Fortunately, between one and four the morning and evening shifts overlapped, and there was some one to take her place. "Mrs. Harrington cannot last out the night," came Mr. De Guenther's clear, precise voice over the telephone, without preface. "I have arranged with Mr. Johnston. You can go at once. You had better pack a suit-case, for you possibly may not be able to get back to your boarding-place." So it was to happen now! Phyllis felt, with her substitute in her place, her own wraps on, and her feet taking her swiftly towards her goal, as if she were offering herself to be made a nun, or have a hand or foot cut off, or paying herself away in some awful, irrevocable fashion. She packed, mechanically, all the pretty things Mrs. De Guenther had given her, and nothing else. She found herself at the door of her room with the locked suit-case in her hand, and not even a nail-file of the things belonging to her old self in it. She shook herself together, managed to laugh a little, and returned and put in such things as she thought she would require for the night. Then she went. She always remembered that journey as long as she lived; her hands and feet and tongue going on, buying tickets, giving directions--and her mind, like a naughty child, catching at everything as they went, and screaming to be allowed to go back home, back to the dusty, matter-of-course library and the dreary little boarding-house bedroom! VII They were all waiting for her, in what felt like a hideously quiet semicircle, in Allan's great dark room. Mrs. Harrington, deadly pale, and giving an impression of keeping herself alive only by force of that wonderful fighting vitality of hers, lay almost at length in her wheel-chair. There was a clergyman in vestments. There were the De Guenthers; Mr. De Guenther only a little more precise than his every-day habit was, Mrs. De Guenther crying a little, softly and furtively. As for Allan Harrington, he lay just as she had seen him that other time, white and moveless, seeming scarcely conscious except by an effort. Only she noticed a slight contraction, as of pain, between his brows. "Phyllis has come," panted Mrs. Harrington. "Now it will be--all right. You must marry him quickly--quickly, do you hear, Phyllis? Oh, people never will--do--what I want them to----" "Yes--yes, indeed, dear," said Phyllis, taking her hands soothingly. "We're going to attend to it right away. See, everything is ready." It occurred to her that Mrs. Harrington was not half as correct in her playing of the part of a dying woman as she would have seen to it that anyone else was; also, that things did not seem legal without the wolfhound. Then she was shocked at herself for such irrelevant thoughts. The thing to do was to keep poor Mrs. Harrington quieted. So she beckoned the clergyman and the De Guenthers nearer, and herself sped the marrying of herself to Allan Harrington. ... When you are being married to a Crusader on a tomb, the easiest way is to kneel down by him. Phyllis registered this fact in her mind quite blankly, as something which might be of use to remember in future.... The marrying took an unnecessarily long time, it seemed to her. It did not seem as if she were being married at all. It all seemed to concern somebody else. When it came to the putting on of the wedding-ring, she found herself, very naturally, guiding Allan's relaxed fingers to hold it in its successive places, and finally slip it on the wedding-finger. And somehow having to do that checked the chilly awe she had had before of Allan Harrington. It made her feel quite simply sorry for him, as if he were one of her poor little boys in trouble. And when it was all over she bent pitifully before she thought, and kissed one white, cold cheek. He seemed so tragically helpless, yet more alive, in some way, since she had touched his hand to guide it. Then, as her lips brushed his cheek, she recoiled and colored a little. She had felt that slight roughness which a man's cheek, however close-shaven, always has--the _man_-feel. It made her realize unreasonably that it was a man she had married, after all, not a stone image nor a sick child--a live man! With the thought, or rather instinct, came a swift terror of what she had done, and a swift impulse to rise. She was half-way risen from her knees when a hand on her shoulder, and the clergyman's voice in her ear, checked her. "Not yet," he murmured almost inaudibly. "Stay as you are till--till Mrs. Harrington is wheeled from the room." Phyllis understood. She remained as she was, her body a shield before Allan Harrington's eyes, her hand just withdrawing from his shoulder, till she heard the closing of the door, and a sigh as of relaxed tension from the three people around her. Then she rose. Allan lay still with closed eyelids. It seemed to her that he had flushed, if ever so faintly, at the touch of her lips on his cheek. She laid his hand on the coverlet with her own roughened, ringed one, and followed the others out, into the room where the dead woman had been taken, leaving him with his attendant. The rest of the evening Phyllis went about in a queer-keyed, almost light-hearted frame of mind. It was only the reaction from the long-expected terror that was over now, but it felt indecorous. It was just as well, however. Some one's head had to be kept. The servants were upset, of course, and there were many arrangements to be made. She and Mr. De Guenther worked steadily together, telephoning, ordering, guiding, straightening out all the tangles. There never was a wedding, she thought, where the bride did so much of the work! She even remembered to see personally that Allan's dinner was sent up to him. The servants had doubtless been told to come to her for orders--at any rate, they did. Phyllis had not had much experience in running a house, but a good deal in keeping her head. And that, after all, is the main thing. She had a far-off feeling as if she were hearing some other young woman giving swift, poised, executive orders. She rather admired her. After dinner the De Guenthers went. And Phyllis Braithwaite, the little Liberry Teacher who had been living in a hall bedroom on much less money than she needed, found herself alone, sole mistress of the great Harrington house, a corps of servants, a husband passive enough to satisfy the most militant suffragette, a check-book, a wistful wolfhound, and five hundred dollars, cash, for current expenses. The last weighed on her mind more than all the rest put together. "Why, I don't know how to make Current Expenses out of all that!" she had said to Mr. De Guenther. "It looks to me exactly like about ten months' salary! I'm perfectly certain I shall get up in my sleep and try to pay my board ahead with it, so I shan't have it all spent before the ten months are up! There was a blue bead necklace," she went on meditatively, "in the Five-and-Ten, that I always wanted to buy. Only I never quite felt I could afford it. Oh, just imagine going to the Five-and-Ten and buying at least five dollars' worth of things you didn't need!" "You have great discretionary powers--great discretionary powers, my dear, you will find!" Mr. De Guenther had said, as he patted her shoulder. Phyllis took it as a compliment at the time. "Discretionary powers" sounded as if he thought she was a quite intelligent young person. It did not occur to her till he had gone, and she was alone with her check-book, that it meant she had a good deal of liberty to do as she liked. It seemed to be expected of her to stay. Nobody even suggested a possibility of her going home again, even to pack her trunk. Mrs. De Guenther casually volunteered to do that, a little after the housekeeper had told her where her rooms were. She had been consulting with the housekeeper for what seemed ages, when she happened to want some pins for something, and asked for her suit-case. "It's in your rooms," said the housekeeper. "Mrs. Harrington--the late Mrs. Harrington, I should say----" Phyllis stopped listening at this point. Who was the present Mrs. Harrington? she wondered before she thought--and then remembered. Why--_she_ was! So there was no Phyllis Braithwaite any more! Of course not.... Yet she had always liked the name so--well, a last name was a small thing to give up.... Into her mind fitted an incongruous, silly story she had heard once at the library, about a girl whose last name was Rose, and whose parents christened her Wild, because the combination appealed to them. And then she married a man named Bull.... Meanwhile the housekeeper had been going on. ... "She had the bedroom and bath opening from the other side of Mr. Allan's day-room ready for you, madam. It's been ready several weeks." "Has it?" said Phyllis. It was like Mrs. Harrington, that careful planning of even where she should be put. "Is Mr. Harrington in his day-room now?" For some reason she did not attempt to give herself, she did not want to see him again just now. Besides, it was nearly eleven and time a very tired girl was in bed. She wanted a good night's rest, before she had to get up and be Mrs. Harrington, with Allan and the check-book and the Current Expenses all tied to her. Some one had laid everything out for her in the bedroom; the filmy new nightgown over a chair, the blue satin mules underneath, her plain toilet-things on a dressing-table, and over another chair the exquisite ivory crepe negligee with its floating rose ribbons. She took a hasty bath--there was so much hot water that she was quite reconciled for a moment to being a check-booked and wolf hounded Mrs. Harrington--and slid straight into bed without even stopping to braid her loosened, honey-colored hair. It seemed to her that she was barely asleep when there came an urgent knocking at her door. "Yes?" she said sleepily, looking mechanically for her alarm-clock as she switched on the light. "What is it, please?" "It's I, Wallis, Mr. Allan's man, Madame," said a nervous voice. "Mr. Allan's very bad. I've done all the usual things, but nothing seems to quiet him. He hates doctors so, and they make him so wrought up--please could you come, ma'am? He says as how all of us are all dead--oh, _please_, Mrs. Harrington!" There was panic in the man's voice. "All right," said Phyllis sleepily, dropping to the floor as she spoke with the rapidity that only the alarm-clock-broken know. She snatched the negligee around her, and thrust her feet hastily into the blue satin slippers--why, she was actually using her wedding finery! And what an easily upset person that man was! But everybody in the house seemed to have nerves on edge. It was no wonder about Allan--he wanted his mother, of course, poor boy! She felt, as she ran fleetly across the long room that separated her sleeping quarters from her husband's, the same mixture of pity and timidity that she had felt with him before. Poor boy! Poor, silent, beautiful statue, with his one friend gone! She opened the door and entered swiftly into his room. She was not thinking about herself at all, only of how she could help Allan, but there must have been something about her of the picture-book angel to the pain-racked man, lying tensely at length in the room's darkest corner. Her long, dully gold hair, loosening from its twist, flew out about her, and her face was still flushed with sleep. There was a something about her that was vividly alight and alive, perhaps the light in her blue eyes. From what the man had said Phyllis had thought Allan was delirious, but she saw at once that he was only in severe pain, and talking more disconnectedly, perhaps, than the slow-minded Englishman could follow. He did not look like a statue now. His cheeks were burning with evident pain, and his yellow-brown eyes, wide-open, and dilated to darkness, stared straight out. His hands were clenching and unclenching, and his head moved restlessly from side to side. Every nerve and muscle, she could see, was taut. "They're all dead," he muttered. "Father and Mother and Louise--and I--only I'm not dead enough to bury. Oh, God, I wish I was!" That wasn't delirium; it was something more like heart-break. Phyllis moved closer to him, and dropped one of her sleep-warm hands on his cold, clenched one. "Oh, poor boy!" she said. "I'm so sorry--so sorry!" She closed her hands tight over both his. Some of her strong young vitality must have passed between them and helped him, for almost immediately his tenseness relaxed a little, and he looked at her. "You--you're not a nurse," he said. "They go around--like--like a--vault----" She had caught his attention! That was a good deal, she felt. She forgot everything about him, except that he was some one to be comforted, and her charge. She sat down on the bed by him, still holding tight to his hands. "No, indeed," she said, bending nearer him, her long loose hair falling forward about her resolutely-smiling young face. "Don't you remember seeing me? I never was a nurse." "What--are you?" he asked feebly. "I'm--why, the children call me the Liberry Teacher," she answered. It occurred to her that it would be better to talk on brightly at random than to risk speaking of his mother to him, as she must if she reminded him of their marriage. "I spend my days in a basement, making bad little boys get so interested in the Higher Culture that they'll forget to shoot crap and smash windows." One of the things which had aided Phyllis to rise from desk-assistant to one of the Children's Room librarians was a very sweet and carrying voice--a voice which arrested even a child's attention,

me

How many times the word 'me' appears in the text?

with him--do you think you could do that? But I always cry so before I'm through--I cry and cry--my poor, helpless boy--he was so strong and bright! And you are sure you are conscientious----" At this point Phyllis stopped the flow of Mrs. Harrington's conversation firmly, if sweetly. "Yes, indeed," she said cheerfully. "But you know, if I'm not, Mr. De Guenther can stop all my allowance. It wouldn't be to my own interest not to fulfil my duties faithfully." "Yes, that is true," said Mrs. Harrington. "That was a good thought of mine. My husband always said I was an unusual woman where business was concerned." So they went on the principle that she had no honor beyond working for what she would get out of it! Although she had made the suggestion herself, Phyllis's cheeks burned, and she was about to answer sharply. Then somehow the poor, anxious, loving mother's absolute preoccupation with her son struck her as right after all. "If it were my son," thought Phyllis, "I wouldn't worry about any strange hired girl's feelings either, maybe. I'd just think about him.... I promise I'll look after Mr. Harrington's welfare as if he were my own brother!" she ended aloud impulsively. "Indeed, you may trust me." "I am--sure you will," panted Mrs. Harrington. "You look like--a good girl, and--and old enough to be responsible--twenty-eight--thirty?" "Not very far from that," said Phyllis serenely. "And you are sure you will know when the attendants are neglectful? I speak to them all the time, but I never can be sure.... And now you'd better see poor Allan. This is one of his good days. Just think, dear Isabel, he spoke to me twice without my speaking to him this morning!" "Oh--must I?" asked Phyllis, dismayed. "Couldn't I wait till--till it happens?" Mrs. Harrington actually laughed a little at her shyness, lighting up like a girl. Phyllis felt dimly, though she tried not to, that through it all her mother-in-law-elect was taking pleasure in the dramatic side of the situation she had engineered. "Oh, my dear, you must see him. He expects you," she answered almost gayly. The procession of three moved down the long room towards a door, Phyllis's hand guiding the wheel-chair. She was surprised to find herself shaking with fright. Just what she expected to find beyond the door she did not know, but it must have been some horror, for it was with a heart-bound of wild relief that she finally made out Allan Harrington, lying white in the darkened place. A Crusader on a tomb. Yes, he looked like that. In the room's half-dusk the pallor of his still, clear-featured face and his long, clear-cut hands was nearly the same as the whiteness of the couch-draperies. His hair, yellow-brown and waving, flung back from his forehead like a crest, and his dark brows and lashes made the only note of darkness about him. To Phyllis's beauty-loving eyes he seemed so perfect an image that she could have watched him for hours. "Here's Miss Braithwaite, my poor darling," said his mother. "The young lady we have been talking about so long." The Crusader lifted his eyelids and let them fall again. "Is she?" he said listlessly. "Don't you want to talk to her, darling boy?" his mother persisted, half out of breath, but still full of that unrebuffable, loving energy and insistence which she would probably keep to the last minute of her life. "No," said the Crusader, still in those empty, listless tones. "I'd rather not talk. I'm tired." His mother seemed not at all put out. "Of course, darling," she said, kissing him. She sat by him still, however, and poured out sentence after sentence of question, insistence, imploration, and pity, eliciting no answer at all. Phyllis wondered how it would feel to have to lie still and have that done to you for a term of years. The result of her wonderment was a decision to forgive her unenthusiastic future bridegroom for what she had at first been ready to slap him. Presently Mrs. Harrington's breath flagged, and the three women went away, back to the room they had been in before. Phyllis sat and let herself be talked to for a little longer. Then she rose impulsively. "May I go back and see your son again for just a minute?" she asked, and had gone before Mrs. Harrington had finished her permission. She darted into the dark room before her courage had time to fail, and stood by the white couch again. "Mr. Harrington," she said clearly, "I'm sorry you're tired, but I'm afraid I am going to have to ask you to listen to me. You know, don't you, that your mother plans to have me marry you, for a sort of interested head-nurse? Are you willing to have it happen? Because I won't do it unless you really prefer it." The heavy white lids half-lifted again. "I don't mind," said Allan Harrington listlessly. "I suppose you are quiet and trustworthy, or De Guenther wouldn't have sent you. It will give mother a little peace and it makes no difference to me." He closed his eyes and the subject at the same time. "Well, then, that's all right," said Phyllis cheerfully, and started to go. Then, drawn back by a sudden, nervous temper-impulse, she moved back on him. "And let me tell you," she added, half-laughing, half-impertinently, "that if you ever get into my quiet, trustworthy clutches you may have an awful time! You're a very spoiled invalid." She whisked out of the room before he could have gone very far with his reply. But he had not cared to reply, apparently. He lay unmoved and unmoving. Phyllis discovered, poising breathless on the threshold, that somehow she had seen his eyes. They had been a little like the wolfhound's, a sort of wistful gold-brown. For some reason she found that Allan Harrington's attitude of absolute detachment made the whole affair seem much easier for her. And when Mrs. Harrington slipped a solitaire diamond into her hand as she went, instead of disliking it she enjoyed its feel on her finger, and the flash of it in the light. She thanked Mrs. Harrington for it with real gratitude. But it made her feel more than ever engaged to marry her mother-in-law. She walked home rather silently with Mrs. De Guenther. Only at the foot of the De Guenther steps, she made one absent remark. "He must have been delightful," she said, "when he was alive!" VI After a week of the old bustling, dusty hard work, the Liberry Teacher's visit to the De Guenthers' and the subsequent one at the Harringtons', and even her sparkling white ring, seemed part of a queer story she had finished and put back on the shelf. The ring was the most real thing, because it was something of a worry. She didn't dare leave it at home, nor did she want to wear it. She finally sewed it in a chamois bag that she safety-pinned under her shirt-waist. Then she dismissed it from her mind also. There is very little time in a Liberry Teacher's life for meditation. Only once in a while would come to her the vision of the wistful Harrington wolfhound following his inadequate patch of sunlight, or of the dusky room where Allan Harrington lay inert and white, and looking like a wonderful carved statue on a tomb. She began to do a little to her clothes, but not very much, because she had neither time nor money. Mr. De Guenther had wanted her to take some money in advance, but she had refused. She did not want it till she had earned it, and, anyway, it would have made the whole thing so real, she knew, that she would have backed out. "And it isn't as if I were going to a lover," she defended herself to Mrs. De Guenther with a little wistful smile. "Nobody will know what I have on, any more than they do now." Mrs. De Guenther gave a scandalized little cry. Her attitude was determinedly that it was just an ordinary marriage, as good an excuse for sentiment and pretty frocks as any other. "My dear child," she replied firmly, "you are going to have one pretty frock and one really good street-suit _now_, or I will know why! The rest you may get yourself after the wedding, but you must obey me in this. Nonsense!--you can get a half-day, as you call it, perfectly well! What's Albert in politics for, if he can't get favors for his friends!" And, in effect, it proved that Albert was in politics to some purpose, for orders came up from the Head's office within twenty minutes after Mrs. De Guenther had used the telephone on her husband, that Miss Braithwaite was to have a half-day immediately--as far as she could make out, in order to transact city affairs! She felt as if the angels had told her she could have the last fortnight over again, as a favor, or something of the sort. A half-day out of turn was something nobody had ever heard of. She was even too surprised to object to the frock part of the situation. She tried to stand out a little longer, but it's a very stoical young woman who can refuse to have pretty clothes bought for her, and the end of it was a seat in a salon which she had always considered so expensive that you scarcely ought to look in the window. "Had it better be a black suit?" asked Mrs. De Guenther doubtfully, as the tall lady in floppy charmeuse hovered haughtily about them, expecting orders. "It seems horrible to buy mourning when dear Angela is not yet passed away, but it would only be showing proper respect; and I remember my own dear mother planned all our mourning outfits while she was dying. It was quite a pleasure to her." Phyllis kept her face straight, and slipped one persuasive hand through her friend's arm. "I don't believe I _could_ buy mourning, dear," she said. "And--oh, if you knew how long I'd wanted a really _blue_ blue suit! Only, it would have been too vivid to wear well--I always knew that--because you can only afford one every other year. And"--Phyllis rather diffidently voiced a thought which had been in the back of her mind for a long time--"if I'm going to be much around Mr. Harrington, don't you think cheerful clothes would be best? Everything in that house seems sombre enough now." "Perhaps you are right, dear child," said Mrs. De Guenther. "I hope you may be the means of putting a great deal of brightness into poor Allan's life before he joins his mother." "Oh, don't!" cried Phyllis impulsively. Somehow she could not bear to think of Allan Harrington's dying. He was too beautiful to be dead, where nobody could see him any more. Besides, Phyllis privately considered that a long vacation before he joined his mother would be only the fair thing for "poor Allan." Youth sides with youth. And--the clear-cut white lines of him rose in her memory and stayed there. She could almost hear that poor, tired, toneless voice of his, that was yet so deep and so perfectly accented.... She bought docilely whatever her guide directed, and woke from a species of gentle daze at the afternoon's end to find Mrs. De Guenther beaming with the weary rapture of the successful shopper, and herself the proprietress of a turquoise velvet walking-suit, a hat to match, a pale blue evening frock, a pale green between-dress with lovely clinging lines, and a heavenly white crepe thing with rosy ribbons and filmy shadow-laces--the negligee of one's dreams. There were also slippers and shoes and stockings and--this was really too bad of Mrs. De Guenther--a half-dozen set of lingerie, straight through. Mrs. De Guenther sat and continued to beam joyously over the array, in Phyllis's little bedroom. "It's my present, dearie," she said calmly. "So you needn't worry about using Angela's money. Gracious, it's been _lovely_! I haven't had such a good time since my husband's little grand-niece came on for a week. There's nothing like dressing a girl, after all." And Phyllis could only kiss her. But when her guest had gone she laid all the boxes of finery under her bed, the only place where there was any room. She would not take any of it out, she determined, till her summons came. But on second thought, she wore the blue velvet street-suit on Sunday visits to Mrs. Harrington, which became--she never knew just when or how--a regular thing. The vivid blue made her eyes nearly sky-color, and brightened her hair very satisfactorily. She was taking more time and trouble over her looks now--one has to live up to a turquoise velvet hat and coat! She found herself, too, becoming very genuinely fond of the restless, anxiously loving, passionate, unwise child who dwelt in Mrs. Harrington's frail elderly body and had almost worn it out. She sat, long hours of every Sunday afternoon, holding Mrs. Harrington's thin little hot hands, and listening to her swift, italicised monologues about Allan--what he must do, what he must not do, how he must be looked after, how his mother had treated him, how his wishes must be ascertained and followed. "Though all he wants now is dark and quiet," said his mother piteously. "I don't even go in there now to cry." She spoke as if it were an established ritual. Had she been using her son's sick-room, Phyllis wondered, as a regular weeping-place? She could feel in Mrs. Harrington, even in this mortal sickness, the tremendous driving influence which is often part of a passionately active and not very wise personality. That certitude and insistence of Mrs. Harrington's could hammer you finally into believing or doing almost anything. Phyllis wondered how much his mother's heartbroken adoration and pity might have had to do with making her son as hopeless-minded as he was. Naturally, the mother-in-law-elect she had acquired in such a strange way became very fond of Phyllis. But indeed there was something very gay and sweet and honest-minded about the girl, a something which gave people the feeling that they were very wise in liking her. Some people you are fond of against your will. When people cared for Phyllis it was with a quite irrational feeling that they were doing a sensible thing. They never gave any of the credit to her very real, though almost invisible, charm. She never saw Allan Harrington on any of the Sunday visits. She was sure the servants thought she did, for she knew that every one in the great, dark old house knew her as the young lady who was to marry Mr. Allan. She believed that she was supposed to be an old family friend, perhaps a distant relative. She did not want to see Allan. But she did want to be as good to his little, tensely-loving mother as she could, and reassure her about Allan's future care. And she succeeded. It was on a Friday about two that the summons came. Phyllis had thought she expected it, but when the call came to her over the library telephone she found herself as badly frightened as she had been the first time she went to the Harrington house. She shivered as she laid down the dater she was using, and called the other librarian to take her desk. Fortunately, between one and four the morning and evening shifts overlapped, and there was some one to take her place. "Mrs. Harrington cannot last out the night," came Mr. De Guenther's clear, precise voice over the telephone, without preface. "I have arranged with Mr. Johnston. You can go at once. You had better pack a suit-case, for you possibly may not be able to get back to your boarding-place." So it was to happen now! Phyllis felt, with her substitute in her place, her own wraps on, and her feet taking her swiftly towards her goal, as if she were offering herself to be made a nun, or have a hand or foot cut off, or paying herself away in some awful, irrevocable fashion. She packed, mechanically, all the pretty things Mrs. De Guenther had given her, and nothing else. She found herself at the door of her room with the locked suit-case in her hand, and not even a nail-file of the things belonging to her old self in it. She shook herself together, managed to laugh a little, and returned and put in such things as she thought she would require for the night. Then she went. She always remembered that journey as long as she lived; her hands and feet and tongue going on, buying tickets, giving directions--and her mind, like a naughty child, catching at everything as they went, and screaming to be allowed to go back home, back to the dusty, matter-of-course library and the dreary little boarding-house bedroom! VII They were all waiting for her, in what felt like a hideously quiet semicircle, in Allan's great dark room. Mrs. Harrington, deadly pale, and giving an impression of keeping herself alive only by force of that wonderful fighting vitality of hers, lay almost at length in her wheel-chair. There was a clergyman in vestments. There were the De Guenthers; Mr. De Guenther only a little more precise than his every-day habit was, Mrs. De Guenther crying a little, softly and furtively. As for Allan Harrington, he lay just as she had seen him that other time, white and moveless, seeming scarcely conscious except by an effort. Only she noticed a slight contraction, as of pain, between his brows. "Phyllis has come," panted Mrs. Harrington. "Now it will be--all right. You must marry him quickly--quickly, do you hear, Phyllis? Oh, people never will--do--what I want them to----" "Yes--yes, indeed, dear," said Phyllis, taking her hands soothingly. "We're going to attend to it right away. See, everything is ready." It occurred to her that Mrs. Harrington was not half as correct in her playing of the part of a dying woman as she would have seen to it that anyone else was; also, that things did not seem legal without the wolfhound. Then she was shocked at herself for such irrelevant thoughts. The thing to do was to keep poor Mrs. Harrington quieted. So she beckoned the clergyman and the De Guenthers nearer, and herself sped the marrying of herself to Allan Harrington. ... When you are being married to a Crusader on a tomb, the easiest way is to kneel down by him. Phyllis registered this fact in her mind quite blankly, as something which might be of use to remember in future.... The marrying took an unnecessarily long time, it seemed to her. It did not seem as if she were being married at all. It all seemed to concern somebody else. When it came to the putting on of the wedding-ring, she found herself, very naturally, guiding Allan's relaxed fingers to hold it in its successive places, and finally slip it on the wedding-finger. And somehow having to do that checked the chilly awe she had had before of Allan Harrington. It made her feel quite simply sorry for him, as if he were one of her poor little boys in trouble. And when it was all over she bent pitifully before she thought, and kissed one white, cold cheek. He seemed so tragically helpless, yet more alive, in some way, since she had touched his hand to guide it. Then, as her lips brushed his cheek, she recoiled and colored a little. She had felt that slight roughness which a man's cheek, however close-shaven, always has--the _man_-feel. It made her realize unreasonably that it was a man she had married, after all, not a stone image nor a sick child--a live man! With the thought, or rather instinct, came a swift terror of what she had done, and a swift impulse to rise. She was half-way risen from her knees when a hand on her shoulder, and the clergyman's voice in her ear, checked her. "Not yet," he murmured almost inaudibly. "Stay as you are till--till Mrs. Harrington is wheeled from the room." Phyllis understood. She remained as she was, her body a shield before Allan Harrington's eyes, her hand just withdrawing from his shoulder, till she heard the closing of the door, and a sigh as of relaxed tension from the three people around her. Then she rose. Allan lay still with closed eyelids. It seemed to her that he had flushed, if ever so faintly, at the touch of her lips on his cheek. She laid his hand on the coverlet with her own roughened, ringed one, and followed the others out, into the room where the dead woman had been taken, leaving him with his attendant. The rest of the evening Phyllis went about in a queer-keyed, almost light-hearted frame of mind. It was only the reaction from the long-expected terror that was over now, but it felt indecorous. It was just as well, however. Some one's head had to be kept. The servants were upset, of course, and there were many arrangements to be made. She and Mr. De Guenther worked steadily together, telephoning, ordering, guiding, straightening out all the tangles. There never was a wedding, she thought, where the bride did so much of the work! She even remembered to see personally that Allan's dinner was sent up to him. The servants had doubtless been told to come to her for orders--at any rate, they did. Phyllis had not had much experience in running a house, but a good deal in keeping her head. And that, after all, is the main thing. She had a far-off feeling as if she were hearing some other young woman giving swift, poised, executive orders. She rather admired her. After dinner the De Guenthers went. And Phyllis Braithwaite, the little Liberry Teacher who had been living in a hall bedroom on much less money than she needed, found herself alone, sole mistress of the great Harrington house, a corps of servants, a husband passive enough to satisfy the most militant suffragette, a check-book, a wistful wolfhound, and five hundred dollars, cash, for current expenses. The last weighed on her mind more than all the rest put together. "Why, I don't know how to make Current Expenses out of all that!" she had said to Mr. De Guenther. "It looks to me exactly like about ten months' salary! I'm perfectly certain I shall get up in my sleep and try to pay my board ahead with it, so I shan't have it all spent before the ten months are up! There was a blue bead necklace," she went on meditatively, "in the Five-and-Ten, that I always wanted to buy. Only I never quite felt I could afford it. Oh, just imagine going to the Five-and-Ten and buying at least five dollars' worth of things you didn't need!" "You have great discretionary powers--great discretionary powers, my dear, you will find!" Mr. De Guenther had said, as he patted her shoulder. Phyllis took it as a compliment at the time. "Discretionary powers" sounded as if he thought she was a quite intelligent young person. It did not occur to her till he had gone, and she was alone with her check-book, that it meant she had a good deal of liberty to do as she liked. It seemed to be expected of her to stay. Nobody even suggested a possibility of her going home again, even to pack her trunk. Mrs. De Guenther casually volunteered to do that, a little after the housekeeper had told her where her rooms were. She had been consulting with the housekeeper for what seemed ages, when she happened to want some pins for something, and asked for her suit-case. "It's in your rooms," said the housekeeper. "Mrs. Harrington--the late Mrs. Harrington, I should say----" Phyllis stopped listening at this point. Who was the present Mrs. Harrington? she wondered before she thought--and then remembered. Why--_she_ was! So there was no Phyllis Braithwaite any more! Of course not.... Yet she had always liked the name so--well, a last name was a small thing to give up.... Into her mind fitted an incongruous, silly story she had heard once at the library, about a girl whose last name was Rose, and whose parents christened her Wild, because the combination appealed to them. And then she married a man named Bull.... Meanwhile the housekeeper had been going on. ... "She had the bedroom and bath opening from the other side of Mr. Allan's day-room ready for you, madam. It's been ready several weeks." "Has it?" said Phyllis. It was like Mrs. Harrington, that careful planning of even where she should be put. "Is Mr. Harrington in his day-room now?" For some reason she did not attempt to give herself, she did not want to see him again just now. Besides, it was nearly eleven and time a very tired girl was in bed. She wanted a good night's rest, before she had to get up and be Mrs. Harrington, with Allan and the check-book and the Current Expenses all tied to her. Some one had laid everything out for her in the bedroom; the filmy new nightgown over a chair, the blue satin mules underneath, her plain toilet-things on a dressing-table, and over another chair the exquisite ivory crepe negligee with its floating rose ribbons. She took a hasty bath--there was so much hot water that she was quite reconciled for a moment to being a check-booked and wolf hounded Mrs. Harrington--and slid straight into bed without even stopping to braid her loosened, honey-colored hair. It seemed to her that she was barely asleep when there came an urgent knocking at her door. "Yes?" she said sleepily, looking mechanically for her alarm-clock as she switched on the light. "What is it, please?" "It's I, Wallis, Mr. Allan's man, Madame," said a nervous voice. "Mr. Allan's very bad. I've done all the usual things, but nothing seems to quiet him. He hates doctors so, and they make him so wrought up--please could you come, ma'am? He says as how all of us are all dead--oh, _please_, Mrs. Harrington!" There was panic in the man's voice. "All right," said Phyllis sleepily, dropping to the floor as she spoke with the rapidity that only the alarm-clock-broken know. She snatched the negligee around her, and thrust her feet hastily into the blue satin slippers--why, she was actually using her wedding finery! And what an easily upset person that man was! But everybody in the house seemed to have nerves on edge. It was no wonder about Allan--he wanted his mother, of course, poor boy! She felt, as she ran fleetly across the long room that separated her sleeping quarters from her husband's, the same mixture of pity and timidity that she had felt with him before. Poor boy! Poor, silent, beautiful statue, with his one friend gone! She opened the door and entered swiftly into his room. She was not thinking about herself at all, only of how she could help Allan, but there must have been something about her of the picture-book angel to the pain-racked man, lying tensely at length in the room's darkest corner. Her long, dully gold hair, loosening from its twist, flew out about her, and her face was still flushed with sleep. There was a something about her that was vividly alight and alive, perhaps the light in her blue eyes. From what the man had said Phyllis had thought Allan was delirious, but she saw at once that he was only in severe pain, and talking more disconnectedly, perhaps, than the slow-minded Englishman could follow. He did not look like a statue now. His cheeks were burning with evident pain, and his yellow-brown eyes, wide-open, and dilated to darkness, stared straight out. His hands were clenching and unclenching, and his head moved restlessly from side to side. Every nerve and muscle, she could see, was taut. "They're all dead," he muttered. "Father and Mother and Louise--and I--only I'm not dead enough to bury. Oh, God, I wish I was!" That wasn't delirium; it was something more like heart-break. Phyllis moved closer to him, and dropped one of her sleep-warm hands on his cold, clenched one. "Oh, poor boy!" she said. "I'm so sorry--so sorry!" She closed her hands tight over both his. Some of her strong young vitality must have passed between them and helped him, for almost immediately his tenseness relaxed a little, and he looked at her. "You--you're not a nurse," he said. "They go around--like--like a--vault----" She had caught his attention! That was a good deal, she felt. She forgot everything about him, except that he was some one to be comforted, and her charge. She sat down on the bed by him, still holding tight to his hands. "No, indeed," she said, bending nearer him, her long loose hair falling forward about her resolutely-smiling young face. "Don't you remember seeing me? I never was a nurse." "What--are you?" he asked feebly. "I'm--why, the children call me the Liberry Teacher," she answered. It occurred to her that it would be better to talk on brightly at random than to risk speaking of his mother to him, as she must if she reminded him of their marriage. "I spend my days in a basement, making bad little boys get so interested in the Higher Culture that they'll forget to shoot crap and smash windows." One of the things which had aided Phyllis to rise from desk-assistant to one of the Children's Room librarians was a very sweet and carrying voice--a voice which arrested even a child's attention,

my

How many times the word 'my' appears in the text?

with the deeper clamour of men, formed a Babel of sounds, which first drowned, and then awed into utter silence, the official hymns of the Convent. The cause and result of this extraordinary interruption will be explained in the next chapter. Chapter the Fourteenth. Not the wild billow, when it breaks its barrier-- Not the wild wind, escaping from its cavern-- Not the wild fiend, that mingles both together, And pours their rage upon the ripening harvest, Can match the wild freaks of this mirthful meeting-- Comic, yet fearful--droll, and yet destructive. THE CONSPIRACY. The monks ceased their song, which, like that of the choristers in the legend of the Witch of Berkley, died away in a quaver of consternation; and, like a flock of chickens disturbed by the presence of the kite, they at first made a movement to disperse and fly in different directions, and then, with despair, rather than hope, huddled themselves around their new Abbot; who, retaining the lofty and undismayed look which had dignified him through the whole ceremony, stood on the higher step of the altar, as if desirous to be the most conspicuous mark on which danger might discharge itself, and to save his companions by his self-devotion, since he could afford them no other protection. Involuntarily, as it were, Magdalen Graeme and the page stepped from the station which hitherto they had occupied unnoticed, and approached to the altar, as desirous of sharing the fate which approached the monks, whatever that might be. Both bowed reverently low to the Abbot; and while Magdalen seemed about to speak, the youth, looking towards the main entrance, at which the noise now roared most loudly, and which was at the same time assailed with much knocking, laid his hand upon his dagger. The Abbot motioned to both to forbear: Peace, my sister, he said, in a low tone, but which, being in a different key from the tumultuary sounds without, could be distinctly heard, even amidst the tumult;-- Peace, he said, my sister; let the new Superior of Saint Mary's himself receive and reply to the grateful acclamations of the vassals, who come to celebrate his installation.--And thou, my son, forbear, I charge thee, to touch thy earthly weapon;--if it is the pleasure of our protectress, that her shrine be this day desecrated by deeds of violence, and polluted by blood-shedding, let it not, I charge thee, happen through the deed of a Catholic son of the church. The noise and knocking at the outer gate became now every moment louder; and voices were heard impatiently demanding admittance. The Abbot, with dignity, and with a step which even the emergency of danger rendered neither faltering nor precipitate, moved towards the portal, and demanded to know, in a tone of authority, who it was that disturbed their worship, and what they desired? There was a moment's silence, and then a loud laugh from without. At length a voice replied, We desire entrance into the church; and when the door is opened you will soon see who we are. By whose authority do you require entrance? said the Father. By authority of the right reverend Lord Abbot of Unreason. [Footnote: We learn from no less authority than that of Napoleon Bonaparte, that there is but a single step between the sublime and ridiculous; and it is a transition from one extreme to another; so very easy, that the vulgar of every degree are peculiarly captivated with it. Thus the inclination to laugh becomes uncontrollable, when the solemnity and gravity of time, place, and circumstances, render it peculiarly improper. Some species of general license, like that which inspired the ancient Saturnalia, or the modern Carnival, has been commonly indulged to the people at all times and in almost all countries. But it was, I think, peculiar to the Roman Catholic Church, that while they studied how to render their church rites imposing and magnificent, by all that pomp, music, architecture, and external display could add to them, they nevertheless connived, upon special occasions, at the frolics of the rude vulgar, who, in almost all Catholic countries, enjoyed, or at least assumed, the privilege of making: some Lord of the revels, who, under the name of the Abbot of Unreason, the Boy Bishop, or the President of Fools, occupied the churches, profaned the holy places by a mock imitation of the sacred rites, and sung indecent parodies on hymns of the church. The indifference of the clergy, even when their power was greatest, to the indecent exhibitions which they always tolerated, and sometimes encouraged, forms a strong contrast to the sensitiveness with which they regarded any serious attempt, by preaching or writing, to impeach any of the doctrines of the church. It could only be compared to the singular apathy with which they endured, and often admired the gross novels which Chaucer, Dunbar, Boccacio, Bandello, and others, composed upon the bad morals of the clergy. It seems as if the churchmen in both instances had endeavoured to compromise with the laity, and allowed them occasionally to gratify their coarse humour by indecent satire, provided they would abstain from any grave question concerning the foundation of the doctrines on which was erected such an immense fabric of ecclesiastical power. But the sports thus licensed assumed a very different appearance, so soon as the Protestant doctrines began to prevail; and the license which their forefathers had exercised in mere gaiety of heart, and without the least intention of dishonouring religion by their frolics, were now persevered in by the common people as a mode of testifying their utter disregard for the Roman priesthood and its ceremonies. I may observe, for example, the case of an apparitor sent to Borthwick from the Primate of Saint Andrews, to cite the lord of that castle, who was opposed by an Abbot of Unreason, at whose command the officer of the spiritual court was appointed to be ducked in a mill-dam, and obliged to eat up his parchment citation. The reader may be amused with the following whimsical details of this incident, which took place in the castle of Borthwick, in the year 1517. It appears, that in consequence of a process betwixt Master George Hay de Minzeane and the Lord Borthwick, letters of excommunication had passed against the latter, on account of the contumacy of certain witnesses. William Langlands, an apparitor or macer (_bacularius_) of the See of St Andrews, presented these letters to the curate of the church of Borthwick, requiring him to publish the same at the service of high mass. It seems that the inhabitants of the castle were at this time engaged in the favourite sport of enacting the Abbot of Unreason, a species of high jinks, in which a mimic prelate was elected, who, like the Lord of Misrule in England, turned all sort of lawful authority, and particularly the church ritual, into ridicule. This frolicsome person with his retinue, notwithstanding of the apparitor's character, entered the church, seized upon the primate's officer without hesitation, and, dragging him to the mill-dam on the south side of the castle, compelled him to leap into the water. Not contented with this partial immersion, the Abbot of Unreason pronounced, that Mr. William Langlands was not yet sufficiently bathed, and therefore caused his assistants to lay him on his back in the stream, and duck him in the most satisfactory and perfect manner. The unfortunate apparitor was then conducted back to the church, where, for his refreshment after his bath, the letters of excommunication were torn to pieces, and steeped in a bowl of wine; the mock abbot being probably of opinion that a tough parchment was but dry eating, Langlands was compelled to eat the letters, and swallow the wine, and dismissed by the Abbot of Unreason, with the comfortable assurance, that if any more such letters should arrive during the continuance of his office, they should a' gang the same gate, _i. e._ go the same road. A similar scene occurs betwixt a sumner of the Bishop of Rochester, and Harpool, the servant of Lord Cobham, in the old play of Sir John Oldcastle, when the former compels the church-officer to eat his citation. The dialogue, which may be found in the note, contains most of the jests which may be supposed, appropriate to such an extraordinary occasion: _Harpool_ Marry, sir, is, this process parchment? _Sumner._ Yes, marry is it. _Harpool._ And this seal wax? _Sumner._ It is so. _Harpool._ If this be parchment, and this be wax, eat you this parchment and wax, or I will make parchment of your skin, and beat your brains into wax. Sirrah Sumner, despatch--devour, sirrah, devour. _Sumner._ I am my Lord of Rochester's sumner; I came to do my office, and thou shall answer it. _Harpool._ Sirrah, no railing, but, betake thyself to thy teeth. Thou shalt, eat no worse than thou bringest with thee. Thou bringest it for my lord; and wilt thou bring my lord worse than thou wilt eat thyself? _Sumner._ Sir. I brought it not my lord to eat. _Harpool._ O, do you Sir me now? All's one for that; I'll make you eat it for bringing it. _Sumner._ I cannot eat it. _Harpool._ Can you not? 'Sblood, I'll beat you till you have a stomach! (_Beats him._) _Sumner._ Oh, hold, hold, good Mr. Servingman; I will eat it. _Harpool._ Be champing, be chewing, sir, or I will chew you, you rogue. Tough wax is the purest of the honey. _Sumner._ The purest of the honey?--O Lord, sir, oh! oh! _Harpool._ Feed, feed; 'tis wholesome, rogue, wholesome. Cannot you, like an honest sumner, walk with the devil your brother, to fetch in your bailiff's rents, but you must come to a nobleman's house with process! If the seal were broad as the lead which covers Rochester Church, thou shouldst eat it. _Sumner._ Oh, I am almost choked--I am almost choked! _Harpool._ Who's within there? Will you shame my lord? Is there no beer in the house? Butler, I say. _Enter_ BUTLER. _Butler._ Here, here. _Harpool._ Give him beer. Tough old sheep skin's but dry meat. _First Part of Sir John Oldcastle_, Act II. Scene I.] replied the voice from without; and, from the laugh--which followed, it seemed as if there was something highly ludicrous couched under this reply. I know not, and seek not to know, your meaning, replied the Abbot, since it is probably a rude one. But begone, in the name of God, and leave his servants in peace. I speak this, as having lawful authority to command here. Open the door, said another rude voice, and we will try titles with you, Sir Monk, and show you a superior we must all obey. Break open the doors if he dallies any longer, said a third, and down with the carrion monks who would bar us of our privilege! A general shout followed. Ay, ay, our privilege! our privilege! down with the doors, and with the lurdane monks, if they make opposition! The knocking was now exchanged for blows with great, hammers, to which the doors, strong as they were, must soon have given way. But the Abbot, who saw resistance would be in vain, and who did not wish to incense the assailants by an attempt at offering it, besought silence earnestly, and with difficulty obtained a hearing. My children, said he, I will save you from committing a great sin. The porter will presently undo the gate--he is gone to fetch the keys--meantime I pray you to consider with yourselves, if you are in a state of mind to cross the holy threshold. Tillyvally for your papistry! was answered from without; we are in the mood of the monks when they are merriest, and that is when they sup beef-brewis for lanten-kail. So, if your porter hath not the gout, let him come speedily, or we heave away readily.--Said I well, comrades? Bravely said, and it shall be as bravely done, said the multitude; and had not the keys arrived at that moment, and the porter in hasty terror performed his office, throwing open the great door, the populace would have saved him the trouble. The instant he had done so, the affrighted janitor fled, like one who has drawn the bolts of a flood-gate, and expects to be overwhelmed by the rushing inundation. The monks, with one consent, had withdrawn themselves behind the Abbot, who alone kept his station, about three yards from the entrance, showing no signs of fear or perturbation. His brethren--partly encouraged by his devotion, partly ashamed to desert him, and partly animated by a sense of duty.--remained huddled close together, at the back of their Superior. There was a loud laugh and huzza when the doors were opened; but, contrary to what might have been expected, no crowd of enraged assailants rushed into the church. On the contrary, there was a cry of A halt!-a halt--to order, my masters! and let the two reverend fathers greet each other, as beseems them. The appearance of the crowd who were thus called to order, was grotesque in the extreme. It was composed of men, women, and children, ludicrously disguised in various habits, and presenting groups equally diversified and grotesque. Here one fellow with a horse's head painted before him, and a tail behind, and the whole covered with a long foot-cloth, which was supposed to hide the body of the animal, ambled, caracoled, pranced, and plunged, as he performed the celebrated part of the hobby-horse, [Footnote: This exhibition, the play-mare of Scotland, stood high among holyday gambols. It must be carefully separated from the wooden chargers which furnish out our nurseries. It gives rise to Hamlet's ejaculation,-- But oh, but oh, the hobby-horse is forgot! There is a very comic scene in Beaumont and Fletcher's play of Woman Pleased, where Hope-on-high Bombye, a puritan cobbler, refuses to dance with the hobby-horse. There was much difficulty and great variety in the motions which the hobby-horse was expected to exhibit. The learned Mr. Douce, who has contributed so much to the illustration of our theatrical antiquities, has given us a full account of this pageant, and the burlesque horsemanship which it practised. The hobby-horse, says Mr. Douce, was represented by a man equipped with as much pasteboard as was sufficient to form the head and hinder parts of a horse, the quadrupedal defects being concealed by a long mantle or footcloth that nearly touched the ground. The former, on this occasion, exerted all his skill in burlesque horsemanship. In Sympson's play of the Law-breakers, 1636, a miller personates the hobby-horse, and being angry that the Mayor of the city is put in competition with him, exclaims, 'Let the mayor play the hobby-horse among his brethren, an he will; I hope our town-lads cannot want a hobby-horse. Have I practised my reins, my careers, my prankers, my ambles, my false trots, my smooth ambles, and Canterbury paces, and shall master mayor put me beside the hobby-horse? Have I borrowed the fore-horse bells, his plumes, his braveries; nay, had his mane new shorn and frizzled, and shall the mayor put me beside the hobby-horse? --_Douce's Illustrations_, vol. II. p. 468] so often alluded to in our ancient drama; and which still flourishes on the stage in the battle that concludes Bayes's tragedy. To rival the address and agility displayed by this character, another personage advanced in the more formidable character of a huge dragon, with gilded wings, open jaws, and a scarlet tongue, cloven at the end, which made various efforts to overtake and devour a lad, dressed as the lovely Sabaea, daughter of the King of Egypt, who fled before him; while a martial Saint George, grotesquely armed with a goblet for a helmet, and a spit for a lance, ever and anon interfered, and compelled the monster to relinquish his prey. A bear, a wolf, and one or two other wild animals, played their parts with the discretion of Snug the joiner; for the decided preference which they gave to the use of their hind legs, was sufficient, without any formal annunciation, to assure the most timorous spectators that they had to do with habitual bipeds. There was a group of outlaws with Robin Hood and Little John at their head [Footnote: The representation of Robin Hood was the darling Maygame both in England and Scotland, and doubtless the favourite personification was often revived, when the Abbot of Unreason, or other pretences of frolic, gave an unusual decree of license. The Protestant clergy, who had formerly reaped advantage from the opportunities which these sports afforded them of directing their own satire and the ridicule of the lower orders against the Catholic church, began to find that, when these purposes were served, their favourite pastimes deprived them of the wish to attend divine worship, and disturbed the frame of mind in which it can be attended to advantage. The celebrated Bishop Latimer gives a very _naive_ account of the manner in which, bishop as he was, he found himself compelled to give place to Robin Hood and his followers. I came once myselfe riding on a journey homeward from London, and I sent word over night into the towne that I would preach there in the morning, because it was holiday, and me thought it was a holidayes worke. The church stood in my way, and I took my horse and my company, and went thither, (I thought I should have found a great company in the church,) and when I came there the church doore was fast locked. I tarryed there halfe an houre and more. At last the key was found, and one of the parish comes to me and said,--'Sir, this is a busie day with us, we cannot hear you; it is Robin Hood's day. The parish are gone abroad to gather for Robin Hood. I pray you let them not.' I was faine there to give place to Robin Hood. I thought my rochet should have been regarded, though I were not: but it would not serve, it was faine to give place to Robin Hood's men. It is no laughing matter, my friends, it is a weeping matter, a heavie matter, a heavie matter. Under the pretence for gathering for Robin Hood, a traytour, and a theif, to put out a preacher; to have his office lesse esteemed; to preferre Robin Hood before the ministration of God's word; and all this hath come of unpreaching prelates. This realme hath been ill provided for, that it hath had such corrupt judgments in it, to prefer Robin Hood to God's word. --_Bishop Latimer's sixth Sermon before King Edward_. While the English Protestants thus preferred the outlaw's pageant to the preaching of their excellent Bishop, the Scottish calvinistic clergy, with the celebrated John Knox at their head, and backed by the authority of the magistrates of Edinburgh, who had of late been chosen exclusively from this party, found it impossible to control the rage of the populace, when they attempted to deprive them of the privilege of presenting their pageant of Robin Hood. [Note on old Scottish spelling: leading y = modern 'th'; leading v = modern 'u'] (561) Vpon the xxi day of Junij. Archibalde Dowglas of Kilspindie, Provest of Edr., David Symmer and Adame Fullartoun, baillies of the samyne, causit ane cordinare servant, callit James Gillion takin of befoir, for playing in Edr. with Robene Hude, to wnderly the law, and put him to the knawlege of ane assyize qlk yaij haid electit of yair favoraris, quha with schort deliberatioun condemnit him to be hangit for ye said cryme. And the deaconis of ye craftismen fearing vproare, maid great solistatuis at ye handis of ye said provost and baillies, and als requirit John Knox, minister, for eschewing of tumult, to superceid ye execution of him, vnto ye tyme yai suld adverteis my Lord Duke yairof. And yan, if it wes his mynd and will yat he should be disponit vpoun, ye said deaconis and craftismen sould convey him yaire; quha answerit, yat yai culd na way stope ye executioun of justice. Quhan ye time of ye said pouer mans hanging approchit, and yat ye hangman wes cum to ye jibbat with ye ledder, vpoune ye qlk ye said cordinare should have bene hangit, ane certaine and remanent craftischilder, quha wes put to ye horne with ye said Gillione, ffor ye said Robene Huide's _playes_, and vyris yair assistaris and favoraris, past to wappinis, and yai brak down ye said jibbat, and yan chacit ye said provest, baillies, and Alexr. Guthrie, in ye said Alexander's writing buith, and held yame yairin; and yairefter past to ye tolbuyt, and becaus the samyne was steiket, and onnawayes culd get the keyes thairof, thai brak the said tolbuith dore with foure harberis, per force, (the said provest and baillies luckand thairon.) and not onlie put thar the said Gillione to fredome and libertie, and brocht him furth of the said tolbuit, bot alsua the remanent presonaris being thairintill; and this done, the said craftismen's servands, with the said condempnit cordonar, past doun to the Netherbow, to have past furth thairat; bot becaus the samyne on thair coming thairto wes closet, thai past vp agane the Hie streit of the said bourghe to the Castellhill, and in this menetymne the saidis provest and baillies, and thair assistaris being in the writing buith of the said Alexr. Guthrie, past and enterit in the said tolbuyt, and in the said servandes passage vp the Hie streit, then schote furth thairof at thame ane dog, and hurt ane servand of the said childer. This being done, thair wes nathing vthir but the one partie schuteand out and castand stanes furth of the said tolbuyt, and the vther pairtie schuteand hagbuttis in the same agane. Aund sua the craftismen's servandis, aboue written, held and inclosit the said provest and baillies continewallie in the said tolbuyth, frae three houris efternone, quhill aught houris at even, and na man of the said town prensit to relieve their said provest and baillies. And than thai send to the maisters of the Castell, to caus tham if thai mycht stay the said servandis, quha maid ane maner to do the same, bot thai could not bring the same to ane finall end, ffor the said servands wold on noways stay fra, quhill thai had revengit the hurting of ane of them; and thairefter the constable of the castell come down thairfra, and he with the said maisters treatet betwix the said pties in this maner:--That the said provost and baillies sall remit to the said craftischilder, all actioun, cryme, and offens that thai had committit aganes thame in any tyme bygane; and band and oblast thame never to pursew them thairfor; and als commandit thair maisters to resaue them agane in thair services, as thai did befoir. And this being proclainit at the mercat cross, thai scalit, and the said provest and bailies come furth of the same tolbouyth. &c. &c. &c. John Knox, who writes at large upon this tumult, informs us it was inflamed by the deacons of craftes, who, resenting; the superiority assumed over them by the magistrates, would yield no assistance to put down the tumult. They will be magistrates alone, said the recusant deacons, e'en let them rule the populace alone; and accordingly they passed quietly to take _their four-hours penny_, and left the magistrates to help themselves as they could. Many persons were excommunicated for this outrage, and not admitted to church ordinances till they had made satisfaction.] --the best representation exhibited at the time; and no great wonder, since most of the actors were, by profession, the banished men and thieves whom they presented. Other masqueraders there were, of a less marked description. Men were disguised as women, and women as men--children wore the dress of aged people, and tottered with crutch-sticks in their hands, furred gowns on their little backs, and caps on their round heads--while grandsires assumed the infantine tone as well as the dress of children. Besides these, many had their faces painted, and wore their shirts over the rest of their dress; while coloured pasteboard and ribbons furnished out decorations for others. Those who wanted all these properties, blacked their faces, and turned their jackets inside out; and thus the transmutation of the whole assembly into a set of mad grotesque mummers, was at once completed. The pause which the masqueraders made, waiting apparently for some person of the highest authority amongst them, gave those within the Abbey Church full time to observe all these absurdities. They were at no loss to comprehend their purpose and meaning. Few readers can be ignorant, that at an early period, and during the plenitude of her power, the Church of Rome not only connived at, but even encouraged, such Saturnalian licenses as the inhabitants of Kennaquhair and the neighbourhood had now in hand, and that the vulgar, on such occasions, were not only permitted but encouraged by a number of gambols, sometimes puerile and ludicrous, sometimes immoral and profane, to indemnify themselves for the privations and penances imposed on them at other seasons. But, of all other topics for burlesque and ridicule, the rites and ceremonial of the church itself were most frequently resorted to; and, strange to say, with the approbation of the clergy themselves. While the hierarchy flourished in full glory, they do not appear to have dreaded the consequences of suffering the people to become so irreverently familiar with things sacred; they then imagined the laity to be much in the condition of the labourer's horse, which does not submit to the bridle and the whip with greater reluctance, because, at rare intervals, he is allowed to frolic at large in his pasture, and fling out his heels in clumsy gambols at the master who usually drives him. But, when times changed--when doubt of the Roman Catholic doctrine, and hatred of their priesthood, had possessed the reformed party, the clergy discovered, too late, that no small inconvenience arose from the established practice of games and merry-makings, in which they themselves, and all they held most sacred, were made the subject of ridicule. It then became obvious to duller politicians than the Romish churchmen, that the same actions have a very different tendency when done in the spirit of sarcastic insolence and hatred, than when acted merely in exuberance of rude and uncontrollable spirits. They, therefore, though of the latest, endeavoured, where they had any remaining influence, to discourage the renewal of these indecorous festivities. In this particular, the Catholic clergy were joined by most of the reformed preachers, who were more shocked at the profanity and immorality of many of these exhibitions, than disposed to profit by the ridiculous light in which they placed the Church of Rome and her observances. But it was long ere these scandalous and immoral sports could be abrogated;--the rude multitude continued attached to their favourite pastimes, and, both in England and Scotland, the mitre of the Catholic--the rochet of the reformed bishop--and the cloak and band of the Calvinistic divine--were, in turn, compelled to give place to those jocular personages, the Pope of Fools, the Boy-Bishop, and the Abbot of Unreason. [Footnote: From the interesting novel entitled Anastasius, it seems the same burlesque ceremonies were practised in the Greek Church. ] It was the latter personage who now, in full costume, made his approach to the great door of the church of St. Mary's, accoutred in such a manner as to form a caricature, or practical parody, on the costume and attendants of the real Superior, whom he came to beard on the very day of his installation, in the presence of his clergy, and in the chancel of his church. The mock dignitary was a stout-made under-sized fellow, whose thick squab form had been rendered grotesque by a supplemental paunch, well stuffed. He wore a mitre of leather, with the front like a grenadier's cap, adorned with mock embroidery, and trinkets of tin. This surmounted a visage, the nose of which was the most prominent feature, being of unusual size, and at least as richly gemmed as his head-gear. His robe was of buckram, and his cope of canvass, curiously painted, and cut into open work. On one shoulder was fixed the painted figure of an owl; and he bore in the right hand his pastoral staff, and in the left a small mirror having a handle to it, thus resembling a celebrated jester, whose adventures, translated into English, were whilom extremely popular, and which may still be procured in black letter, for about one sterling pound per leaf. The attendants of this mock dignitary had their proper dresses and equipage, bearing the same burlesque resemblance to the officers of the Convent which their leader did to the Superior. They followed their leader in regular procession, and the motley characters, which had waited his arrival, now crowded into the church in his train, shouting as they came,-- A hall, a hall! for the venerable Father Howleglas, the learned Monk of Misrule, and the Right Reverend Abbot of Unreason! The discordant minstrelsy of every kind renewed its din; the boys shrieked and howled, and the men laughed and hallooed, and the women giggled and screamed, and the beasts roared, and the dragon wallopped and hissed, and the hobby-horse neighed, pranced, and capered, and the rest frisked and frolicked, clashing their hobnailed shoes against the pavement, till it sparkled with the marks of their energetic caprioles. It was, in fine, a scene of ridiculous confusion, that deafened the ear, made the eyes giddy, and must have altogether stunned any indifferent spectator; the monks, whom personal apprehension and a consciousness that much of the popular enjoyment arose from the ridicule being directed against them, were, moreover, little comforted by

passionate

How many times the word 'passionate' appears in the text?

with the deeper clamour of men, formed a Babel of sounds, which first drowned, and then awed into utter silence, the official hymns of the Convent. The cause and result of this extraordinary interruption will be explained in the next chapter. Chapter the Fourteenth. Not the wild billow, when it breaks its barrier-- Not the wild wind, escaping from its cavern-- Not the wild fiend, that mingles both together, And pours their rage upon the ripening harvest, Can match the wild freaks of this mirthful meeting-- Comic, yet fearful--droll, and yet destructive. THE CONSPIRACY. The monks ceased their song, which, like that of the choristers in the legend of the Witch of Berkley, died away in a quaver of consternation; and, like a flock of chickens disturbed by the presence of the kite, they at first made a movement to disperse and fly in different directions, and then, with despair, rather than hope, huddled themselves around their new Abbot; who, retaining the lofty and undismayed look which had dignified him through the whole ceremony, stood on the higher step of the altar, as if desirous to be the most conspicuous mark on which danger might discharge itself, and to save his companions by his self-devotion, since he could afford them no other protection. Involuntarily, as it were, Magdalen Graeme and the page stepped from the station which hitherto they had occupied unnoticed, and approached to the altar, as desirous of sharing the fate which approached the monks, whatever that might be. Both bowed reverently low to the Abbot; and while Magdalen seemed about to speak, the youth, looking towards the main entrance, at which the noise now roared most loudly, and which was at the same time assailed with much knocking, laid his hand upon his dagger. The Abbot motioned to both to forbear: Peace, my sister, he said, in a low tone, but which, being in a different key from the tumultuary sounds without, could be distinctly heard, even amidst the tumult;-- Peace, he said, my sister; let the new Superior of Saint Mary's himself receive and reply to the grateful acclamations of the vassals, who come to celebrate his installation.--And thou, my son, forbear, I charge thee, to touch thy earthly weapon;--if it is the pleasure of our protectress, that her shrine be this day desecrated by deeds of violence, and polluted by blood-shedding, let it not, I charge thee, happen through the deed of a Catholic son of the church. The noise and knocking at the outer gate became now every moment louder; and voices were heard impatiently demanding admittance. The Abbot, with dignity, and with a step which even the emergency of danger rendered neither faltering nor precipitate, moved towards the portal, and demanded to know, in a tone of authority, who it was that disturbed their worship, and what they desired? There was a moment's silence, and then a loud laugh from without. At length a voice replied, We desire entrance into the church; and when the door is opened you will soon see who we are. By whose authority do you require entrance? said the Father. By authority of the right reverend Lord Abbot of Unreason. [Footnote: We learn from no less authority than that of Napoleon Bonaparte, that there is but a single step between the sublime and ridiculous; and it is a transition from one extreme to another; so very easy, that the vulgar of every degree are peculiarly captivated with it. Thus the inclination to laugh becomes uncontrollable, when the solemnity and gravity of time, place, and circumstances, render it peculiarly improper. Some species of general license, like that which inspired the ancient Saturnalia, or the modern Carnival, has been commonly indulged to the people at all times and in almost all countries. But it was, I think, peculiar to the Roman Catholic Church, that while they studied how to render their church rites imposing and magnificent, by all that pomp, music, architecture, and external display could add to them, they nevertheless connived, upon special occasions, at the frolics of the rude vulgar, who, in almost all Catholic countries, enjoyed, or at least assumed, the privilege of making: some Lord of the revels, who, under the name of the Abbot of Unreason, the Boy Bishop, or the President of Fools, occupied the churches, profaned the holy places by a mock imitation of the sacred rites, and sung indecent parodies on hymns of the church. The indifference of the clergy, even when their power was greatest, to the indecent exhibitions which they always tolerated, and sometimes encouraged, forms a strong contrast to the sensitiveness with which they regarded any serious attempt, by preaching or writing, to impeach any of the doctrines of the church. It could only be compared to the singular apathy with which they endured, and often admired the gross novels which Chaucer, Dunbar, Boccacio, Bandello, and others, composed upon the bad morals of the clergy. It seems as if the churchmen in both instances had endeavoured to compromise with the laity, and allowed them occasionally to gratify their coarse humour by indecent satire, provided they would abstain from any grave question concerning the foundation of the doctrines on which was erected such an immense fabric of ecclesiastical power. But the sports thus licensed assumed a very different appearance, so soon as the Protestant doctrines began to prevail; and the license which their forefathers had exercised in mere gaiety of heart, and without the least intention of dishonouring religion by their frolics, were now persevered in by the common people as a mode of testifying their utter disregard for the Roman priesthood and its ceremonies. I may observe, for example, the case of an apparitor sent to Borthwick from the Primate of Saint Andrews, to cite the lord of that castle, who was opposed by an Abbot of Unreason, at whose command the officer of the spiritual court was appointed to be ducked in a mill-dam, and obliged to eat up his parchment citation. The reader may be amused with the following whimsical details of this incident, which took place in the castle of Borthwick, in the year 1517. It appears, that in consequence of a process betwixt Master George Hay de Minzeane and the Lord Borthwick, letters of excommunication had passed against the latter, on account of the contumacy of certain witnesses. William Langlands, an apparitor or macer (_bacularius_) of the See of St Andrews, presented these letters to the curate of the church of Borthwick, requiring him to publish the same at the service of high mass. It seems that the inhabitants of the castle were at this time engaged in the favourite sport of enacting the Abbot of Unreason, a species of high jinks, in which a mimic prelate was elected, who, like the Lord of Misrule in England, turned all sort of lawful authority, and particularly the church ritual, into ridicule. This frolicsome person with his retinue, notwithstanding of the apparitor's character, entered the church, seized upon the primate's officer without hesitation, and, dragging him to the mill-dam on the south side of the castle, compelled him to leap into the water. Not contented with this partial immersion, the Abbot of Unreason pronounced, that Mr. William Langlands was not yet sufficiently bathed, and therefore caused his assistants to lay him on his back in the stream, and duck him in the most satisfactory and perfect manner. The unfortunate apparitor was then conducted back to the church, where, for his refreshment after his bath, the letters of excommunication were torn to pieces, and steeped in a bowl of wine; the mock abbot being probably of opinion that a tough parchment was but dry eating, Langlands was compelled to eat the letters, and swallow the wine, and dismissed by the Abbot of Unreason, with the comfortable assurance, that if any more such letters should arrive during the continuance of his office, they should a' gang the same gate, _i. e._ go the same road. A similar scene occurs betwixt a sumner of the Bishop of Rochester, and Harpool, the servant of Lord Cobham, in the old play of Sir John Oldcastle, when the former compels the church-officer to eat his citation. The dialogue, which may be found in the note, contains most of the jests which may be supposed, appropriate to such an extraordinary occasion: _Harpool_ Marry, sir, is, this process parchment? _Sumner._ Yes, marry is it. _Harpool._ And this seal wax? _Sumner._ It is so. _Harpool._ If this be parchment, and this be wax, eat you this parchment and wax, or I will make parchment of your skin, and beat your brains into wax. Sirrah Sumner, despatch--devour, sirrah, devour. _Sumner._ I am my Lord of Rochester's sumner; I came to do my office, and thou shall answer it. _Harpool._ Sirrah, no railing, but, betake thyself to thy teeth. Thou shalt, eat no worse than thou bringest with thee. Thou bringest it for my lord; and wilt thou bring my lord worse than thou wilt eat thyself? _Sumner._ Sir. I brought it not my lord to eat. _Harpool._ O, do you Sir me now? All's one for that; I'll make you eat it for bringing it. _Sumner._ I cannot eat it. _Harpool._ Can you not? 'Sblood, I'll beat you till you have a stomach! (_Beats him._) _Sumner._ Oh, hold, hold, good Mr. Servingman; I will eat it. _Harpool._ Be champing, be chewing, sir, or I will chew you, you rogue. Tough wax is the purest of the honey. _Sumner._ The purest of the honey?--O Lord, sir, oh! oh! _Harpool._ Feed, feed; 'tis wholesome, rogue, wholesome. Cannot you, like an honest sumner, walk with the devil your brother, to fetch in your bailiff's rents, but you must come to a nobleman's house with process! If the seal were broad as the lead which covers Rochester Church, thou shouldst eat it. _Sumner._ Oh, I am almost choked--I am almost choked! _Harpool._ Who's within there? Will you shame my lord? Is there no beer in the house? Butler, I say. _Enter_ BUTLER. _Butler._ Here, here. _Harpool._ Give him beer. Tough old sheep skin's but dry meat. _First Part of Sir John Oldcastle_, Act II. Scene I.] replied the voice from without; and, from the laugh--which followed, it seemed as if there was something highly ludicrous couched under this reply. I know not, and seek not to know, your meaning, replied the Abbot, since it is probably a rude one. But begone, in the name of God, and leave his servants in peace. I speak this, as having lawful authority to command here. Open the door, said another rude voice, and we will try titles with you, Sir Monk, and show you a superior we must all obey. Break open the doors if he dallies any longer, said a third, and down with the carrion monks who would bar us of our privilege! A general shout followed. Ay, ay, our privilege! our privilege! down with the doors, and with the lurdane monks, if they make opposition! The knocking was now exchanged for blows with great, hammers, to which the doors, strong as they were, must soon have given way. But the Abbot, who saw resistance would be in vain, and who did not wish to incense the assailants by an attempt at offering it, besought silence earnestly, and with difficulty obtained a hearing. My children, said he, I will save you from committing a great sin. The porter will presently undo the gate--he is gone to fetch the keys--meantime I pray you to consider with yourselves, if you are in a state of mind to cross the holy threshold. Tillyvally for your papistry! was answered from without; we are in the mood of the monks when they are merriest, and that is when they sup beef-brewis for lanten-kail. So, if your porter hath not the gout, let him come speedily, or we heave away readily.--Said I well, comrades? Bravely said, and it shall be as bravely done, said the multitude; and had not the keys arrived at that moment, and the porter in hasty terror performed his office, throwing open the great door, the populace would have saved him the trouble. The instant he had done so, the affrighted janitor fled, like one who has drawn the bolts of a flood-gate, and expects to be overwhelmed by the rushing inundation. The monks, with one consent, had withdrawn themselves behind the Abbot, who alone kept his station, about three yards from the entrance, showing no signs of fear or perturbation. His brethren--partly encouraged by his devotion, partly ashamed to desert him, and partly animated by a sense of duty.--remained huddled close together, at the back of their Superior. There was a loud laugh and huzza when the doors were opened; but, contrary to what might have been expected, no crowd of enraged assailants rushed into the church. On the contrary, there was a cry of A halt!-a halt--to order, my masters! and let the two reverend fathers greet each other, as beseems them. The appearance of the crowd who were thus called to order, was grotesque in the extreme. It was composed of men, women, and children, ludicrously disguised in various habits, and presenting groups equally diversified and grotesque. Here one fellow with a horse's head painted before him, and a tail behind, and the whole covered with a long foot-cloth, which was supposed to hide the body of the animal, ambled, caracoled, pranced, and plunged, as he performed the celebrated part of the hobby-horse, [Footnote: This exhibition, the play-mare of Scotland, stood high among holyday gambols. It must be carefully separated from the wooden chargers which furnish out our nurseries. It gives rise to Hamlet's ejaculation,-- But oh, but oh, the hobby-horse is forgot! There is a very comic scene in Beaumont and Fletcher's play of Woman Pleased, where Hope-on-high Bombye, a puritan cobbler, refuses to dance with the hobby-horse. There was much difficulty and great variety in the motions which the hobby-horse was expected to exhibit. The learned Mr. Douce, who has contributed so much to the illustration of our theatrical antiquities, has given us a full account of this pageant, and the burlesque horsemanship which it practised. The hobby-horse, says Mr. Douce, was represented by a man equipped with as much pasteboard as was sufficient to form the head and hinder parts of a horse, the quadrupedal defects being concealed by a long mantle or footcloth that nearly touched the ground. The former, on this occasion, exerted all his skill in burlesque horsemanship. In Sympson's play of the Law-breakers, 1636, a miller personates the hobby-horse, and being angry that the Mayor of the city is put in competition with him, exclaims, 'Let the mayor play the hobby-horse among his brethren, an he will; I hope our town-lads cannot want a hobby-horse. Have I practised my reins, my careers, my prankers, my ambles, my false trots, my smooth ambles, and Canterbury paces, and shall master mayor put me beside the hobby-horse? Have I borrowed the fore-horse bells, his plumes, his braveries; nay, had his mane new shorn and frizzled, and shall the mayor put me beside the hobby-horse? --_Douce's Illustrations_, vol. II. p. 468] so often alluded to in our ancient drama; and which still flourishes on the stage in the battle that concludes Bayes's tragedy. To rival the address and agility displayed by this character, another personage advanced in the more formidable character of a huge dragon, with gilded wings, open jaws, and a scarlet tongue, cloven at the end, which made various efforts to overtake and devour a lad, dressed as the lovely Sabaea, daughter of the King of Egypt, who fled before him; while a martial Saint George, grotesquely armed with a goblet for a helmet, and a spit for a lance, ever and anon interfered, and compelled the monster to relinquish his prey. A bear, a wolf, and one or two other wild animals, played their parts with the discretion of Snug the joiner; for the decided preference which they gave to the use of their hind legs, was sufficient, without any formal annunciation, to assure the most timorous spectators that they had to do with habitual bipeds. There was a group of outlaws with Robin Hood and Little John at their head [Footnote: The representation of Robin Hood was the darling Maygame both in England and Scotland, and doubtless the favourite personification was often revived, when the Abbot of Unreason, or other pretences of frolic, gave an unusual decree of license. The Protestant clergy, who had formerly reaped advantage from the opportunities which these sports afforded them of directing their own satire and the ridicule of the lower orders against the Catholic church, began to find that, when these purposes were served, their favourite pastimes deprived them of the wish to attend divine worship, and disturbed the frame of mind in which it can be attended to advantage. The celebrated Bishop Latimer gives a very _naive_ account of the manner in which, bishop as he was, he found himself compelled to give place to Robin Hood and his followers. I came once myselfe riding on a journey homeward from London, and I sent word over night into the towne that I would preach there in the morning, because it was holiday, and me thought it was a holidayes worke. The church stood in my way, and I took my horse and my company, and went thither, (I thought I should have found a great company in the church,) and when I came there the church doore was fast locked. I tarryed there halfe an houre and more. At last the key was found, and one of the parish comes to me and said,--'Sir, this is a busie day with us, we cannot hear you; it is Robin Hood's day. The parish are gone abroad to gather for Robin Hood. I pray you let them not.' I was faine there to give place to Robin Hood. I thought my rochet should have been regarded, though I were not: but it would not serve, it was faine to give place to Robin Hood's men. It is no laughing matter, my friends, it is a weeping matter, a heavie matter, a heavie matter. Under the pretence for gathering for Robin Hood, a traytour, and a theif, to put out a preacher; to have his office lesse esteemed; to preferre Robin Hood before the ministration of God's word; and all this hath come of unpreaching prelates. This realme hath been ill provided for, that it hath had such corrupt judgments in it, to prefer Robin Hood to God's word. --_Bishop Latimer's sixth Sermon before King Edward_. While the English Protestants thus preferred the outlaw's pageant to the preaching of their excellent Bishop, the Scottish calvinistic clergy, with the celebrated John Knox at their head, and backed by the authority of the magistrates of Edinburgh, who had of late been chosen exclusively from this party, found it impossible to control the rage of the populace, when they attempted to deprive them of the privilege of presenting their pageant of Robin Hood. [Note on old Scottish spelling: leading y = modern 'th'; leading v = modern 'u'] (561) Vpon the xxi day of Junij. Archibalde Dowglas of Kilspindie, Provest of Edr., David Symmer and Adame Fullartoun, baillies of the samyne, causit ane cordinare servant, callit James Gillion takin of befoir, for playing in Edr. with Robene Hude, to wnderly the law, and put him to the knawlege of ane assyize qlk yaij haid electit of yair favoraris, quha with schort deliberatioun condemnit him to be hangit for ye said cryme. And the deaconis of ye craftismen fearing vproare, maid great solistatuis at ye handis of ye said provost and baillies, and als requirit John Knox, minister, for eschewing of tumult, to superceid ye execution of him, vnto ye tyme yai suld adverteis my Lord Duke yairof. And yan, if it wes his mynd and will yat he should be disponit vpoun, ye said deaconis and craftismen sould convey him yaire; quha answerit, yat yai culd na way stope ye executioun of justice. Quhan ye time of ye said pouer mans hanging approchit, and yat ye hangman wes cum to ye jibbat with ye ledder, vpoune ye qlk ye said cordinare should have bene hangit, ane certaine and remanent craftischilder, quha wes put to ye horne with ye said Gillione, ffor ye said Robene Huide's _playes_, and vyris yair assistaris and favoraris, past to wappinis, and yai brak down ye said jibbat, and yan chacit ye said provest, baillies, and Alexr. Guthrie, in ye said Alexander's writing buith, and held yame yairin; and yairefter past to ye tolbuyt, and becaus the samyne was steiket, and onnawayes culd get the keyes thairof, thai brak the said tolbuith dore with foure harberis, per force, (the said provest and baillies luckand thairon.) and not onlie put thar the said Gillione to fredome and libertie, and brocht him furth of the said tolbuit, bot alsua the remanent presonaris being thairintill; and this done, the said craftismen's servands, with the said condempnit cordonar, past doun to the Netherbow, to have past furth thairat; bot becaus the samyne on thair coming thairto wes closet, thai past vp agane the Hie streit of the said bourghe to the Castellhill, and in this menetymne the saidis provest and baillies, and thair assistaris being in the writing buith of the said Alexr. Guthrie, past and enterit in the said tolbuyt, and in the said servandes passage vp the Hie streit, then schote furth thairof at thame ane dog, and hurt ane servand of the said childer. This being done, thair wes nathing vthir but the one partie schuteand out and castand stanes furth of the said tolbuyt, and the vther pairtie schuteand hagbuttis in the same agane. Aund sua the craftismen's servandis, aboue written, held and inclosit the said provest and baillies continewallie in the said tolbuyth, frae three houris efternone, quhill aught houris at even, and na man of the said town prensit to relieve their said provest and baillies. And than thai send to the maisters of the Castell, to caus tham if thai mycht stay the said servandis, quha maid ane maner to do the same, bot thai could not bring the same to ane finall end, ffor the said servands wold on noways stay fra, quhill thai had revengit the hurting of ane of them; and thairefter the constable of the castell come down thairfra, and he with the said maisters treatet betwix the said pties in this maner:--That the said provost and baillies sall remit to the said craftischilder, all actioun, cryme, and offens that thai had committit aganes thame in any tyme bygane; and band and oblast thame never to pursew them thairfor; and als commandit thair maisters to resaue them agane in thair services, as thai did befoir. And this being proclainit at the mercat cross, thai scalit, and the said provest and bailies come furth of the same tolbouyth. &c. &c. &c. John Knox, who writes at large upon this tumult, informs us it was inflamed by the deacons of craftes, who, resenting; the superiority assumed over them by the magistrates, would yield no assistance to put down the tumult. They will be magistrates alone, said the recusant deacons, e'en let them rule the populace alone; and accordingly they passed quietly to take _their four-hours penny_, and left the magistrates to help themselves as they could. Many persons were excommunicated for this outrage, and not admitted to church ordinances till they had made satisfaction.] --the best representation exhibited at the time; and no great wonder, since most of the actors were, by profession, the banished men and thieves whom they presented. Other masqueraders there were, of a less marked description. Men were disguised as women, and women as men--children wore the dress of aged people, and tottered with crutch-sticks in their hands, furred gowns on their little backs, and caps on their round heads--while grandsires assumed the infantine tone as well as the dress of children. Besides these, many had their faces painted, and wore their shirts over the rest of their dress; while coloured pasteboard and ribbons furnished out decorations for others. Those who wanted all these properties, blacked their faces, and turned their jackets inside out; and thus the transmutation of the whole assembly into a set of mad grotesque mummers, was at once completed. The pause which the masqueraders made, waiting apparently for some person of the highest authority amongst them, gave those within the Abbey Church full time to observe all these absurdities. They were at no loss to comprehend their purpose and meaning. Few readers can be ignorant, that at an early period, and during the plenitude of her power, the Church of Rome not only connived at, but even encouraged, such Saturnalian licenses as the inhabitants of Kennaquhair and the neighbourhood had now in hand, and that the vulgar, on such occasions, were not only permitted but encouraged by a number of gambols, sometimes puerile and ludicrous, sometimes immoral and profane, to indemnify themselves for the privations and penances imposed on them at other seasons. But, of all other topics for burlesque and ridicule, the rites and ceremonial of the church itself were most frequently resorted to; and, strange to say, with the approbation of the clergy themselves. While the hierarchy flourished in full glory, they do not appear to have dreaded the consequences of suffering the people to become so irreverently familiar with things sacred; they then imagined the laity to be much in the condition of the labourer's horse, which does not submit to the bridle and the whip with greater reluctance, because, at rare intervals, he is allowed to frolic at large in his pasture, and fling out his heels in clumsy gambols at the master who usually drives him. But, when times changed--when doubt of the Roman Catholic doctrine, and hatred of their priesthood, had possessed the reformed party, the clergy discovered, too late, that no small inconvenience arose from the established practice of games and merry-makings, in which they themselves, and all they held most sacred, were made the subject of ridicule. It then became obvious to duller politicians than the Romish churchmen, that the same actions have a very different tendency when done in the spirit of sarcastic insolence and hatred, than when acted merely in exuberance of rude and uncontrollable spirits. They, therefore, though of the latest, endeavoured, where they had any remaining influence, to discourage the renewal of these indecorous festivities. In this particular, the Catholic clergy were joined by most of the reformed preachers, who were more shocked at the profanity and immorality of many of these exhibitions, than disposed to profit by the ridiculous light in which they placed the Church of Rome and her observances. But it was long ere these scandalous and immoral sports could be abrogated;--the rude multitude continued attached to their favourite pastimes, and, both in England and Scotland, the mitre of the Catholic--the rochet of the reformed bishop--and the cloak and band of the Calvinistic divine--were, in turn, compelled to give place to those jocular personages, the Pope of Fools, the Boy-Bishop, and the Abbot of Unreason. [Footnote: From the interesting novel entitled Anastasius, it seems the same burlesque ceremonies were practised in the Greek Church. ] It was the latter personage who now, in full costume, made his approach to the great door of the church of St. Mary's, accoutred in such a manner as to form a caricature, or practical parody, on the costume and attendants of the real Superior, whom he came to beard on the very day of his installation, in the presence of his clergy, and in the chancel of his church. The mock dignitary was a stout-made under-sized fellow, whose thick squab form had been rendered grotesque by a supplemental paunch, well stuffed. He wore a mitre of leather, with the front like a grenadier's cap, adorned with mock embroidery, and trinkets of tin. This surmounted a visage, the nose of which was the most prominent feature, being of unusual size, and at least as richly gemmed as his head-gear. His robe was of buckram, and his cope of canvass, curiously painted, and cut into open work. On one shoulder was fixed the painted figure of an owl; and he bore in the right hand his pastoral staff, and in the left a small mirror having a handle to it, thus resembling a celebrated jester, whose adventures, translated into English, were whilom extremely popular, and which may still be procured in black letter, for about one sterling pound per leaf. The attendants of this mock dignitary had their proper dresses and equipage, bearing the same burlesque resemblance to the officers of the Convent which their leader did to the Superior. They followed their leader in regular procession, and the motley characters, which had waited his arrival, now crowded into the church in his train, shouting as they came,-- A hall, a hall! for the venerable Father Howleglas, the learned Monk of Misrule, and the Right Reverend Abbot of Unreason! The discordant minstrelsy of every kind renewed its din; the boys shrieked and howled, and the men laughed and hallooed, and the women giggled and screamed, and the beasts roared, and the dragon wallopped and hissed, and the hobby-horse neighed, pranced, and capered, and the rest frisked and frolicked, clashing their hobnailed shoes against the pavement, till it sparkled with the marks of their energetic caprioles. It was, in fine, a scene of ridiculous confusion, that deafened the ear, made the eyes giddy, and must have altogether stunned any indifferent spectator; the monks, whom personal apprehension and a consciousness that much of the popular enjoyment arose from the ridicule being directed against them, were, moreover, little comforted by

intention

How many times the word 'intention' appears in the text?

with the deeper clamour of men, formed a Babel of sounds, which first drowned, and then awed into utter silence, the official hymns of the Convent. The cause and result of this extraordinary interruption will be explained in the next chapter. Chapter the Fourteenth. Not the wild billow, when it breaks its barrier-- Not the wild wind, escaping from its cavern-- Not the wild fiend, that mingles both together, And pours their rage upon the ripening harvest, Can match the wild freaks of this mirthful meeting-- Comic, yet fearful--droll, and yet destructive. THE CONSPIRACY. The monks ceased their song, which, like that of the choristers in the legend of the Witch of Berkley, died away in a quaver of consternation; and, like a flock of chickens disturbed by the presence of the kite, they at first made a movement to disperse and fly in different directions, and then, with despair, rather than hope, huddled themselves around their new Abbot; who, retaining the lofty and undismayed look which had dignified him through the whole ceremony, stood on the higher step of the altar, as if desirous to be the most conspicuous mark on which danger might discharge itself, and to save his companions by his self-devotion, since he could afford them no other protection. Involuntarily, as it were, Magdalen Graeme and the page stepped from the station which hitherto they had occupied unnoticed, and approached to the altar, as desirous of sharing the fate which approached the monks, whatever that might be. Both bowed reverently low to the Abbot; and while Magdalen seemed about to speak, the youth, looking towards the main entrance, at which the noise now roared most loudly, and which was at the same time assailed with much knocking, laid his hand upon his dagger. The Abbot motioned to both to forbear: Peace, my sister, he said, in a low tone, but which, being in a different key from the tumultuary sounds without, could be distinctly heard, even amidst the tumult;-- Peace, he said, my sister; let the new Superior of Saint Mary's himself receive and reply to the grateful acclamations of the vassals, who come to celebrate his installation.--And thou, my son, forbear, I charge thee, to touch thy earthly weapon;--if it is the pleasure of our protectress, that her shrine be this day desecrated by deeds of violence, and polluted by blood-shedding, let it not, I charge thee, happen through the deed of a Catholic son of the church. The noise and knocking at the outer gate became now every moment louder; and voices were heard impatiently demanding admittance. The Abbot, with dignity, and with a step which even the emergency of danger rendered neither faltering nor precipitate, moved towards the portal, and demanded to know, in a tone of authority, who it was that disturbed their worship, and what they desired? There was a moment's silence, and then a loud laugh from without. At length a voice replied, We desire entrance into the church; and when the door is opened you will soon see who we are. By whose authority do you require entrance? said the Father. By authority of the right reverend Lord Abbot of Unreason. [Footnote: We learn from no less authority than that of Napoleon Bonaparte, that there is but a single step between the sublime and ridiculous; and it is a transition from one extreme to another; so very easy, that the vulgar of every degree are peculiarly captivated with it. Thus the inclination to laugh becomes uncontrollable, when the solemnity and gravity of time, place, and circumstances, render it peculiarly improper. Some species of general license, like that which inspired the ancient Saturnalia, or the modern Carnival, has been commonly indulged to the people at all times and in almost all countries. But it was, I think, peculiar to the Roman Catholic Church, that while they studied how to render their church rites imposing and magnificent, by all that pomp, music, architecture, and external display could add to them, they nevertheless connived, upon special occasions, at the frolics of the rude vulgar, who, in almost all Catholic countries, enjoyed, or at least assumed, the privilege of making: some Lord of the revels, who, under the name of the Abbot of Unreason, the Boy Bishop, or the President of Fools, occupied the churches, profaned the holy places by a mock imitation of the sacred rites, and sung indecent parodies on hymns of the church. The indifference of the clergy, even when their power was greatest, to the indecent exhibitions which they always tolerated, and sometimes encouraged, forms a strong contrast to the sensitiveness with which they regarded any serious attempt, by preaching or writing, to impeach any of the doctrines of the church. It could only be compared to the singular apathy with which they endured, and often admired the gross novels which Chaucer, Dunbar, Boccacio, Bandello, and others, composed upon the bad morals of the clergy. It seems as if the churchmen in both instances had endeavoured to compromise with the laity, and allowed them occasionally to gratify their coarse humour by indecent satire, provided they would abstain from any grave question concerning the foundation of the doctrines on which was erected such an immense fabric of ecclesiastical power. But the sports thus licensed assumed a very different appearance, so soon as the Protestant doctrines began to prevail; and the license which their forefathers had exercised in mere gaiety of heart, and without the least intention of dishonouring religion by their frolics, were now persevered in by the common people as a mode of testifying their utter disregard for the Roman priesthood and its ceremonies. I may observe, for example, the case of an apparitor sent to Borthwick from the Primate of Saint Andrews, to cite the lord of that castle, who was opposed by an Abbot of Unreason, at whose command the officer of the spiritual court was appointed to be ducked in a mill-dam, and obliged to eat up his parchment citation. The reader may be amused with the following whimsical details of this incident, which took place in the castle of Borthwick, in the year 1517. It appears, that in consequence of a process betwixt Master George Hay de Minzeane and the Lord Borthwick, letters of excommunication had passed against the latter, on account of the contumacy of certain witnesses. William Langlands, an apparitor or macer (_bacularius_) of the See of St Andrews, presented these letters to the curate of the church of Borthwick, requiring him to publish the same at the service of high mass. It seems that the inhabitants of the castle were at this time engaged in the favourite sport of enacting the Abbot of Unreason, a species of high jinks, in which a mimic prelate was elected, who, like the Lord of Misrule in England, turned all sort of lawful authority, and particularly the church ritual, into ridicule. This frolicsome person with his retinue, notwithstanding of the apparitor's character, entered the church, seized upon the primate's officer without hesitation, and, dragging him to the mill-dam on the south side of the castle, compelled him to leap into the water. Not contented with this partial immersion, the Abbot of Unreason pronounced, that Mr. William Langlands was not yet sufficiently bathed, and therefore caused his assistants to lay him on his back in the stream, and duck him in the most satisfactory and perfect manner. The unfortunate apparitor was then conducted back to the church, where, for his refreshment after his bath, the letters of excommunication were torn to pieces, and steeped in a bowl of wine; the mock abbot being probably of opinion that a tough parchment was but dry eating, Langlands was compelled to eat the letters, and swallow the wine, and dismissed by the Abbot of Unreason, with the comfortable assurance, that if any more such letters should arrive during the continuance of his office, they should a' gang the same gate, _i. e._ go the same road. A similar scene occurs betwixt a sumner of the Bishop of Rochester, and Harpool, the servant of Lord Cobham, in the old play of Sir John Oldcastle, when the former compels the church-officer to eat his citation. The dialogue, which may be found in the note, contains most of the jests which may be supposed, appropriate to such an extraordinary occasion: _Harpool_ Marry, sir, is, this process parchment? _Sumner._ Yes, marry is it. _Harpool._ And this seal wax? _Sumner._ It is so. _Harpool._ If this be parchment, and this be wax, eat you this parchment and wax, or I will make parchment of your skin, and beat your brains into wax. Sirrah Sumner, despatch--devour, sirrah, devour. _Sumner._ I am my Lord of Rochester's sumner; I came to do my office, and thou shall answer it. _Harpool._ Sirrah, no railing, but, betake thyself to thy teeth. Thou shalt, eat no worse than thou bringest with thee. Thou bringest it for my lord; and wilt thou bring my lord worse than thou wilt eat thyself? _Sumner._ Sir. I brought it not my lord to eat. _Harpool._ O, do you Sir me now? All's one for that; I'll make you eat it for bringing it. _Sumner._ I cannot eat it. _Harpool._ Can you not? 'Sblood, I'll beat you till you have a stomach! (_Beats him._) _Sumner._ Oh, hold, hold, good Mr. Servingman; I will eat it. _Harpool._ Be champing, be chewing, sir, or I will chew you, you rogue. Tough wax is the purest of the honey. _Sumner._ The purest of the honey?--O Lord, sir, oh! oh! _Harpool._ Feed, feed; 'tis wholesome, rogue, wholesome. Cannot you, like an honest sumner, walk with the devil your brother, to fetch in your bailiff's rents, but you must come to a nobleman's house with process! If the seal were broad as the lead which covers Rochester Church, thou shouldst eat it. _Sumner._ Oh, I am almost choked--I am almost choked! _Harpool._ Who's within there? Will you shame my lord? Is there no beer in the house? Butler, I say. _Enter_ BUTLER. _Butler._ Here, here. _Harpool._ Give him beer. Tough old sheep skin's but dry meat. _First Part of Sir John Oldcastle_, Act II. Scene I.] replied the voice from without; and, from the laugh--which followed, it seemed as if there was something highly ludicrous couched under this reply. I know not, and seek not to know, your meaning, replied the Abbot, since it is probably a rude one. But begone, in the name of God, and leave his servants in peace. I speak this, as having lawful authority to command here. Open the door, said another rude voice, and we will try titles with you, Sir Monk, and show you a superior we must all obey. Break open the doors if he dallies any longer, said a third, and down with the carrion monks who would bar us of our privilege! A general shout followed. Ay, ay, our privilege! our privilege! down with the doors, and with the lurdane monks, if they make opposition! The knocking was now exchanged for blows with great, hammers, to which the doors, strong as they were, must soon have given way. But the Abbot, who saw resistance would be in vain, and who did not wish to incense the assailants by an attempt at offering it, besought silence earnestly, and with difficulty obtained a hearing. My children, said he, I will save you from committing a great sin. The porter will presently undo the gate--he is gone to fetch the keys--meantime I pray you to consider with yourselves, if you are in a state of mind to cross the holy threshold. Tillyvally for your papistry! was answered from without; we are in the mood of the monks when they are merriest, and that is when they sup beef-brewis for lanten-kail. So, if your porter hath not the gout, let him come speedily, or we heave away readily.--Said I well, comrades? Bravely said, and it shall be as bravely done, said the multitude; and had not the keys arrived at that moment, and the porter in hasty terror performed his office, throwing open the great door, the populace would have saved him the trouble. The instant he had done so, the affrighted janitor fled, like one who has drawn the bolts of a flood-gate, and expects to be overwhelmed by the rushing inundation. The monks, with one consent, had withdrawn themselves behind the Abbot, who alone kept his station, about three yards from the entrance, showing no signs of fear or perturbation. His brethren--partly encouraged by his devotion, partly ashamed to desert him, and partly animated by a sense of duty.--remained huddled close together, at the back of their Superior. There was a loud laugh and huzza when the doors were opened; but, contrary to what might have been expected, no crowd of enraged assailants rushed into the church. On the contrary, there was a cry of A halt!-a halt--to order, my masters! and let the two reverend fathers greet each other, as beseems them. The appearance of the crowd who were thus called to order, was grotesque in the extreme. It was composed of men, women, and children, ludicrously disguised in various habits, and presenting groups equally diversified and grotesque. Here one fellow with a horse's head painted before him, and a tail behind, and the whole covered with a long foot-cloth, which was supposed to hide the body of the animal, ambled, caracoled, pranced, and plunged, as he performed the celebrated part of the hobby-horse, [Footnote: This exhibition, the play-mare of Scotland, stood high among holyday gambols. It must be carefully separated from the wooden chargers which furnish out our nurseries. It gives rise to Hamlet's ejaculation,-- But oh, but oh, the hobby-horse is forgot! There is a very comic scene in Beaumont and Fletcher's play of Woman Pleased, where Hope-on-high Bombye, a puritan cobbler, refuses to dance with the hobby-horse. There was much difficulty and great variety in the motions which the hobby-horse was expected to exhibit. The learned Mr. Douce, who has contributed so much to the illustration of our theatrical antiquities, has given us a full account of this pageant, and the burlesque horsemanship which it practised. The hobby-horse, says Mr. Douce, was represented by a man equipped with as much pasteboard as was sufficient to form the head and hinder parts of a horse, the quadrupedal defects being concealed by a long mantle or footcloth that nearly touched the ground. The former, on this occasion, exerted all his skill in burlesque horsemanship. In Sympson's play of the Law-breakers, 1636, a miller personates the hobby-horse, and being angry that the Mayor of the city is put in competition with him, exclaims, 'Let the mayor play the hobby-horse among his brethren, an he will; I hope our town-lads cannot want a hobby-horse. Have I practised my reins, my careers, my prankers, my ambles, my false trots, my smooth ambles, and Canterbury paces, and shall master mayor put me beside the hobby-horse? Have I borrowed the fore-horse bells, his plumes, his braveries; nay, had his mane new shorn and frizzled, and shall the mayor put me beside the hobby-horse? --_Douce's Illustrations_, vol. II. p. 468] so often alluded to in our ancient drama; and which still flourishes on the stage in the battle that concludes Bayes's tragedy. To rival the address and agility displayed by this character, another personage advanced in the more formidable character of a huge dragon, with gilded wings, open jaws, and a scarlet tongue, cloven at the end, which made various efforts to overtake and devour a lad, dressed as the lovely Sabaea, daughter of the King of Egypt, who fled before him; while a martial Saint George, grotesquely armed with a goblet for a helmet, and a spit for a lance, ever and anon interfered, and compelled the monster to relinquish his prey. A bear, a wolf, and one or two other wild animals, played their parts with the discretion of Snug the joiner; for the decided preference which they gave to the use of their hind legs, was sufficient, without any formal annunciation, to assure the most timorous spectators that they had to do with habitual bipeds. There was a group of outlaws with Robin Hood and Little John at their head [Footnote: The representation of Robin Hood was the darling Maygame both in England and Scotland, and doubtless the favourite personification was often revived, when the Abbot of Unreason, or other pretences of frolic, gave an unusual decree of license. The Protestant clergy, who had formerly reaped advantage from the opportunities which these sports afforded them of directing their own satire and the ridicule of the lower orders against the Catholic church, began to find that, when these purposes were served, their favourite pastimes deprived them of the wish to attend divine worship, and disturbed the frame of mind in which it can be attended to advantage. The celebrated Bishop Latimer gives a very _naive_ account of the manner in which, bishop as he was, he found himself compelled to give place to Robin Hood and his followers. I came once myselfe riding on a journey homeward from London, and I sent word over night into the towne that I would preach there in the morning, because it was holiday, and me thought it was a holidayes worke. The church stood in my way, and I took my horse and my company, and went thither, (I thought I should have found a great company in the church,) and when I came there the church doore was fast locked. I tarryed there halfe an houre and more. At last the key was found, and one of the parish comes to me and said,--'Sir, this is a busie day with us, we cannot hear you; it is Robin Hood's day. The parish are gone abroad to gather for Robin Hood. I pray you let them not.' I was faine there to give place to Robin Hood. I thought my rochet should have been regarded, though I were not: but it would not serve, it was faine to give place to Robin Hood's men. It is no laughing matter, my friends, it is a weeping matter, a heavie matter, a heavie matter. Under the pretence for gathering for Robin Hood, a traytour, and a theif, to put out a preacher; to have his office lesse esteemed; to preferre Robin Hood before the ministration of God's word; and all this hath come of unpreaching prelates. This realme hath been ill provided for, that it hath had such corrupt judgments in it, to prefer Robin Hood to God's word. --_Bishop Latimer's sixth Sermon before King Edward_. While the English Protestants thus preferred the outlaw's pageant to the preaching of their excellent Bishop, the Scottish calvinistic clergy, with the celebrated John Knox at their head, and backed by the authority of the magistrates of Edinburgh, who had of late been chosen exclusively from this party, found it impossible to control the rage of the populace, when they attempted to deprive them of the privilege of presenting their pageant of Robin Hood. [Note on old Scottish spelling: leading y = modern 'th'; leading v = modern 'u'] (561) Vpon the xxi day of Junij. Archibalde Dowglas of Kilspindie, Provest of Edr., David Symmer and Adame Fullartoun, baillies of the samyne, causit ane cordinare servant, callit James Gillion takin of befoir, for playing in Edr. with Robene Hude, to wnderly the law, and put him to the knawlege of ane assyize qlk yaij haid electit of yair favoraris, quha with schort deliberatioun condemnit him to be hangit for ye said cryme. And the deaconis of ye craftismen fearing vproare, maid great solistatuis at ye handis of ye said provost and baillies, and als requirit John Knox, minister, for eschewing of tumult, to superceid ye execution of him, vnto ye tyme yai suld adverteis my Lord Duke yairof. And yan, if it wes his mynd and will yat he should be disponit vpoun, ye said deaconis and craftismen sould convey him yaire; quha answerit, yat yai culd na way stope ye executioun of justice. Quhan ye time of ye said pouer mans hanging approchit, and yat ye hangman wes cum to ye jibbat with ye ledder, vpoune ye qlk ye said cordinare should have bene hangit, ane certaine and remanent craftischilder, quha wes put to ye horne with ye said Gillione, ffor ye said Robene Huide's _playes_, and vyris yair assistaris and favoraris, past to wappinis, and yai brak down ye said jibbat, and yan chacit ye said provest, baillies, and Alexr. Guthrie, in ye said Alexander's writing buith, and held yame yairin; and yairefter past to ye tolbuyt, and becaus the samyne was steiket, and onnawayes culd get the keyes thairof, thai brak the said tolbuith dore with foure harberis, per force, (the said provest and baillies luckand thairon.) and not onlie put thar the said Gillione to fredome and libertie, and brocht him furth of the said tolbuit, bot alsua the remanent presonaris being thairintill; and this done, the said craftismen's servands, with the said condempnit cordonar, past doun to the Netherbow, to have past furth thairat; bot becaus the samyne on thair coming thairto wes closet, thai past vp agane the Hie streit of the said bourghe to the Castellhill, and in this menetymne the saidis provest and baillies, and thair assistaris being in the writing buith of the said Alexr. Guthrie, past and enterit in the said tolbuyt, and in the said servandes passage vp the Hie streit, then schote furth thairof at thame ane dog, and hurt ane servand of the said childer. This being done, thair wes nathing vthir but the one partie schuteand out and castand stanes furth of the said tolbuyt, and the vther pairtie schuteand hagbuttis in the same agane. Aund sua the craftismen's servandis, aboue written, held and inclosit the said provest and baillies continewallie in the said tolbuyth, frae three houris efternone, quhill aught houris at even, and na man of the said town prensit to relieve their said provest and baillies. And than thai send to the maisters of the Castell, to caus tham if thai mycht stay the said servandis, quha maid ane maner to do the same, bot thai could not bring the same to ane finall end, ffor the said servands wold on noways stay fra, quhill thai had revengit the hurting of ane of them; and thairefter the constable of the castell come down thairfra, and he with the said maisters treatet betwix the said pties in this maner:--That the said provost and baillies sall remit to the said craftischilder, all actioun, cryme, and offens that thai had committit aganes thame in any tyme bygane; and band and oblast thame never to pursew them thairfor; and als commandit thair maisters to resaue them agane in thair services, as thai did befoir. And this being proclainit at the mercat cross, thai scalit, and the said provest and bailies come furth of the same tolbouyth. &c. &c. &c. John Knox, who writes at large upon this tumult, informs us it was inflamed by the deacons of craftes, who, resenting; the superiority assumed over them by the magistrates, would yield no assistance to put down the tumult. They will be magistrates alone, said the recusant deacons, e'en let them rule the populace alone; and accordingly they passed quietly to take _their four-hours penny_, and left the magistrates to help themselves as they could. Many persons were excommunicated for this outrage, and not admitted to church ordinances till they had made satisfaction.] --the best representation exhibited at the time; and no great wonder, since most of the actors were, by profession, the banished men and thieves whom they presented. Other masqueraders there were, of a less marked description. Men were disguised as women, and women as men--children wore the dress of aged people, and tottered with crutch-sticks in their hands, furred gowns on their little backs, and caps on their round heads--while grandsires assumed the infantine tone as well as the dress of children. Besides these, many had their faces painted, and wore their shirts over the rest of their dress; while coloured pasteboard and ribbons furnished out decorations for others. Those who wanted all these properties, blacked their faces, and turned their jackets inside out; and thus the transmutation of the whole assembly into a set of mad grotesque mummers, was at once completed. The pause which the masqueraders made, waiting apparently for some person of the highest authority amongst them, gave those within the Abbey Church full time to observe all these absurdities. They were at no loss to comprehend their purpose and meaning. Few readers can be ignorant, that at an early period, and during the plenitude of her power, the Church of Rome not only connived at, but even encouraged, such Saturnalian licenses as the inhabitants of Kennaquhair and the neighbourhood had now in hand, and that the vulgar, on such occasions, were not only permitted but encouraged by a number of gambols, sometimes puerile and ludicrous, sometimes immoral and profane, to indemnify themselves for the privations and penances imposed on them at other seasons. But, of all other topics for burlesque and ridicule, the rites and ceremonial of the church itself were most frequently resorted to; and, strange to say, with the approbation of the clergy themselves. While the hierarchy flourished in full glory, they do not appear to have dreaded the consequences of suffering the people to become so irreverently familiar with things sacred; they then imagined the laity to be much in the condition of the labourer's horse, which does not submit to the bridle and the whip with greater reluctance, because, at rare intervals, he is allowed to frolic at large in his pasture, and fling out his heels in clumsy gambols at the master who usually drives him. But, when times changed--when doubt of the Roman Catholic doctrine, and hatred of their priesthood, had possessed the reformed party, the clergy discovered, too late, that no small inconvenience arose from the established practice of games and merry-makings, in which they themselves, and all they held most sacred, were made the subject of ridicule. It then became obvious to duller politicians than the Romish churchmen, that the same actions have a very different tendency when done in the spirit of sarcastic insolence and hatred, than when acted merely in exuberance of rude and uncontrollable spirits. They, therefore, though of the latest, endeavoured, where they had any remaining influence, to discourage the renewal of these indecorous festivities. In this particular, the Catholic clergy were joined by most of the reformed preachers, who were more shocked at the profanity and immorality of many of these exhibitions, than disposed to profit by the ridiculous light in which they placed the Church of Rome and her observances. But it was long ere these scandalous and immoral sports could be abrogated;--the rude multitude continued attached to their favourite pastimes, and, both in England and Scotland, the mitre of the Catholic--the rochet of the reformed bishop--and the cloak and band of the Calvinistic divine--were, in turn, compelled to give place to those jocular personages, the Pope of Fools, the Boy-Bishop, and the Abbot of Unreason. [Footnote: From the interesting novel entitled Anastasius, it seems the same burlesque ceremonies were practised in the Greek Church. ] It was the latter personage who now, in full costume, made his approach to the great door of the church of St. Mary's, accoutred in such a manner as to form a caricature, or practical parody, on the costume and attendants of the real Superior, whom he came to beard on the very day of his installation, in the presence of his clergy, and in the chancel of his church. The mock dignitary was a stout-made under-sized fellow, whose thick squab form had been rendered grotesque by a supplemental paunch, well stuffed. He wore a mitre of leather, with the front like a grenadier's cap, adorned with mock embroidery, and trinkets of tin. This surmounted a visage, the nose of which was the most prominent feature, being of unusual size, and at least as richly gemmed as his head-gear. His robe was of buckram, and his cope of canvass, curiously painted, and cut into open work. On one shoulder was fixed the painted figure of an owl; and he bore in the right hand his pastoral staff, and in the left a small mirror having a handle to it, thus resembling a celebrated jester, whose adventures, translated into English, were whilom extremely popular, and which may still be procured in black letter, for about one sterling pound per leaf. The attendants of this mock dignitary had their proper dresses and equipage, bearing the same burlesque resemblance to the officers of the Convent which their leader did to the Superior. They followed their leader in regular procession, and the motley characters, which had waited his arrival, now crowded into the church in his train, shouting as they came,-- A hall, a hall! for the venerable Father Howleglas, the learned Monk of Misrule, and the Right Reverend Abbot of Unreason! The discordant minstrelsy of every kind renewed its din; the boys shrieked and howled, and the men laughed and hallooed, and the women giggled and screamed, and the beasts roared, and the dragon wallopped and hissed, and the hobby-horse neighed, pranced, and capered, and the rest frisked and frolicked, clashing their hobnailed shoes against the pavement, till it sparkled with the marks of their energetic caprioles. It was, in fine, a scene of ridiculous confusion, that deafened the ear, made the eyes giddy, and must have altogether stunned any indifferent spectator; the monks, whom personal apprehension and a consciousness that much of the popular enjoyment arose from the ridicule being directed against them, were, moreover, little comforted by

go;--do

How many times the word 'go;--do' appears in the text?

with the deeper clamour of men, formed a Babel of sounds, which first drowned, and then awed into utter silence, the official hymns of the Convent. The cause and result of this extraordinary interruption will be explained in the next chapter. Chapter the Fourteenth. Not the wild billow, when it breaks its barrier-- Not the wild wind, escaping from its cavern-- Not the wild fiend, that mingles both together, And pours their rage upon the ripening harvest, Can match the wild freaks of this mirthful meeting-- Comic, yet fearful--droll, and yet destructive. THE CONSPIRACY. The monks ceased their song, which, like that of the choristers in the legend of the Witch of Berkley, died away in a quaver of consternation; and, like a flock of chickens disturbed by the presence of the kite, they at first made a movement to disperse and fly in different directions, and then, with despair, rather than hope, huddled themselves around their new Abbot; who, retaining the lofty and undismayed look which had dignified him through the whole ceremony, stood on the higher step of the altar, as if desirous to be the most conspicuous mark on which danger might discharge itself, and to save his companions by his self-devotion, since he could afford them no other protection. Involuntarily, as it were, Magdalen Graeme and the page stepped from the station which hitherto they had occupied unnoticed, and approached to the altar, as desirous of sharing the fate which approached the monks, whatever that might be. Both bowed reverently low to the Abbot; and while Magdalen seemed about to speak, the youth, looking towards the main entrance, at which the noise now roared most loudly, and which was at the same time assailed with much knocking, laid his hand upon his dagger. The Abbot motioned to both to forbear: Peace, my sister, he said, in a low tone, but which, being in a different key from the tumultuary sounds without, could be distinctly heard, even amidst the tumult;-- Peace, he said, my sister; let the new Superior of Saint Mary's himself receive and reply to the grateful acclamations of the vassals, who come to celebrate his installation.--And thou, my son, forbear, I charge thee, to touch thy earthly weapon;--if it is the pleasure of our protectress, that her shrine be this day desecrated by deeds of violence, and polluted by blood-shedding, let it not, I charge thee, happen through the deed of a Catholic son of the church. The noise and knocking at the outer gate became now every moment louder; and voices were heard impatiently demanding admittance. The Abbot, with dignity, and with a step which even the emergency of danger rendered neither faltering nor precipitate, moved towards the portal, and demanded to know, in a tone of authority, who it was that disturbed their worship, and what they desired? There was a moment's silence, and then a loud laugh from without. At length a voice replied, We desire entrance into the church; and when the door is opened you will soon see who we are. By whose authority do you require entrance? said the Father. By authority of the right reverend Lord Abbot of Unreason. [Footnote: We learn from no less authority than that of Napoleon Bonaparte, that there is but a single step between the sublime and ridiculous; and it is a transition from one extreme to another; so very easy, that the vulgar of every degree are peculiarly captivated with it. Thus the inclination to laugh becomes uncontrollable, when the solemnity and gravity of time, place, and circumstances, render it peculiarly improper. Some species of general license, like that which inspired the ancient Saturnalia, or the modern Carnival, has been commonly indulged to the people at all times and in almost all countries. But it was, I think, peculiar to the Roman Catholic Church, that while they studied how to render their church rites imposing and magnificent, by all that pomp, music, architecture, and external display could add to them, they nevertheless connived, upon special occasions, at the frolics of the rude vulgar, who, in almost all Catholic countries, enjoyed, or at least assumed, the privilege of making: some Lord of the revels, who, under the name of the Abbot of Unreason, the Boy Bishop, or the President of Fools, occupied the churches, profaned the holy places by a mock imitation of the sacred rites, and sung indecent parodies on hymns of the church. The indifference of the clergy, even when their power was greatest, to the indecent exhibitions which they always tolerated, and sometimes encouraged, forms a strong contrast to the sensitiveness with which they regarded any serious attempt, by preaching or writing, to impeach any of the doctrines of the church. It could only be compared to the singular apathy with which they endured, and often admired the gross novels which Chaucer, Dunbar, Boccacio, Bandello, and others, composed upon the bad morals of the clergy. It seems as if the churchmen in both instances had endeavoured to compromise with the laity, and allowed them occasionally to gratify their coarse humour by indecent satire, provided they would abstain from any grave question concerning the foundation of the doctrines on which was erected such an immense fabric of ecclesiastical power. But the sports thus licensed assumed a very different appearance, so soon as the Protestant doctrines began to prevail; and the license which their forefathers had exercised in mere gaiety of heart, and without the least intention of dishonouring religion by their frolics, were now persevered in by the common people as a mode of testifying their utter disregard for the Roman priesthood and its ceremonies. I may observe, for example, the case of an apparitor sent to Borthwick from the Primate of Saint Andrews, to cite the lord of that castle, who was opposed by an Abbot of Unreason, at whose command the officer of the spiritual court was appointed to be ducked in a mill-dam, and obliged to eat up his parchment citation. The reader may be amused with the following whimsical details of this incident, which took place in the castle of Borthwick, in the year 1517. It appears, that in consequence of a process betwixt Master George Hay de Minzeane and the Lord Borthwick, letters of excommunication had passed against the latter, on account of the contumacy of certain witnesses. William Langlands, an apparitor or macer (_bacularius_) of the See of St Andrews, presented these letters to the curate of the church of Borthwick, requiring him to publish the same at the service of high mass. It seems that the inhabitants of the castle were at this time engaged in the favourite sport of enacting the Abbot of Unreason, a species of high jinks, in which a mimic prelate was elected, who, like the Lord of Misrule in England, turned all sort of lawful authority, and particularly the church ritual, into ridicule. This frolicsome person with his retinue, notwithstanding of the apparitor's character, entered the church, seized upon the primate's officer without hesitation, and, dragging him to the mill-dam on the south side of the castle, compelled him to leap into the water. Not contented with this partial immersion, the Abbot of Unreason pronounced, that Mr. William Langlands was not yet sufficiently bathed, and therefore caused his assistants to lay him on his back in the stream, and duck him in the most satisfactory and perfect manner. The unfortunate apparitor was then conducted back to the church, where, for his refreshment after his bath, the letters of excommunication were torn to pieces, and steeped in a bowl of wine; the mock abbot being probably of opinion that a tough parchment was but dry eating, Langlands was compelled to eat the letters, and swallow the wine, and dismissed by the Abbot of Unreason, with the comfortable assurance, that if any more such letters should arrive during the continuance of his office, they should a' gang the same gate, _i. e._ go the same road. A similar scene occurs betwixt a sumner of the Bishop of Rochester, and Harpool, the servant of Lord Cobham, in the old play of Sir John Oldcastle, when the former compels the church-officer to eat his citation. The dialogue, which may be found in the note, contains most of the jests which may be supposed, appropriate to such an extraordinary occasion: _Harpool_ Marry, sir, is, this process parchment? _Sumner._ Yes, marry is it. _Harpool._ And this seal wax? _Sumner._ It is so. _Harpool._ If this be parchment, and this be wax, eat you this parchment and wax, or I will make parchment of your skin, and beat your brains into wax. Sirrah Sumner, despatch--devour, sirrah, devour. _Sumner._ I am my Lord of Rochester's sumner; I came to do my office, and thou shall answer it. _Harpool._ Sirrah, no railing, but, betake thyself to thy teeth. Thou shalt, eat no worse than thou bringest with thee. Thou bringest it for my lord; and wilt thou bring my lord worse than thou wilt eat thyself? _Sumner._ Sir. I brought it not my lord to eat. _Harpool._ O, do you Sir me now? All's one for that; I'll make you eat it for bringing it. _Sumner._ I cannot eat it. _Harpool._ Can you not? 'Sblood, I'll beat you till you have a stomach! (_Beats him._) _Sumner._ Oh, hold, hold, good Mr. Servingman; I will eat it. _Harpool._ Be champing, be chewing, sir, or I will chew you, you rogue. Tough wax is the purest of the honey. _Sumner._ The purest of the honey?--O Lord, sir, oh! oh! _Harpool._ Feed, feed; 'tis wholesome, rogue, wholesome. Cannot you, like an honest sumner, walk with the devil your brother, to fetch in your bailiff's rents, but you must come to a nobleman's house with process! If the seal were broad as the lead which covers Rochester Church, thou shouldst eat it. _Sumner._ Oh, I am almost choked--I am almost choked! _Harpool._ Who's within there? Will you shame my lord? Is there no beer in the house? Butler, I say. _Enter_ BUTLER. _Butler._ Here, here. _Harpool._ Give him beer. Tough old sheep skin's but dry meat. _First Part of Sir John Oldcastle_, Act II. Scene I.] replied the voice from without; and, from the laugh--which followed, it seemed as if there was something highly ludicrous couched under this reply. I know not, and seek not to know, your meaning, replied the Abbot, since it is probably a rude one. But begone, in the name of God, and leave his servants in peace. I speak this, as having lawful authority to command here. Open the door, said another rude voice, and we will try titles with you, Sir Monk, and show you a superior we must all obey. Break open the doors if he dallies any longer, said a third, and down with the carrion monks who would bar us of our privilege! A general shout followed. Ay, ay, our privilege! our privilege! down with the doors, and with the lurdane monks, if they make opposition! The knocking was now exchanged for blows with great, hammers, to which the doors, strong as they were, must soon have given way. But the Abbot, who saw resistance would be in vain, and who did not wish to incense the assailants by an attempt at offering it, besought silence earnestly, and with difficulty obtained a hearing. My children, said he, I will save you from committing a great sin. The porter will presently undo the gate--he is gone to fetch the keys--meantime I pray you to consider with yourselves, if you are in a state of mind to cross the holy threshold. Tillyvally for your papistry! was answered from without; we are in the mood of the monks when they are merriest, and that is when they sup beef-brewis for lanten-kail. So, if your porter hath not the gout, let him come speedily, or we heave away readily.--Said I well, comrades? Bravely said, and it shall be as bravely done, said the multitude; and had not the keys arrived at that moment, and the porter in hasty terror performed his office, throwing open the great door, the populace would have saved him the trouble. The instant he had done so, the affrighted janitor fled, like one who has drawn the bolts of a flood-gate, and expects to be overwhelmed by the rushing inundation. The monks, with one consent, had withdrawn themselves behind the Abbot, who alone kept his station, about three yards from the entrance, showing no signs of fear or perturbation. His brethren--partly encouraged by his devotion, partly ashamed to desert him, and partly animated by a sense of duty.--remained huddled close together, at the back of their Superior. There was a loud laugh and huzza when the doors were opened; but, contrary to what might have been expected, no crowd of enraged assailants rushed into the church. On the contrary, there was a cry of A halt!-a halt--to order, my masters! and let the two reverend fathers greet each other, as beseems them. The appearance of the crowd who were thus called to order, was grotesque in the extreme. It was composed of men, women, and children, ludicrously disguised in various habits, and presenting groups equally diversified and grotesque. Here one fellow with a horse's head painted before him, and a tail behind, and the whole covered with a long foot-cloth, which was supposed to hide the body of the animal, ambled, caracoled, pranced, and plunged, as he performed the celebrated part of the hobby-horse, [Footnote: This exhibition, the play-mare of Scotland, stood high among holyday gambols. It must be carefully separated from the wooden chargers which furnish out our nurseries. It gives rise to Hamlet's ejaculation,-- But oh, but oh, the hobby-horse is forgot! There is a very comic scene in Beaumont and Fletcher's play of Woman Pleased, where Hope-on-high Bombye, a puritan cobbler, refuses to dance with the hobby-horse. There was much difficulty and great variety in the motions which the hobby-horse was expected to exhibit. The learned Mr. Douce, who has contributed so much to the illustration of our theatrical antiquities, has given us a full account of this pageant, and the burlesque horsemanship which it practised. The hobby-horse, says Mr. Douce, was represented by a man equipped with as much pasteboard as was sufficient to form the head and hinder parts of a horse, the quadrupedal defects being concealed by a long mantle or footcloth that nearly touched the ground. The former, on this occasion, exerted all his skill in burlesque horsemanship. In Sympson's play of the Law-breakers, 1636, a miller personates the hobby-horse, and being angry that the Mayor of the city is put in competition with him, exclaims, 'Let the mayor play the hobby-horse among his brethren, an he will; I hope our town-lads cannot want a hobby-horse. Have I practised my reins, my careers, my prankers, my ambles, my false trots, my smooth ambles, and Canterbury paces, and shall master mayor put me beside the hobby-horse? Have I borrowed the fore-horse bells, his plumes, his braveries; nay, had his mane new shorn and frizzled, and shall the mayor put me beside the hobby-horse? --_Douce's Illustrations_, vol. II. p. 468] so often alluded to in our ancient drama; and which still flourishes on the stage in the battle that concludes Bayes's tragedy. To rival the address and agility displayed by this character, another personage advanced in the more formidable character of a huge dragon, with gilded wings, open jaws, and a scarlet tongue, cloven at the end, which made various efforts to overtake and devour a lad, dressed as the lovely Sabaea, daughter of the King of Egypt, who fled before him; while a martial Saint George, grotesquely armed with a goblet for a helmet, and a spit for a lance, ever and anon interfered, and compelled the monster to relinquish his prey. A bear, a wolf, and one or two other wild animals, played their parts with the discretion of Snug the joiner; for the decided preference which they gave to the use of their hind legs, was sufficient, without any formal annunciation, to assure the most timorous spectators that they had to do with habitual bipeds. There was a group of outlaws with Robin Hood and Little John at their head [Footnote: The representation of Robin Hood was the darling Maygame both in England and Scotland, and doubtless the favourite personification was often revived, when the Abbot of Unreason, or other pretences of frolic, gave an unusual decree of license. The Protestant clergy, who had formerly reaped advantage from the opportunities which these sports afforded them of directing their own satire and the ridicule of the lower orders against the Catholic church, began to find that, when these purposes were served, their favourite pastimes deprived them of the wish to attend divine worship, and disturbed the frame of mind in which it can be attended to advantage. The celebrated Bishop Latimer gives a very _naive_ account of the manner in which, bishop as he was, he found himself compelled to give place to Robin Hood and his followers. I came once myselfe riding on a journey homeward from London, and I sent word over night into the towne that I would preach there in the morning, because it was holiday, and me thought it was a holidayes worke. The church stood in my way, and I took my horse and my company, and went thither, (I thought I should have found a great company in the church,) and when I came there the church doore was fast locked. I tarryed there halfe an houre and more. At last the key was found, and one of the parish comes to me and said,--'Sir, this is a busie day with us, we cannot hear you; it is Robin Hood's day. The parish are gone abroad to gather for Robin Hood. I pray you let them not.' I was faine there to give place to Robin Hood. I thought my rochet should have been regarded, though I were not: but it would not serve, it was faine to give place to Robin Hood's men. It is no laughing matter, my friends, it is a weeping matter, a heavie matter, a heavie matter. Under the pretence for gathering for Robin Hood, a traytour, and a theif, to put out a preacher; to have his office lesse esteemed; to preferre Robin Hood before the ministration of God's word; and all this hath come of unpreaching prelates. This realme hath been ill provided for, that it hath had such corrupt judgments in it, to prefer Robin Hood to God's word. --_Bishop Latimer's sixth Sermon before King Edward_. While the English Protestants thus preferred the outlaw's pageant to the preaching of their excellent Bishop, the Scottish calvinistic clergy, with the celebrated John Knox at their head, and backed by the authority of the magistrates of Edinburgh, who had of late been chosen exclusively from this party, found it impossible to control the rage of the populace, when they attempted to deprive them of the privilege of presenting their pageant of Robin Hood. [Note on old Scottish spelling: leading y = modern 'th'; leading v = modern 'u'] (561) Vpon the xxi day of Junij. Archibalde Dowglas of Kilspindie, Provest of Edr., David Symmer and Adame Fullartoun, baillies of the samyne, causit ane cordinare servant, callit James Gillion takin of befoir, for playing in Edr. with Robene Hude, to wnderly the law, and put him to the knawlege of ane assyize qlk yaij haid electit of yair favoraris, quha with schort deliberatioun condemnit him to be hangit for ye said cryme. And the deaconis of ye craftismen fearing vproare, maid great solistatuis at ye handis of ye said provost and baillies, and als requirit John Knox, minister, for eschewing of tumult, to superceid ye execution of him, vnto ye tyme yai suld adverteis my Lord Duke yairof. And yan, if it wes his mynd and will yat he should be disponit vpoun, ye said deaconis and craftismen sould convey him yaire; quha answerit, yat yai culd na way stope ye executioun of justice. Quhan ye time of ye said pouer mans hanging approchit, and yat ye hangman wes cum to ye jibbat with ye ledder, vpoune ye qlk ye said cordinare should have bene hangit, ane certaine and remanent craftischilder, quha wes put to ye horne with ye said Gillione, ffor ye said Robene Huide's _playes_, and vyris yair assistaris and favoraris, past to wappinis, and yai brak down ye said jibbat, and yan chacit ye said provest, baillies, and Alexr. Guthrie, in ye said Alexander's writing buith, and held yame yairin; and yairefter past to ye tolbuyt, and becaus the samyne was steiket, and onnawayes culd get the keyes thairof, thai brak the said tolbuith dore with foure harberis, per force, (the said provest and baillies luckand thairon.) and not onlie put thar the said Gillione to fredome and libertie, and brocht him furth of the said tolbuit, bot alsua the remanent presonaris being thairintill; and this done, the said craftismen's servands, with the said condempnit cordonar, past doun to the Netherbow, to have past furth thairat; bot becaus the samyne on thair coming thairto wes closet, thai past vp agane the Hie streit of the said bourghe to the Castellhill, and in this menetymne the saidis provest and baillies, and thair assistaris being in the writing buith of the said Alexr. Guthrie, past and enterit in the said tolbuyt, and in the said servandes passage vp the Hie streit, then schote furth thairof at thame ane dog, and hurt ane servand of the said childer. This being done, thair wes nathing vthir but the one partie schuteand out and castand stanes furth of the said tolbuyt, and the vther pairtie schuteand hagbuttis in the same agane. Aund sua the craftismen's servandis, aboue written, held and inclosit the said provest and baillies continewallie in the said tolbuyth, frae three houris efternone, quhill aught houris at even, and na man of the said town prensit to relieve their said provest and baillies. And than thai send to the maisters of the Castell, to caus tham if thai mycht stay the said servandis, quha maid ane maner to do the same, bot thai could not bring the same to ane finall end, ffor the said servands wold on noways stay fra, quhill thai had revengit the hurting of ane of them; and thairefter the constable of the castell come down thairfra, and he with the said maisters treatet betwix the said pties in this maner:--That the said provost and baillies sall remit to the said craftischilder, all actioun, cryme, and offens that thai had committit aganes thame in any tyme bygane; and band and oblast thame never to pursew them thairfor; and als commandit thair maisters to resaue them agane in thair services, as thai did befoir. And this being proclainit at the mercat cross, thai scalit, and the said provest and bailies come furth of the same tolbouyth. &c. &c. &c. John Knox, who writes at large upon this tumult, informs us it was inflamed by the deacons of craftes, who, resenting; the superiority assumed over them by the magistrates, would yield no assistance to put down the tumult. They will be magistrates alone, said the recusant deacons, e'en let them rule the populace alone; and accordingly they passed quietly to take _their four-hours penny_, and left the magistrates to help themselves as they could. Many persons were excommunicated for this outrage, and not admitted to church ordinances till they had made satisfaction.] --the best representation exhibited at the time; and no great wonder, since most of the actors were, by profession, the banished men and thieves whom they presented. Other masqueraders there were, of a less marked description. Men were disguised as women, and women as men--children wore the dress of aged people, and tottered with crutch-sticks in their hands, furred gowns on their little backs, and caps on their round heads--while grandsires assumed the infantine tone as well as the dress of children. Besides these, many had their faces painted, and wore their shirts over the rest of their dress; while coloured pasteboard and ribbons furnished out decorations for others. Those who wanted all these properties, blacked their faces, and turned their jackets inside out; and thus the transmutation of the whole assembly into a set of mad grotesque mummers, was at once completed. The pause which the masqueraders made, waiting apparently for some person of the highest authority amongst them, gave those within the Abbey Church full time to observe all these absurdities. They were at no loss to comprehend their purpose and meaning. Few readers can be ignorant, that at an early period, and during the plenitude of her power, the Church of Rome not only connived at, but even encouraged, such Saturnalian licenses as the inhabitants of Kennaquhair and the neighbourhood had now in hand, and that the vulgar, on such occasions, were not only permitted but encouraged by a number of gambols, sometimes puerile and ludicrous, sometimes immoral and profane, to indemnify themselves for the privations and penances imposed on them at other seasons. But, of all other topics for burlesque and ridicule, the rites and ceremonial of the church itself were most frequently resorted to; and, strange to say, with the approbation of the clergy themselves. While the hierarchy flourished in full glory, they do not appear to have dreaded the consequences of suffering the people to become so irreverently familiar with things sacred; they then imagined the laity to be much in the condition of the labourer's horse, which does not submit to the bridle and the whip with greater reluctance, because, at rare intervals, he is allowed to frolic at large in his pasture, and fling out his heels in clumsy gambols at the master who usually drives him. But, when times changed--when doubt of the Roman Catholic doctrine, and hatred of their priesthood, had possessed the reformed party, the clergy discovered, too late, that no small inconvenience arose from the established practice of games and merry-makings, in which they themselves, and all they held most sacred, were made the subject of ridicule. It then became obvious to duller politicians than the Romish churchmen, that the same actions have a very different tendency when done in the spirit of sarcastic insolence and hatred, than when acted merely in exuberance of rude and uncontrollable spirits. They, therefore, though of the latest, endeavoured, where they had any remaining influence, to discourage the renewal of these indecorous festivities. In this particular, the Catholic clergy were joined by most of the reformed preachers, who were more shocked at the profanity and immorality of many of these exhibitions, than disposed to profit by the ridiculous light in which they placed the Church of Rome and her observances. But it was long ere these scandalous and immoral sports could be abrogated;--the rude multitude continued attached to their favourite pastimes, and, both in England and Scotland, the mitre of the Catholic--the rochet of the reformed bishop--and the cloak and band of the Calvinistic divine--were, in turn, compelled to give place to those jocular personages, the Pope of Fools, the Boy-Bishop, and the Abbot of Unreason. [Footnote: From the interesting novel entitled Anastasius, it seems the same burlesque ceremonies were practised in the Greek Church. ] It was the latter personage who now, in full costume, made his approach to the great door of the church of St. Mary's, accoutred in such a manner as to form a caricature, or practical parody, on the costume and attendants of the real Superior, whom he came to beard on the very day of his installation, in the presence of his clergy, and in the chancel of his church. The mock dignitary was a stout-made under-sized fellow, whose thick squab form had been rendered grotesque by a supplemental paunch, well stuffed. He wore a mitre of leather, with the front like a grenadier's cap, adorned with mock embroidery, and trinkets of tin. This surmounted a visage, the nose of which was the most prominent feature, being of unusual size, and at least as richly gemmed as his head-gear. His robe was of buckram, and his cope of canvass, curiously painted, and cut into open work. On one shoulder was fixed the painted figure of an owl; and he bore in the right hand his pastoral staff, and in the left a small mirror having a handle to it, thus resembling a celebrated jester, whose adventures, translated into English, were whilom extremely popular, and which may still be procured in black letter, for about one sterling pound per leaf. The attendants of this mock dignitary had their proper dresses and equipage, bearing the same burlesque resemblance to the officers of the Convent which their leader did to the Superior. They followed their leader in regular procession, and the motley characters, which had waited his arrival, now crowded into the church in his train, shouting as they came,-- A hall, a hall! for the venerable Father Howleglas, the learned Monk of Misrule, and the Right Reverend Abbot of Unreason! The discordant minstrelsy of every kind renewed its din; the boys shrieked and howled, and the men laughed and hallooed, and the women giggled and screamed, and the beasts roared, and the dragon wallopped and hissed, and the hobby-horse neighed, pranced, and capered, and the rest frisked and frolicked, clashing their hobnailed shoes against the pavement, till it sparkled with the marks of their energetic caprioles. It was, in fine, a scene of ridiculous confusion, that deafened the ear, made the eyes giddy, and must have altogether stunned any indifferent spectator; the monks, whom personal apprehension and a consciousness that much of the popular enjoyment arose from the ridicule being directed against them, were, moreover, little comforted by

step

How many times the word 'step' appears in the text?

with the deeper clamour of men, formed a Babel of sounds, which first drowned, and then awed into utter silence, the official hymns of the Convent. The cause and result of this extraordinary interruption will be explained in the next chapter. Chapter the Fourteenth. Not the wild billow, when it breaks its barrier-- Not the wild wind, escaping from its cavern-- Not the wild fiend, that mingles both together, And pours their rage upon the ripening harvest, Can match the wild freaks of this mirthful meeting-- Comic, yet fearful--droll, and yet destructive. THE CONSPIRACY. The monks ceased their song, which, like that of the choristers in the legend of the Witch of Berkley, died away in a quaver of consternation; and, like a flock of chickens disturbed by the presence of the kite, they at first made a movement to disperse and fly in different directions, and then, with despair, rather than hope, huddled themselves around their new Abbot; who, retaining the lofty and undismayed look which had dignified him through the whole ceremony, stood on the higher step of the altar, as if desirous to be the most conspicuous mark on which danger might discharge itself, and to save his companions by his self-devotion, since he could afford them no other protection. Involuntarily, as it were, Magdalen Graeme and the page stepped from the station which hitherto they had occupied unnoticed, and approached to the altar, as desirous of sharing the fate which approached the monks, whatever that might be. Both bowed reverently low to the Abbot; and while Magdalen seemed about to speak, the youth, looking towards the main entrance, at which the noise now roared most loudly, and which was at the same time assailed with much knocking, laid his hand upon his dagger. The Abbot motioned to both to forbear: Peace, my sister, he said, in a low tone, but which, being in a different key from the tumultuary sounds without, could be distinctly heard, even amidst the tumult;-- Peace, he said, my sister; let the new Superior of Saint Mary's himself receive and reply to the grateful acclamations of the vassals, who come to celebrate his installation.--And thou, my son, forbear, I charge thee, to touch thy earthly weapon;--if it is the pleasure of our protectress, that her shrine be this day desecrated by deeds of violence, and polluted by blood-shedding, let it not, I charge thee, happen through the deed of a Catholic son of the church. The noise and knocking at the outer gate became now every moment louder; and voices were heard impatiently demanding admittance. The Abbot, with dignity, and with a step which even the emergency of danger rendered neither faltering nor precipitate, moved towards the portal, and demanded to know, in a tone of authority, who it was that disturbed their worship, and what they desired? There was a moment's silence, and then a loud laugh from without. At length a voice replied, We desire entrance into the church; and when the door is opened you will soon see who we are. By whose authority do you require entrance? said the Father. By authority of the right reverend Lord Abbot of Unreason. [Footnote: We learn from no less authority than that of Napoleon Bonaparte, that there is but a single step between the sublime and ridiculous; and it is a transition from one extreme to another; so very easy, that the vulgar of every degree are peculiarly captivated with it. Thus the inclination to laugh becomes uncontrollable, when the solemnity and gravity of time, place, and circumstances, render it peculiarly improper. Some species of general license, like that which inspired the ancient Saturnalia, or the modern Carnival, has been commonly indulged to the people at all times and in almost all countries. But it was, I think, peculiar to the Roman Catholic Church, that while they studied how to render their church rites imposing and magnificent, by all that pomp, music, architecture, and external display could add to them, they nevertheless connived, upon special occasions, at the frolics of the rude vulgar, who, in almost all Catholic countries, enjoyed, or at least assumed, the privilege of making: some Lord of the revels, who, under the name of the Abbot of Unreason, the Boy Bishop, or the President of Fools, occupied the churches, profaned the holy places by a mock imitation of the sacred rites, and sung indecent parodies on hymns of the church. The indifference of the clergy, even when their power was greatest, to the indecent exhibitions which they always tolerated, and sometimes encouraged, forms a strong contrast to the sensitiveness with which they regarded any serious attempt, by preaching or writing, to impeach any of the doctrines of the church. It could only be compared to the singular apathy with which they endured, and often admired the gross novels which Chaucer, Dunbar, Boccacio, Bandello, and others, composed upon the bad morals of the clergy. It seems as if the churchmen in both instances had endeavoured to compromise with the laity, and allowed them occasionally to gratify their coarse humour by indecent satire, provided they would abstain from any grave question concerning the foundation of the doctrines on which was erected such an immense fabric of ecclesiastical power. But the sports thus licensed assumed a very different appearance, so soon as the Protestant doctrines began to prevail; and the license which their forefathers had exercised in mere gaiety of heart, and without the least intention of dishonouring religion by their frolics, were now persevered in by the common people as a mode of testifying their utter disregard for the Roman priesthood and its ceremonies. I may observe, for example, the case of an apparitor sent to Borthwick from the Primate of Saint Andrews, to cite the lord of that castle, who was opposed by an Abbot of Unreason, at whose command the officer of the spiritual court was appointed to be ducked in a mill-dam, and obliged to eat up his parchment citation. The reader may be amused with the following whimsical details of this incident, which took place in the castle of Borthwick, in the year 1517. It appears, that in consequence of a process betwixt Master George Hay de Minzeane and the Lord Borthwick, letters of excommunication had passed against the latter, on account of the contumacy of certain witnesses. William Langlands, an apparitor or macer (_bacularius_) of the See of St Andrews, presented these letters to the curate of the church of Borthwick, requiring him to publish the same at the service of high mass. It seems that the inhabitants of the castle were at this time engaged in the favourite sport of enacting the Abbot of Unreason, a species of high jinks, in which a mimic prelate was elected, who, like the Lord of Misrule in England, turned all sort of lawful authority, and particularly the church ritual, into ridicule. This frolicsome person with his retinue, notwithstanding of the apparitor's character, entered the church, seized upon the primate's officer without hesitation, and, dragging him to the mill-dam on the south side of the castle, compelled him to leap into the water. Not contented with this partial immersion, the Abbot of Unreason pronounced, that Mr. William Langlands was not yet sufficiently bathed, and therefore caused his assistants to lay him on his back in the stream, and duck him in the most satisfactory and perfect manner. The unfortunate apparitor was then conducted back to the church, where, for his refreshment after his bath, the letters of excommunication were torn to pieces, and steeped in a bowl of wine; the mock abbot being probably of opinion that a tough parchment was but dry eating, Langlands was compelled to eat the letters, and swallow the wine, and dismissed by the Abbot of Unreason, with the comfortable assurance, that if any more such letters should arrive during the continuance of his office, they should a' gang the same gate, _i. e._ go the same road. A similar scene occurs betwixt a sumner of the Bishop of Rochester, and Harpool, the servant of Lord Cobham, in the old play of Sir John Oldcastle, when the former compels the church-officer to eat his citation. The dialogue, which may be found in the note, contains most of the jests which may be supposed, appropriate to such an extraordinary occasion: _Harpool_ Marry, sir, is, this process parchment? _Sumner._ Yes, marry is it. _Harpool._ And this seal wax? _Sumner._ It is so. _Harpool._ If this be parchment, and this be wax, eat you this parchment and wax, or I will make parchment of your skin, and beat your brains into wax. Sirrah Sumner, despatch--devour, sirrah, devour. _Sumner._ I am my Lord of Rochester's sumner; I came to do my office, and thou shall answer it. _Harpool._ Sirrah, no railing, but, betake thyself to thy teeth. Thou shalt, eat no worse than thou bringest with thee. Thou bringest it for my lord; and wilt thou bring my lord worse than thou wilt eat thyself? _Sumner._ Sir. I brought it not my lord to eat. _Harpool._ O, do you Sir me now? All's one for that; I'll make you eat it for bringing it. _Sumner._ I cannot eat it. _Harpool._ Can you not? 'Sblood, I'll beat you till you have a stomach! (_Beats him._) _Sumner._ Oh, hold, hold, good Mr. Servingman; I will eat it. _Harpool._ Be champing, be chewing, sir, or I will chew you, you rogue. Tough wax is the purest of the honey. _Sumner._ The purest of the honey?--O Lord, sir, oh! oh! _Harpool._ Feed, feed; 'tis wholesome, rogue, wholesome. Cannot you, like an honest sumner, walk with the devil your brother, to fetch in your bailiff's rents, but you must come to a nobleman's house with process! If the seal were broad as the lead which covers Rochester Church, thou shouldst eat it. _Sumner._ Oh, I am almost choked--I am almost choked! _Harpool._ Who's within there? Will you shame my lord? Is there no beer in the house? Butler, I say. _Enter_ BUTLER. _Butler._ Here, here. _Harpool._ Give him beer. Tough old sheep skin's but dry meat. _First Part of Sir John Oldcastle_, Act II. Scene I.] replied the voice from without; and, from the laugh--which followed, it seemed as if there was something highly ludicrous couched under this reply. I know not, and seek not to know, your meaning, replied the Abbot, since it is probably a rude one. But begone, in the name of God, and leave his servants in peace. I speak this, as having lawful authority to command here. Open the door, said another rude voice, and we will try titles with you, Sir Monk, and show you a superior we must all obey. Break open the doors if he dallies any longer, said a third, and down with the carrion monks who would bar us of our privilege! A general shout followed. Ay, ay, our privilege! our privilege! down with the doors, and with the lurdane monks, if they make opposition! The knocking was now exchanged for blows with great, hammers, to which the doors, strong as they were, must soon have given way. But the Abbot, who saw resistance would be in vain, and who did not wish to incense the assailants by an attempt at offering it, besought silence earnestly, and with difficulty obtained a hearing. My children, said he, I will save you from committing a great sin. The porter will presently undo the gate--he is gone to fetch the keys--meantime I pray you to consider with yourselves, if you are in a state of mind to cross the holy threshold. Tillyvally for your papistry! was answered from without; we are in the mood of the monks when they are merriest, and that is when they sup beef-brewis for lanten-kail. So, if your porter hath not the gout, let him come speedily, or we heave away readily.--Said I well, comrades? Bravely said, and it shall be as bravely done, said the multitude; and had not the keys arrived at that moment, and the porter in hasty terror performed his office, throwing open the great door, the populace would have saved him the trouble. The instant he had done so, the affrighted janitor fled, like one who has drawn the bolts of a flood-gate, and expects to be overwhelmed by the rushing inundation. The monks, with one consent, had withdrawn themselves behind the Abbot, who alone kept his station, about three yards from the entrance, showing no signs of fear or perturbation. His brethren--partly encouraged by his devotion, partly ashamed to desert him, and partly animated by a sense of duty.--remained huddled close together, at the back of their Superior. There was a loud laugh and huzza when the doors were opened; but, contrary to what might have been expected, no crowd of enraged assailants rushed into the church. On the contrary, there was a cry of A halt!-a halt--to order, my masters! and let the two reverend fathers greet each other, as beseems them. The appearance of the crowd who were thus called to order, was grotesque in the extreme. It was composed of men, women, and children, ludicrously disguised in various habits, and presenting groups equally diversified and grotesque. Here one fellow with a horse's head painted before him, and a tail behind, and the whole covered with a long foot-cloth, which was supposed to hide the body of the animal, ambled, caracoled, pranced, and plunged, as he performed the celebrated part of the hobby-horse, [Footnote: This exhibition, the play-mare of Scotland, stood high among holyday gambols. It must be carefully separated from the wooden chargers which furnish out our nurseries. It gives rise to Hamlet's ejaculation,-- But oh, but oh, the hobby-horse is forgot! There is a very comic scene in Beaumont and Fletcher's play of Woman Pleased, where Hope-on-high Bombye, a puritan cobbler, refuses to dance with the hobby-horse. There was much difficulty and great variety in the motions which the hobby-horse was expected to exhibit. The learned Mr. Douce, who has contributed so much to the illustration of our theatrical antiquities, has given us a full account of this pageant, and the burlesque horsemanship which it practised. The hobby-horse, says Mr. Douce, was represented by a man equipped with as much pasteboard as was sufficient to form the head and hinder parts of a horse, the quadrupedal defects being concealed by a long mantle or footcloth that nearly touched the ground. The former, on this occasion, exerted all his skill in burlesque horsemanship. In Sympson's play of the Law-breakers, 1636, a miller personates the hobby-horse, and being angry that the Mayor of the city is put in competition with him, exclaims, 'Let the mayor play the hobby-horse among his brethren, an he will; I hope our town-lads cannot want a hobby-horse. Have I practised my reins, my careers, my prankers, my ambles, my false trots, my smooth ambles, and Canterbury paces, and shall master mayor put me beside the hobby-horse? Have I borrowed the fore-horse bells, his plumes, his braveries; nay, had his mane new shorn and frizzled, and shall the mayor put me beside the hobby-horse? --_Douce's Illustrations_, vol. II. p. 468] so often alluded to in our ancient drama; and which still flourishes on the stage in the battle that concludes Bayes's tragedy. To rival the address and agility displayed by this character, another personage advanced in the more formidable character of a huge dragon, with gilded wings, open jaws, and a scarlet tongue, cloven at the end, which made various efforts to overtake and devour a lad, dressed as the lovely Sabaea, daughter of the King of Egypt, who fled before him; while a martial Saint George, grotesquely armed with a goblet for a helmet, and a spit for a lance, ever and anon interfered, and compelled the monster to relinquish his prey. A bear, a wolf, and one or two other wild animals, played their parts with the discretion of Snug the joiner; for the decided preference which they gave to the use of their hind legs, was sufficient, without any formal annunciation, to assure the most timorous spectators that they had to do with habitual bipeds. There was a group of outlaws with Robin Hood and Little John at their head [Footnote: The representation of Robin Hood was the darling Maygame both in England and Scotland, and doubtless the favourite personification was often revived, when the Abbot of Unreason, or other pretences of frolic, gave an unusual decree of license. The Protestant clergy, who had formerly reaped advantage from the opportunities which these sports afforded them of directing their own satire and the ridicule of the lower orders against the Catholic church, began to find that, when these purposes were served, their favourite pastimes deprived them of the wish to attend divine worship, and disturbed the frame of mind in which it can be attended to advantage. The celebrated Bishop Latimer gives a very _naive_ account of the manner in which, bishop as he was, he found himself compelled to give place to Robin Hood and his followers. I came once myselfe riding on a journey homeward from London, and I sent word over night into the towne that I would preach there in the morning, because it was holiday, and me thought it was a holidayes worke. The church stood in my way, and I took my horse and my company, and went thither, (I thought I should have found a great company in the church,) and when I came there the church doore was fast locked. I tarryed there halfe an houre and more. At last the key was found, and one of the parish comes to me and said,--'Sir, this is a busie day with us, we cannot hear you; it is Robin Hood's day. The parish are gone abroad to gather for Robin Hood. I pray you let them not.' I was faine there to give place to Robin Hood. I thought my rochet should have been regarded, though I were not: but it would not serve, it was faine to give place to Robin Hood's men. It is no laughing matter, my friends, it is a weeping matter, a heavie matter, a heavie matter. Under the pretence for gathering for Robin Hood, a traytour, and a theif, to put out a preacher; to have his office lesse esteemed; to preferre Robin Hood before the ministration of God's word; and all this hath come of unpreaching prelates. This realme hath been ill provided for, that it hath had such corrupt judgments in it, to prefer Robin Hood to God's word. --_Bishop Latimer's sixth Sermon before King Edward_. While the English Protestants thus preferred the outlaw's pageant to the preaching of their excellent Bishop, the Scottish calvinistic clergy, with the celebrated John Knox at their head, and backed by the authority of the magistrates of Edinburgh, who had of late been chosen exclusively from this party, found it impossible to control the rage of the populace, when they attempted to deprive them of the privilege of presenting their pageant of Robin Hood. [Note on old Scottish spelling: leading y = modern 'th'; leading v = modern 'u'] (561) Vpon the xxi day of Junij. Archibalde Dowglas of Kilspindie, Provest of Edr., David Symmer and Adame Fullartoun, baillies of the samyne, causit ane cordinare servant, callit James Gillion takin of befoir, for playing in Edr. with Robene Hude, to wnderly the law, and put him to the knawlege of ane assyize qlk yaij haid electit of yair favoraris, quha with schort deliberatioun condemnit him to be hangit for ye said cryme. And the deaconis of ye craftismen fearing vproare, maid great solistatuis at ye handis of ye said provost and baillies, and als requirit John Knox, minister, for eschewing of tumult, to superceid ye execution of him, vnto ye tyme yai suld adverteis my Lord Duke yairof. And yan, if it wes his mynd and will yat he should be disponit vpoun, ye said deaconis and craftismen sould convey him yaire; quha answerit, yat yai culd na way stope ye executioun of justice. Quhan ye time of ye said pouer mans hanging approchit, and yat ye hangman wes cum to ye jibbat with ye ledder, vpoune ye qlk ye said cordinare should have bene hangit, ane certaine and remanent craftischilder, quha wes put to ye horne with ye said Gillione, ffor ye said Robene Huide's _playes_, and vyris yair assistaris and favoraris, past to wappinis, and yai brak down ye said jibbat, and yan chacit ye said provest, baillies, and Alexr. Guthrie, in ye said Alexander's writing buith, and held yame yairin; and yairefter past to ye tolbuyt, and becaus the samyne was steiket, and onnawayes culd get the keyes thairof, thai brak the said tolbuith dore with foure harberis, per force, (the said provest and baillies luckand thairon.) and not onlie put thar the said Gillione to fredome and libertie, and brocht him furth of the said tolbuit, bot alsua the remanent presonaris being thairintill; and this done, the said craftismen's servands, with the said condempnit cordonar, past doun to the Netherbow, to have past furth thairat; bot becaus the samyne on thair coming thairto wes closet, thai past vp agane the Hie streit of the said bourghe to the Castellhill, and in this menetymne the saidis provest and baillies, and thair assistaris being in the writing buith of the said Alexr. Guthrie, past and enterit in the said tolbuyt, and in the said servandes passage vp the Hie streit, then schote furth thairof at thame ane dog, and hurt ane servand of the said childer. This being done, thair wes nathing vthir but the one partie schuteand out and castand stanes furth of the said tolbuyt, and the vther pairtie schuteand hagbuttis in the same agane. Aund sua the craftismen's servandis, aboue written, held and inclosit the said provest and baillies continewallie in the said tolbuyth, frae three houris efternone, quhill aught houris at even, and na man of the said town prensit to relieve their said provest and baillies. And than thai send to the maisters of the Castell, to caus tham if thai mycht stay the said servandis, quha maid ane maner to do the same, bot thai could not bring the same to ane finall end, ffor the said servands wold on noways stay fra, quhill thai had revengit the hurting of ane of them; and thairefter the constable of the castell come down thairfra, and he with the said maisters treatet betwix the said pties in this maner:--That the said provost and baillies sall remit to the said craftischilder, all actioun, cryme, and offens that thai had committit aganes thame in any tyme bygane; and band and oblast thame never to pursew them thairfor; and als commandit thair maisters to resaue them agane in thair services, as thai did befoir. And this being proclainit at the mercat cross, thai scalit, and the said provest and bailies come furth of the same tolbouyth. &c. &c. &c. John Knox, who writes at large upon this tumult, informs us it was inflamed by the deacons of craftes, who, resenting; the superiority assumed over them by the magistrates, would yield no assistance to put down the tumult. They will be magistrates alone, said the recusant deacons, e'en let them rule the populace alone; and accordingly they passed quietly to take _their four-hours penny_, and left the magistrates to help themselves as they could. Many persons were excommunicated for this outrage, and not admitted to church ordinances till they had made satisfaction.] --the best representation exhibited at the time; and no great wonder, since most of the actors were, by profession, the banished men and thieves whom they presented. Other masqueraders there were, of a less marked description. Men were disguised as women, and women as men--children wore the dress of aged people, and tottered with crutch-sticks in their hands, furred gowns on their little backs, and caps on their round heads--while grandsires assumed the infantine tone as well as the dress of children. Besides these, many had their faces painted, and wore their shirts over the rest of their dress; while coloured pasteboard and ribbons furnished out decorations for others. Those who wanted all these properties, blacked their faces, and turned their jackets inside out; and thus the transmutation of the whole assembly into a set of mad grotesque mummers, was at once completed. The pause which the masqueraders made, waiting apparently for some person of the highest authority amongst them, gave those within the Abbey Church full time to observe all these absurdities. They were at no loss to comprehend their purpose and meaning. Few readers can be ignorant, that at an early period, and during the plenitude of her power, the Church of Rome not only connived at, but even encouraged, such Saturnalian licenses as the inhabitants of Kennaquhair and the neighbourhood had now in hand, and that the vulgar, on such occasions, were not only permitted but encouraged by a number of gambols, sometimes puerile and ludicrous, sometimes immoral and profane, to indemnify themselves for the privations and penances imposed on them at other seasons. But, of all other topics for burlesque and ridicule, the rites and ceremonial of the church itself were most frequently resorted to; and, strange to say, with the approbation of the clergy themselves. While the hierarchy flourished in full glory, they do not appear to have dreaded the consequences of suffering the people to become so irreverently familiar with things sacred; they then imagined the laity to be much in the condition of the labourer's horse, which does not submit to the bridle and the whip with greater reluctance, because, at rare intervals, he is allowed to frolic at large in his pasture, and fling out his heels in clumsy gambols at the master who usually drives him. But, when times changed--when doubt of the Roman Catholic doctrine, and hatred of their priesthood, had possessed the reformed party, the clergy discovered, too late, that no small inconvenience arose from the established practice of games and merry-makings, in which they themselves, and all they held most sacred, were made the subject of ridicule. It then became obvious to duller politicians than the Romish churchmen, that the same actions have a very different tendency when done in the spirit of sarcastic insolence and hatred, than when acted merely in exuberance of rude and uncontrollable spirits. They, therefore, though of the latest, endeavoured, where they had any remaining influence, to discourage the renewal of these indecorous festivities. In this particular, the Catholic clergy were joined by most of the reformed preachers, who were more shocked at the profanity and immorality of many of these exhibitions, than disposed to profit by the ridiculous light in which they placed the Church of Rome and her observances. But it was long ere these scandalous and immoral sports could be abrogated;--the rude multitude continued attached to their favourite pastimes, and, both in England and Scotland, the mitre of the Catholic--the rochet of the reformed bishop--and the cloak and band of the Calvinistic divine--were, in turn, compelled to give place to those jocular personages, the Pope of Fools, the Boy-Bishop, and the Abbot of Unreason. [Footnote: From the interesting novel entitled Anastasius, it seems the same burlesque ceremonies were practised in the Greek Church. ] It was the latter personage who now, in full costume, made his approach to the great door of the church of St. Mary's, accoutred in such a manner as to form a caricature, or practical parody, on the costume and attendants of the real Superior, whom he came to beard on the very day of his installation, in the presence of his clergy, and in the chancel of his church. The mock dignitary was a stout-made under-sized fellow, whose thick squab form had been rendered grotesque by a supplemental paunch, well stuffed. He wore a mitre of leather, with the front like a grenadier's cap, adorned with mock embroidery, and trinkets of tin. This surmounted a visage, the nose of which was the most prominent feature, being of unusual size, and at least as richly gemmed as his head-gear. His robe was of buckram, and his cope of canvass, curiously painted, and cut into open work. On one shoulder was fixed the painted figure of an owl; and he bore in the right hand his pastoral staff, and in the left a small mirror having a handle to it, thus resembling a celebrated jester, whose adventures, translated into English, were whilom extremely popular, and which may still be procured in black letter, for about one sterling pound per leaf. The attendants of this mock dignitary had their proper dresses and equipage, bearing the same burlesque resemblance to the officers of the Convent which their leader did to the Superior. They followed their leader in regular procession, and the motley characters, which had waited his arrival, now crowded into the church in his train, shouting as they came,-- A hall, a hall! for the venerable Father Howleglas, the learned Monk of Misrule, and the Right Reverend Abbot of Unreason! The discordant minstrelsy of every kind renewed its din; the boys shrieked and howled, and the men laughed and hallooed, and the women giggled and screamed, and the beasts roared, and the dragon wallopped and hissed, and the hobby-horse neighed, pranced, and capered, and the rest frisked and frolicked, clashing their hobnailed shoes against the pavement, till it sparkled with the marks of their energetic caprioles. It was, in fine, a scene of ridiculous confusion, that deafened the ear, made the eyes giddy, and must have altogether stunned any indifferent spectator; the monks, whom personal apprehension and a consciousness that much of the popular enjoyment arose from the ridicule being directed against them, were, moreover, little comforted by

doctrines

How many times the word 'doctrines' appears in the text?

with the deeper clamour of men, formed a Babel of sounds, which first drowned, and then awed into utter silence, the official hymns of the Convent. The cause and result of this extraordinary interruption will be explained in the next chapter. Chapter the Fourteenth. Not the wild billow, when it breaks its barrier-- Not the wild wind, escaping from its cavern-- Not the wild fiend, that mingles both together, And pours their rage upon the ripening harvest, Can match the wild freaks of this mirthful meeting-- Comic, yet fearful--droll, and yet destructive. THE CONSPIRACY. The monks ceased their song, which, like that of the choristers in the legend of the Witch of Berkley, died away in a quaver of consternation; and, like a flock of chickens disturbed by the presence of the kite, they at first made a movement to disperse and fly in different directions, and then, with despair, rather than hope, huddled themselves around their new Abbot; who, retaining the lofty and undismayed look which had dignified him through the whole ceremony, stood on the higher step of the altar, as if desirous to be the most conspicuous mark on which danger might discharge itself, and to save his companions by his self-devotion, since he could afford them no other protection. Involuntarily, as it were, Magdalen Graeme and the page stepped from the station which hitherto they had occupied unnoticed, and approached to the altar, as desirous of sharing the fate which approached the monks, whatever that might be. Both bowed reverently low to the Abbot; and while Magdalen seemed about to speak, the youth, looking towards the main entrance, at which the noise now roared most loudly, and which was at the same time assailed with much knocking, laid his hand upon his dagger. The Abbot motioned to both to forbear: Peace, my sister, he said, in a low tone, but which, being in a different key from the tumultuary sounds without, could be distinctly heard, even amidst the tumult;-- Peace, he said, my sister; let the new Superior of Saint Mary's himself receive and reply to the grateful acclamations of the vassals, who come to celebrate his installation.--And thou, my son, forbear, I charge thee, to touch thy earthly weapon;--if it is the pleasure of our protectress, that her shrine be this day desecrated by deeds of violence, and polluted by blood-shedding, let it not, I charge thee, happen through the deed of a Catholic son of the church. The noise and knocking at the outer gate became now every moment louder; and voices were heard impatiently demanding admittance. The Abbot, with dignity, and with a step which even the emergency of danger rendered neither faltering nor precipitate, moved towards the portal, and demanded to know, in a tone of authority, who it was that disturbed their worship, and what they desired? There was a moment's silence, and then a loud laugh from without. At length a voice replied, We desire entrance into the church; and when the door is opened you will soon see who we are. By whose authority do you require entrance? said the Father. By authority of the right reverend Lord Abbot of Unreason. [Footnote: We learn from no less authority than that of Napoleon Bonaparte, that there is but a single step between the sublime and ridiculous; and it is a transition from one extreme to another; so very easy, that the vulgar of every degree are peculiarly captivated with it. Thus the inclination to laugh becomes uncontrollable, when the solemnity and gravity of time, place, and circumstances, render it peculiarly improper. Some species of general license, like that which inspired the ancient Saturnalia, or the modern Carnival, has been commonly indulged to the people at all times and in almost all countries. But it was, I think, peculiar to the Roman Catholic Church, that while they studied how to render their church rites imposing and magnificent, by all that pomp, music, architecture, and external display could add to them, they nevertheless connived, upon special occasions, at the frolics of the rude vulgar, who, in almost all Catholic countries, enjoyed, or at least assumed, the privilege of making: some Lord of the revels, who, under the name of the Abbot of Unreason, the Boy Bishop, or the President of Fools, occupied the churches, profaned the holy places by a mock imitation of the sacred rites, and sung indecent parodies on hymns of the church. The indifference of the clergy, even when their power was greatest, to the indecent exhibitions which they always tolerated, and sometimes encouraged, forms a strong contrast to the sensitiveness with which they regarded any serious attempt, by preaching or writing, to impeach any of the doctrines of the church. It could only be compared to the singular apathy with which they endured, and often admired the gross novels which Chaucer, Dunbar, Boccacio, Bandello, and others, composed upon the bad morals of the clergy. It seems as if the churchmen in both instances had endeavoured to compromise with the laity, and allowed them occasionally to gratify their coarse humour by indecent satire, provided they would abstain from any grave question concerning the foundation of the doctrines on which was erected such an immense fabric of ecclesiastical power. But the sports thus licensed assumed a very different appearance, so soon as the Protestant doctrines began to prevail; and the license which their forefathers had exercised in mere gaiety of heart, and without the least intention of dishonouring religion by their frolics, were now persevered in by the common people as a mode of testifying their utter disregard for the Roman priesthood and its ceremonies. I may observe, for example, the case of an apparitor sent to Borthwick from the Primate of Saint Andrews, to cite the lord of that castle, who was opposed by an Abbot of Unreason, at whose command the officer of the spiritual court was appointed to be ducked in a mill-dam, and obliged to eat up his parchment citation. The reader may be amused with the following whimsical details of this incident, which took place in the castle of Borthwick, in the year 1517. It appears, that in consequence of a process betwixt Master George Hay de Minzeane and the Lord Borthwick, letters of excommunication had passed against the latter, on account of the contumacy of certain witnesses. William Langlands, an apparitor or macer (_bacularius_) of the See of St Andrews, presented these letters to the curate of the church of Borthwick, requiring him to publish the same at the service of high mass. It seems that the inhabitants of the castle were at this time engaged in the favourite sport of enacting the Abbot of Unreason, a species of high jinks, in which a mimic prelate was elected, who, like the Lord of Misrule in England, turned all sort of lawful authority, and particularly the church ritual, into ridicule. This frolicsome person with his retinue, notwithstanding of the apparitor's character, entered the church, seized upon the primate's officer without hesitation, and, dragging him to the mill-dam on the south side of the castle, compelled him to leap into the water. Not contented with this partial immersion, the Abbot of Unreason pronounced, that Mr. William Langlands was not yet sufficiently bathed, and therefore caused his assistants to lay him on his back in the stream, and duck him in the most satisfactory and perfect manner. The unfortunate apparitor was then conducted back to the church, where, for his refreshment after his bath, the letters of excommunication were torn to pieces, and steeped in a bowl of wine; the mock abbot being probably of opinion that a tough parchment was but dry eating, Langlands was compelled to eat the letters, and swallow the wine, and dismissed by the Abbot of Unreason, with the comfortable assurance, that if any more such letters should arrive during the continuance of his office, they should a' gang the same gate, _i. e._ go the same road. A similar scene occurs betwixt a sumner of the Bishop of Rochester, and Harpool, the servant of Lord Cobham, in the old play of Sir John Oldcastle, when the former compels the church-officer to eat his citation. The dialogue, which may be found in the note, contains most of the jests which may be supposed, appropriate to such an extraordinary occasion: _Harpool_ Marry, sir, is, this process parchment? _Sumner._ Yes, marry is it. _Harpool._ And this seal wax? _Sumner._ It is so. _Harpool._ If this be parchment, and this be wax, eat you this parchment and wax, or I will make parchment of your skin, and beat your brains into wax. Sirrah Sumner, despatch--devour, sirrah, devour. _Sumner._ I am my Lord of Rochester's sumner; I came to do my office, and thou shall answer it. _Harpool._ Sirrah, no railing, but, betake thyself to thy teeth. Thou shalt, eat no worse than thou bringest with thee. Thou bringest it for my lord; and wilt thou bring my lord worse than thou wilt eat thyself? _Sumner._ Sir. I brought it not my lord to eat. _Harpool._ O, do you Sir me now? All's one for that; I'll make you eat it for bringing it. _Sumner._ I cannot eat it. _Harpool._ Can you not? 'Sblood, I'll beat you till you have a stomach! (_Beats him._) _Sumner._ Oh, hold, hold, good Mr. Servingman; I will eat it. _Harpool._ Be champing, be chewing, sir, or I will chew you, you rogue. Tough wax is the purest of the honey. _Sumner._ The purest of the honey?--O Lord, sir, oh! oh! _Harpool._ Feed, feed; 'tis wholesome, rogue, wholesome. Cannot you, like an honest sumner, walk with the devil your brother, to fetch in your bailiff's rents, but you must come to a nobleman's house with process! If the seal were broad as the lead which covers Rochester Church, thou shouldst eat it. _Sumner._ Oh, I am almost choked--I am almost choked! _Harpool._ Who's within there? Will you shame my lord? Is there no beer in the house? Butler, I say. _Enter_ BUTLER. _Butler._ Here, here. _Harpool._ Give him beer. Tough old sheep skin's but dry meat. _First Part of Sir John Oldcastle_, Act II. Scene I.] replied the voice from without; and, from the laugh--which followed, it seemed as if there was something highly ludicrous couched under this reply. I know not, and seek not to know, your meaning, replied the Abbot, since it is probably a rude one. But begone, in the name of God, and leave his servants in peace. I speak this, as having lawful authority to command here. Open the door, said another rude voice, and we will try titles with you, Sir Monk, and show you a superior we must all obey. Break open the doors if he dallies any longer, said a third, and down with the carrion monks who would bar us of our privilege! A general shout followed. Ay, ay, our privilege! our privilege! down with the doors, and with the lurdane monks, if they make opposition! The knocking was now exchanged for blows with great, hammers, to which the doors, strong as they were, must soon have given way. But the Abbot, who saw resistance would be in vain, and who did not wish to incense the assailants by an attempt at offering it, besought silence earnestly, and with difficulty obtained a hearing. My children, said he, I will save you from committing a great sin. The porter will presently undo the gate--he is gone to fetch the keys--meantime I pray you to consider with yourselves, if you are in a state of mind to cross the holy threshold. Tillyvally for your papistry! was answered from without; we are in the mood of the monks when they are merriest, and that is when they sup beef-brewis for lanten-kail. So, if your porter hath not the gout, let him come speedily, or we heave away readily.--Said I well, comrades? Bravely said, and it shall be as bravely done, said the multitude; and had not the keys arrived at that moment, and the porter in hasty terror performed his office, throwing open the great door, the populace would have saved him the trouble. The instant he had done so, the affrighted janitor fled, like one who has drawn the bolts of a flood-gate, and expects to be overwhelmed by the rushing inundation. The monks, with one consent, had withdrawn themselves behind the Abbot, who alone kept his station, about three yards from the entrance, showing no signs of fear or perturbation. His brethren--partly encouraged by his devotion, partly ashamed to desert him, and partly animated by a sense of duty.--remained huddled close together, at the back of their Superior. There was a loud laugh and huzza when the doors were opened; but, contrary to what might have been expected, no crowd of enraged assailants rushed into the church. On the contrary, there was a cry of A halt!-a halt--to order, my masters! and let the two reverend fathers greet each other, as beseems them. The appearance of the crowd who were thus called to order, was grotesque in the extreme. It was composed of men, women, and children, ludicrously disguised in various habits, and presenting groups equally diversified and grotesque. Here one fellow with a horse's head painted before him, and a tail behind, and the whole covered with a long foot-cloth, which was supposed to hide the body of the animal, ambled, caracoled, pranced, and plunged, as he performed the celebrated part of the hobby-horse, [Footnote: This exhibition, the play-mare of Scotland, stood high among holyday gambols. It must be carefully separated from the wooden chargers which furnish out our nurseries. It gives rise to Hamlet's ejaculation,-- But oh, but oh, the hobby-horse is forgot! There is a very comic scene in Beaumont and Fletcher's play of Woman Pleased, where Hope-on-high Bombye, a puritan cobbler, refuses to dance with the hobby-horse. There was much difficulty and great variety in the motions which the hobby-horse was expected to exhibit. The learned Mr. Douce, who has contributed so much to the illustration of our theatrical antiquities, has given us a full account of this pageant, and the burlesque horsemanship which it practised. The hobby-horse, says Mr. Douce, was represented by a man equipped with as much pasteboard as was sufficient to form the head and hinder parts of a horse, the quadrupedal defects being concealed by a long mantle or footcloth that nearly touched the ground. The former, on this occasion, exerted all his skill in burlesque horsemanship. In Sympson's play of the Law-breakers, 1636, a miller personates the hobby-horse, and being angry that the Mayor of the city is put in competition with him, exclaims, 'Let the mayor play the hobby-horse among his brethren, an he will; I hope our town-lads cannot want a hobby-horse. Have I practised my reins, my careers, my prankers, my ambles, my false trots, my smooth ambles, and Canterbury paces, and shall master mayor put me beside the hobby-horse? Have I borrowed the fore-horse bells, his plumes, his braveries; nay, had his mane new shorn and frizzled, and shall the mayor put me beside the hobby-horse? --_Douce's Illustrations_, vol. II. p. 468] so often alluded to in our ancient drama; and which still flourishes on the stage in the battle that concludes Bayes's tragedy. To rival the address and agility displayed by this character, another personage advanced in the more formidable character of a huge dragon, with gilded wings, open jaws, and a scarlet tongue, cloven at the end, which made various efforts to overtake and devour a lad, dressed as the lovely Sabaea, daughter of the King of Egypt, who fled before him; while a martial Saint George, grotesquely armed with a goblet for a helmet, and a spit for a lance, ever and anon interfered, and compelled the monster to relinquish his prey. A bear, a wolf, and one or two other wild animals, played their parts with the discretion of Snug the joiner; for the decided preference which they gave to the use of their hind legs, was sufficient, without any formal annunciation, to assure the most timorous spectators that they had to do with habitual bipeds. There was a group of outlaws with Robin Hood and Little John at their head [Footnote: The representation of Robin Hood was the darling Maygame both in England and Scotland, and doubtless the favourite personification was often revived, when the Abbot of Unreason, or other pretences of frolic, gave an unusual decree of license. The Protestant clergy, who had formerly reaped advantage from the opportunities which these sports afforded them of directing their own satire and the ridicule of the lower orders against the Catholic church, began to find that, when these purposes were served, their favourite pastimes deprived them of the wish to attend divine worship, and disturbed the frame of mind in which it can be attended to advantage. The celebrated Bishop Latimer gives a very _naive_ account of the manner in which, bishop as he was, he found himself compelled to give place to Robin Hood and his followers. I came once myselfe riding on a journey homeward from London, and I sent word over night into the towne that I would preach there in the morning, because it was holiday, and me thought it was a holidayes worke. The church stood in my way, and I took my horse and my company, and went thither, (I thought I should have found a great company in the church,) and when I came there the church doore was fast locked. I tarryed there halfe an houre and more. At last the key was found, and one of the parish comes to me and said,--'Sir, this is a busie day with us, we cannot hear you; it is Robin Hood's day. The parish are gone abroad to gather for Robin Hood. I pray you let them not.' I was faine there to give place to Robin Hood. I thought my rochet should have been regarded, though I were not: but it would not serve, it was faine to give place to Robin Hood's men. It is no laughing matter, my friends, it is a weeping matter, a heavie matter, a heavie matter. Under the pretence for gathering for Robin Hood, a traytour, and a theif, to put out a preacher; to have his office lesse esteemed; to preferre Robin Hood before the ministration of God's word; and all this hath come of unpreaching prelates. This realme hath been ill provided for, that it hath had such corrupt judgments in it, to prefer Robin Hood to God's word. --_Bishop Latimer's sixth Sermon before King Edward_. While the English Protestants thus preferred the outlaw's pageant to the preaching of their excellent Bishop, the Scottish calvinistic clergy, with the celebrated John Knox at their head, and backed by the authority of the magistrates of Edinburgh, who had of late been chosen exclusively from this party, found it impossible to control the rage of the populace, when they attempted to deprive them of the privilege of presenting their pageant of Robin Hood. [Note on old Scottish spelling: leading y = modern 'th'; leading v = modern 'u'] (561) Vpon the xxi day of Junij. Archibalde Dowglas of Kilspindie, Provest of Edr., David Symmer and Adame Fullartoun, baillies of the samyne, causit ane cordinare servant, callit James Gillion takin of befoir, for playing in Edr. with Robene Hude, to wnderly the law, and put him to the knawlege of ane assyize qlk yaij haid electit of yair favoraris, quha with schort deliberatioun condemnit him to be hangit for ye said cryme. And the deaconis of ye craftismen fearing vproare, maid great solistatuis at ye handis of ye said provost and baillies, and als requirit John Knox, minister, for eschewing of tumult, to superceid ye execution of him, vnto ye tyme yai suld adverteis my Lord Duke yairof. And yan, if it wes his mynd and will yat he should be disponit vpoun, ye said deaconis and craftismen sould convey him yaire; quha answerit, yat yai culd na way stope ye executioun of justice. Quhan ye time of ye said pouer mans hanging approchit, and yat ye hangman wes cum to ye jibbat with ye ledder, vpoune ye qlk ye said cordinare should have bene hangit, ane certaine and remanent craftischilder, quha wes put to ye horne with ye said Gillione, ffor ye said Robene Huide's _playes_, and vyris yair assistaris and favoraris, past to wappinis, and yai brak down ye said jibbat, and yan chacit ye said provest, baillies, and Alexr. Guthrie, in ye said Alexander's writing buith, and held yame yairin; and yairefter past to ye tolbuyt, and becaus the samyne was steiket, and onnawayes culd get the keyes thairof, thai brak the said tolbuith dore with foure harberis, per force, (the said provest and baillies luckand thairon.) and not onlie put thar the said Gillione to fredome and libertie, and brocht him furth of the said tolbuit, bot alsua the remanent presonaris being thairintill; and this done, the said craftismen's servands, with the said condempnit cordonar, past doun to the Netherbow, to have past furth thairat; bot becaus the samyne on thair coming thairto wes closet, thai past vp agane the Hie streit of the said bourghe to the Castellhill, and in this menetymne the saidis provest and baillies, and thair assistaris being in the writing buith of the said Alexr. Guthrie, past and enterit in the said tolbuyt, and in the said servandes passage vp the Hie streit, then schote furth thairof at thame ane dog, and hurt ane servand of the said childer. This being done, thair wes nathing vthir but the one partie schuteand out and castand stanes furth of the said tolbuyt, and the vther pairtie schuteand hagbuttis in the same agane. Aund sua the craftismen's servandis, aboue written, held and inclosit the said provest and baillies continewallie in the said tolbuyth, frae three houris efternone, quhill aught houris at even, and na man of the said town prensit to relieve their said provest and baillies. And than thai send to the maisters of the Castell, to caus tham if thai mycht stay the said servandis, quha maid ane maner to do the same, bot thai could not bring the same to ane finall end, ffor the said servands wold on noways stay fra, quhill thai had revengit the hurting of ane of them; and thairefter the constable of the castell come down thairfra, and he with the said maisters treatet betwix the said pties in this maner:--That the said provost and baillies sall remit to the said craftischilder, all actioun, cryme, and offens that thai had committit aganes thame in any tyme bygane; and band and oblast thame never to pursew them thairfor; and als commandit thair maisters to resaue them agane in thair services, as thai did befoir. And this being proclainit at the mercat cross, thai scalit, and the said provest and bailies come furth of the same tolbouyth. &c. &c. &c. John Knox, who writes at large upon this tumult, informs us it was inflamed by the deacons of craftes, who, resenting; the superiority assumed over them by the magistrates, would yield no assistance to put down the tumult. They will be magistrates alone, said the recusant deacons, e'en let them rule the populace alone; and accordingly they passed quietly to take _their four-hours penny_, and left the magistrates to help themselves as they could. Many persons were excommunicated for this outrage, and not admitted to church ordinances till they had made satisfaction.] --the best representation exhibited at the time; and no great wonder, since most of the actors were, by profession, the banished men and thieves whom they presented. Other masqueraders there were, of a less marked description. Men were disguised as women, and women as men--children wore the dress of aged people, and tottered with crutch-sticks in their hands, furred gowns on their little backs, and caps on their round heads--while grandsires assumed the infantine tone as well as the dress of children. Besides these, many had their faces painted, and wore their shirts over the rest of their dress; while coloured pasteboard and ribbons furnished out decorations for others. Those who wanted all these properties, blacked their faces, and turned their jackets inside out; and thus the transmutation of the whole assembly into a set of mad grotesque mummers, was at once completed. The pause which the masqueraders made, waiting apparently for some person of the highest authority amongst them, gave those within the Abbey Church full time to observe all these absurdities. They were at no loss to comprehend their purpose and meaning. Few readers can be ignorant, that at an early period, and during the plenitude of her power, the Church of Rome not only connived at, but even encouraged, such Saturnalian licenses as the inhabitants of Kennaquhair and the neighbourhood had now in hand, and that the vulgar, on such occasions, were not only permitted but encouraged by a number of gambols, sometimes puerile and ludicrous, sometimes immoral and profane, to indemnify themselves for the privations and penances imposed on them at other seasons. But, of all other topics for burlesque and ridicule, the rites and ceremonial of the church itself were most frequently resorted to; and, strange to say, with the approbation of the clergy themselves. While the hierarchy flourished in full glory, they do not appear to have dreaded the consequences of suffering the people to become so irreverently familiar with things sacred; they then imagined the laity to be much in the condition of the labourer's horse, which does not submit to the bridle and the whip with greater reluctance, because, at rare intervals, he is allowed to frolic at large in his pasture, and fling out his heels in clumsy gambols at the master who usually drives him. But, when times changed--when doubt of the Roman Catholic doctrine, and hatred of their priesthood, had possessed the reformed party, the clergy discovered, too late, that no small inconvenience arose from the established practice of games and merry-makings, in which they themselves, and all they held most sacred, were made the subject of ridicule. It then became obvious to duller politicians than the Romish churchmen, that the same actions have a very different tendency when done in the spirit of sarcastic insolence and hatred, than when acted merely in exuberance of rude and uncontrollable spirits. They, therefore, though of the latest, endeavoured, where they had any remaining influence, to discourage the renewal of these indecorous festivities. In this particular, the Catholic clergy were joined by most of the reformed preachers, who were more shocked at the profanity and immorality of many of these exhibitions, than disposed to profit by the ridiculous light in which they placed the Church of Rome and her observances. But it was long ere these scandalous and immoral sports could be abrogated;--the rude multitude continued attached to their favourite pastimes, and, both in England and Scotland, the mitre of the Catholic--the rochet of the reformed bishop--and the cloak and band of the Calvinistic divine--were, in turn, compelled to give place to those jocular personages, the Pope of Fools, the Boy-Bishop, and the Abbot of Unreason. [Footnote: From the interesting novel entitled Anastasius, it seems the same burlesque ceremonies were practised in the Greek Church. ] It was the latter personage who now, in full costume, made his approach to the great door of the church of St. Mary's, accoutred in such a manner as to form a caricature, or practical parody, on the costume and attendants of the real Superior, whom he came to beard on the very day of his installation, in the presence of his clergy, and in the chancel of his church. The mock dignitary was a stout-made under-sized fellow, whose thick squab form had been rendered grotesque by a supplemental paunch, well stuffed. He wore a mitre of leather, with the front like a grenadier's cap, adorned with mock embroidery, and trinkets of tin. This surmounted a visage, the nose of which was the most prominent feature, being of unusual size, and at least as richly gemmed as his head-gear. His robe was of buckram, and his cope of canvass, curiously painted, and cut into open work. On one shoulder was fixed the painted figure of an owl; and he bore in the right hand his pastoral staff, and in the left a small mirror having a handle to it, thus resembling a celebrated jester, whose adventures, translated into English, were whilom extremely popular, and which may still be procured in black letter, for about one sterling pound per leaf. The attendants of this mock dignitary had their proper dresses and equipage, bearing the same burlesque resemblance to the officers of the Convent which their leader did to the Superior. They followed their leader in regular procession, and the motley characters, which had waited his arrival, now crowded into the church in his train, shouting as they came,-- A hall, a hall! for the venerable Father Howleglas, the learned Monk of Misrule, and the Right Reverend Abbot of Unreason! The discordant minstrelsy of every kind renewed its din; the boys shrieked and howled, and the men laughed and hallooed, and the women giggled and screamed, and the beasts roared, and the dragon wallopped and hissed, and the hobby-horse neighed, pranced, and capered, and the rest frisked and frolicked, clashing their hobnailed shoes against the pavement, till it sparkled with the marks of their energetic caprioles. It was, in fine, a scene of ridiculous confusion, that deafened the ear, made the eyes giddy, and must have altogether stunned any indifferent spectator; the monks, whom personal apprehension and a consciousness that much of the popular enjoyment arose from the ridicule being directed against them, were, moreover, little comforted by

compared

How many times the word 'compared' appears in the text?

with the deeper clamour of men, formed a Babel of sounds, which first drowned, and then awed into utter silence, the official hymns of the Convent. The cause and result of this extraordinary interruption will be explained in the next chapter. Chapter the Fourteenth. Not the wild billow, when it breaks its barrier-- Not the wild wind, escaping from its cavern-- Not the wild fiend, that mingles both together, And pours their rage upon the ripening harvest, Can match the wild freaks of this mirthful meeting-- Comic, yet fearful--droll, and yet destructive. THE CONSPIRACY. The monks ceased their song, which, like that of the choristers in the legend of the Witch of Berkley, died away in a quaver of consternation; and, like a flock of chickens disturbed by the presence of the kite, they at first made a movement to disperse and fly in different directions, and then, with despair, rather than hope, huddled themselves around their new Abbot; who, retaining the lofty and undismayed look which had dignified him through the whole ceremony, stood on the higher step of the altar, as if desirous to be the most conspicuous mark on which danger might discharge itself, and to save his companions by his self-devotion, since he could afford them no other protection. Involuntarily, as it were, Magdalen Graeme and the page stepped from the station which hitherto they had occupied unnoticed, and approached to the altar, as desirous of sharing the fate which approached the monks, whatever that might be. Both bowed reverently low to the Abbot; and while Magdalen seemed about to speak, the youth, looking towards the main entrance, at which the noise now roared most loudly, and which was at the same time assailed with much knocking, laid his hand upon his dagger. The Abbot motioned to both to forbear: Peace, my sister, he said, in a low tone, but which, being in a different key from the tumultuary sounds without, could be distinctly heard, even amidst the tumult;-- Peace, he said, my sister; let the new Superior of Saint Mary's himself receive and reply to the grateful acclamations of the vassals, who come to celebrate his installation.--And thou, my son, forbear, I charge thee, to touch thy earthly weapon;--if it is the pleasure of our protectress, that her shrine be this day desecrated by deeds of violence, and polluted by blood-shedding, let it not, I charge thee, happen through the deed of a Catholic son of the church. The noise and knocking at the outer gate became now every moment louder; and voices were heard impatiently demanding admittance. The Abbot, with dignity, and with a step which even the emergency of danger rendered neither faltering nor precipitate, moved towards the portal, and demanded to know, in a tone of authority, who it was that disturbed their worship, and what they desired? There was a moment's silence, and then a loud laugh from without. At length a voice replied, We desire entrance into the church; and when the door is opened you will soon see who we are. By whose authority do you require entrance? said the Father. By authority of the right reverend Lord Abbot of Unreason. [Footnote: We learn from no less authority than that of Napoleon Bonaparte, that there is but a single step between the sublime and ridiculous; and it is a transition from one extreme to another; so very easy, that the vulgar of every degree are peculiarly captivated with it. Thus the inclination to laugh becomes uncontrollable, when the solemnity and gravity of time, place, and circumstances, render it peculiarly improper. Some species of general license, like that which inspired the ancient Saturnalia, or the modern Carnival, has been commonly indulged to the people at all times and in almost all countries. But it was, I think, peculiar to the Roman Catholic Church, that while they studied how to render their church rites imposing and magnificent, by all that pomp, music, architecture, and external display could add to them, they nevertheless connived, upon special occasions, at the frolics of the rude vulgar, who, in almost all Catholic countries, enjoyed, or at least assumed, the privilege of making: some Lord of the revels, who, under the name of the Abbot of Unreason, the Boy Bishop, or the President of Fools, occupied the churches, profaned the holy places by a mock imitation of the sacred rites, and sung indecent parodies on hymns of the church. The indifference of the clergy, even when their power was greatest, to the indecent exhibitions which they always tolerated, and sometimes encouraged, forms a strong contrast to the sensitiveness with which they regarded any serious attempt, by preaching or writing, to impeach any of the doctrines of the church. It could only be compared to the singular apathy with which they endured, and often admired the gross novels which Chaucer, Dunbar, Boccacio, Bandello, and others, composed upon the bad morals of the clergy. It seems as if the churchmen in both instances had endeavoured to compromise with the laity, and allowed them occasionally to gratify their coarse humour by indecent satire, provided they would abstain from any grave question concerning the foundation of the doctrines on which was erected such an immense fabric of ecclesiastical power. But the sports thus licensed assumed a very different appearance, so soon as the Protestant doctrines began to prevail; and the license which their forefathers had exercised in mere gaiety of heart, and without the least intention of dishonouring religion by their frolics, were now persevered in by the common people as a mode of testifying their utter disregard for the Roman priesthood and its ceremonies. I may observe, for example, the case of an apparitor sent to Borthwick from the Primate of Saint Andrews, to cite the lord of that castle, who was opposed by an Abbot of Unreason, at whose command the officer of the spiritual court was appointed to be ducked in a mill-dam, and obliged to eat up his parchment citation. The reader may be amused with the following whimsical details of this incident, which took place in the castle of Borthwick, in the year 1517. It appears, that in consequence of a process betwixt Master George Hay de Minzeane and the Lord Borthwick, letters of excommunication had passed against the latter, on account of the contumacy of certain witnesses. William Langlands, an apparitor or macer (_bacularius_) of the See of St Andrews, presented these letters to the curate of the church of Borthwick, requiring him to publish the same at the service of high mass. It seems that the inhabitants of the castle were at this time engaged in the favourite sport of enacting the Abbot of Unreason, a species of high jinks, in which a mimic prelate was elected, who, like the Lord of Misrule in England, turned all sort of lawful authority, and particularly the church ritual, into ridicule. This frolicsome person with his retinue, notwithstanding of the apparitor's character, entered the church, seized upon the primate's officer without hesitation, and, dragging him to the mill-dam on the south side of the castle, compelled him to leap into the water. Not contented with this partial immersion, the Abbot of Unreason pronounced, that Mr. William Langlands was not yet sufficiently bathed, and therefore caused his assistants to lay him on his back in the stream, and duck him in the most satisfactory and perfect manner. The unfortunate apparitor was then conducted back to the church, where, for his refreshment after his bath, the letters of excommunication were torn to pieces, and steeped in a bowl of wine; the mock abbot being probably of opinion that a tough parchment was but dry eating, Langlands was compelled to eat the letters, and swallow the wine, and dismissed by the Abbot of Unreason, with the comfortable assurance, that if any more such letters should arrive during the continuance of his office, they should a' gang the same gate, _i. e._ go the same road. A similar scene occurs betwixt a sumner of the Bishop of Rochester, and Harpool, the servant of Lord Cobham, in the old play of Sir John Oldcastle, when the former compels the church-officer to eat his citation. The dialogue, which may be found in the note, contains most of the jests which may be supposed, appropriate to such an extraordinary occasion: _Harpool_ Marry, sir, is, this process parchment? _Sumner._ Yes, marry is it. _Harpool._ And this seal wax? _Sumner._ It is so. _Harpool._ If this be parchment, and this be wax, eat you this parchment and wax, or I will make parchment of your skin, and beat your brains into wax. Sirrah Sumner, despatch--devour, sirrah, devour. _Sumner._ I am my Lord of Rochester's sumner; I came to do my office, and thou shall answer it. _Harpool._ Sirrah, no railing, but, betake thyself to thy teeth. Thou shalt, eat no worse than thou bringest with thee. Thou bringest it for my lord; and wilt thou bring my lord worse than thou wilt eat thyself? _Sumner._ Sir. I brought it not my lord to eat. _Harpool._ O, do you Sir me now? All's one for that; I'll make you eat it for bringing it. _Sumner._ I cannot eat it. _Harpool._ Can you not? 'Sblood, I'll beat you till you have a stomach! (_Beats him._) _Sumner._ Oh, hold, hold, good Mr. Servingman; I will eat it. _Harpool._ Be champing, be chewing, sir, or I will chew you, you rogue. Tough wax is the purest of the honey. _Sumner._ The purest of the honey?--O Lord, sir, oh! oh! _Harpool._ Feed, feed; 'tis wholesome, rogue, wholesome. Cannot you, like an honest sumner, walk with the devil your brother, to fetch in your bailiff's rents, but you must come to a nobleman's house with process! If the seal were broad as the lead which covers Rochester Church, thou shouldst eat it. _Sumner._ Oh, I am almost choked--I am almost choked! _Harpool._ Who's within there? Will you shame my lord? Is there no beer in the house? Butler, I say. _Enter_ BUTLER. _Butler._ Here, here. _Harpool._ Give him beer. Tough old sheep skin's but dry meat. _First Part of Sir John Oldcastle_, Act II. Scene I.] replied the voice from without; and, from the laugh--which followed, it seemed as if there was something highly ludicrous couched under this reply. I know not, and seek not to know, your meaning, replied the Abbot, since it is probably a rude one. But begone, in the name of God, and leave his servants in peace. I speak this, as having lawful authority to command here. Open the door, said another rude voice, and we will try titles with you, Sir Monk, and show you a superior we must all obey. Break open the doors if he dallies any longer, said a third, and down with the carrion monks who would bar us of our privilege! A general shout followed. Ay, ay, our privilege! our privilege! down with the doors, and with the lurdane monks, if they make opposition! The knocking was now exchanged for blows with great, hammers, to which the doors, strong as they were, must soon have given way. But the Abbot, who saw resistance would be in vain, and who did not wish to incense the assailants by an attempt at offering it, besought silence earnestly, and with difficulty obtained a hearing. My children, said he, I will save you from committing a great sin. The porter will presently undo the gate--he is gone to fetch the keys--meantime I pray you to consider with yourselves, if you are in a state of mind to cross the holy threshold. Tillyvally for your papistry! was answered from without; we are in the mood of the monks when they are merriest, and that is when they sup beef-brewis for lanten-kail. So, if your porter hath not the gout, let him come speedily, or we heave away readily.--Said I well, comrades? Bravely said, and it shall be as bravely done, said the multitude; and had not the keys arrived at that moment, and the porter in hasty terror performed his office, throwing open the great door, the populace would have saved him the trouble. The instant he had done so, the affrighted janitor fled, like one who has drawn the bolts of a flood-gate, and expects to be overwhelmed by the rushing inundation. The monks, with one consent, had withdrawn themselves behind the Abbot, who alone kept his station, about three yards from the entrance, showing no signs of fear or perturbation. His brethren--partly encouraged by his devotion, partly ashamed to desert him, and partly animated by a sense of duty.--remained huddled close together, at the back of their Superior. There was a loud laugh and huzza when the doors were opened; but, contrary to what might have been expected, no crowd of enraged assailants rushed into the church. On the contrary, there was a cry of A halt!-a halt--to order, my masters! and let the two reverend fathers greet each other, as beseems them. The appearance of the crowd who were thus called to order, was grotesque in the extreme. It was composed of men, women, and children, ludicrously disguised in various habits, and presenting groups equally diversified and grotesque. Here one fellow with a horse's head painted before him, and a tail behind, and the whole covered with a long foot-cloth, which was supposed to hide the body of the animal, ambled, caracoled, pranced, and plunged, as he performed the celebrated part of the hobby-horse, [Footnote: This exhibition, the play-mare of Scotland, stood high among holyday gambols. It must be carefully separated from the wooden chargers which furnish out our nurseries. It gives rise to Hamlet's ejaculation,-- But oh, but oh, the hobby-horse is forgot! There is a very comic scene in Beaumont and Fletcher's play of Woman Pleased, where Hope-on-high Bombye, a puritan cobbler, refuses to dance with the hobby-horse. There was much difficulty and great variety in the motions which the hobby-horse was expected to exhibit. The learned Mr. Douce, who has contributed so much to the illustration of our theatrical antiquities, has given us a full account of this pageant, and the burlesque horsemanship which it practised. The hobby-horse, says Mr. Douce, was represented by a man equipped with as much pasteboard as was sufficient to form the head and hinder parts of a horse, the quadrupedal defects being concealed by a long mantle or footcloth that nearly touched the ground. The former, on this occasion, exerted all his skill in burlesque horsemanship. In Sympson's play of the Law-breakers, 1636, a miller personates the hobby-horse, and being angry that the Mayor of the city is put in competition with him, exclaims, 'Let the mayor play the hobby-horse among his brethren, an he will; I hope our town-lads cannot want a hobby-horse. Have I practised my reins, my careers, my prankers, my ambles, my false trots, my smooth ambles, and Canterbury paces, and shall master mayor put me beside the hobby-horse? Have I borrowed the fore-horse bells, his plumes, his braveries; nay, had his mane new shorn and frizzled, and shall the mayor put me beside the hobby-horse? --_Douce's Illustrations_, vol. II. p. 468] so often alluded to in our ancient drama; and which still flourishes on the stage in the battle that concludes Bayes's tragedy. To rival the address and agility displayed by this character, another personage advanced in the more formidable character of a huge dragon, with gilded wings, open jaws, and a scarlet tongue, cloven at the end, which made various efforts to overtake and devour a lad, dressed as the lovely Sabaea, daughter of the King of Egypt, who fled before him; while a martial Saint George, grotesquely armed with a goblet for a helmet, and a spit for a lance, ever and anon interfered, and compelled the monster to relinquish his prey. A bear, a wolf, and one or two other wild animals, played their parts with the discretion of Snug the joiner; for the decided preference which they gave to the use of their hind legs, was sufficient, without any formal annunciation, to assure the most timorous spectators that they had to do with habitual bipeds. There was a group of outlaws with Robin Hood and Little John at their head [Footnote: The representation of Robin Hood was the darling Maygame both in England and Scotland, and doubtless the favourite personification was often revived, when the Abbot of Unreason, or other pretences of frolic, gave an unusual decree of license. The Protestant clergy, who had formerly reaped advantage from the opportunities which these sports afforded them of directing their own satire and the ridicule of the lower orders against the Catholic church, began to find that, when these purposes were served, their favourite pastimes deprived them of the wish to attend divine worship, and disturbed the frame of mind in which it can be attended to advantage. The celebrated Bishop Latimer gives a very _naive_ account of the manner in which, bishop as he was, he found himself compelled to give place to Robin Hood and his followers. I came once myselfe riding on a journey homeward from London, and I sent word over night into the towne that I would preach there in the morning, because it was holiday, and me thought it was a holidayes worke. The church stood in my way, and I took my horse and my company, and went thither, (I thought I should have found a great company in the church,) and when I came there the church doore was fast locked. I tarryed there halfe an houre and more. At last the key was found, and one of the parish comes to me and said,--'Sir, this is a busie day with us, we cannot hear you; it is Robin Hood's day. The parish are gone abroad to gather for Robin Hood. I pray you let them not.' I was faine there to give place to Robin Hood. I thought my rochet should have been regarded, though I were not: but it would not serve, it was faine to give place to Robin Hood's men. It is no laughing matter, my friends, it is a weeping matter, a heavie matter, a heavie matter. Under the pretence for gathering for Robin Hood, a traytour, and a theif, to put out a preacher; to have his office lesse esteemed; to preferre Robin Hood before the ministration of God's word; and all this hath come of unpreaching prelates. This realme hath been ill provided for, that it hath had such corrupt judgments in it, to prefer Robin Hood to God's word. --_Bishop Latimer's sixth Sermon before King Edward_. While the English Protestants thus preferred the outlaw's pageant to the preaching of their excellent Bishop, the Scottish calvinistic clergy, with the celebrated John Knox at their head, and backed by the authority of the magistrates of Edinburgh, who had of late been chosen exclusively from this party, found it impossible to control the rage of the populace, when they attempted to deprive them of the privilege of presenting their pageant of Robin Hood. [Note on old Scottish spelling: leading y = modern 'th'; leading v = modern 'u'] (561) Vpon the xxi day of Junij. Archibalde Dowglas of Kilspindie, Provest of Edr., David Symmer and Adame Fullartoun, baillies of the samyne, causit ane cordinare servant, callit James Gillion takin of befoir, for playing in Edr. with Robene Hude, to wnderly the law, and put him to the knawlege of ane assyize qlk yaij haid electit of yair favoraris, quha with schort deliberatioun condemnit him to be hangit for ye said cryme. And the deaconis of ye craftismen fearing vproare, maid great solistatuis at ye handis of ye said provost and baillies, and als requirit John Knox, minister, for eschewing of tumult, to superceid ye execution of him, vnto ye tyme yai suld adverteis my Lord Duke yairof. And yan, if it wes his mynd and will yat he should be disponit vpoun, ye said deaconis and craftismen sould convey him yaire; quha answerit, yat yai culd na way stope ye executioun of justice. Quhan ye time of ye said pouer mans hanging approchit, and yat ye hangman wes cum to ye jibbat with ye ledder, vpoune ye qlk ye said cordinare should have bene hangit, ane certaine and remanent craftischilder, quha wes put to ye horne with ye said Gillione, ffor ye said Robene Huide's _playes_, and vyris yair assistaris and favoraris, past to wappinis, and yai brak down ye said jibbat, and yan chacit ye said provest, baillies, and Alexr. Guthrie, in ye said Alexander's writing buith, and held yame yairin; and yairefter past to ye tolbuyt, and becaus the samyne was steiket, and onnawayes culd get the keyes thairof, thai brak the said tolbuith dore with foure harberis, per force, (the said provest and baillies luckand thairon.) and not onlie put thar the said Gillione to fredome and libertie, and brocht him furth of the said tolbuit, bot alsua the remanent presonaris being thairintill; and this done, the said craftismen's servands, with the said condempnit cordonar, past doun to the Netherbow, to have past furth thairat; bot becaus the samyne on thair coming thairto wes closet, thai past vp agane the Hie streit of the said bourghe to the Castellhill, and in this menetymne the saidis provest and baillies, and thair assistaris being in the writing buith of the said Alexr. Guthrie, past and enterit in the said tolbuyt, and in the said servandes passage vp the Hie streit, then schote furth thairof at thame ane dog, and hurt ane servand of the said childer. This being done, thair wes nathing vthir but the one partie schuteand out and castand stanes furth of the said tolbuyt, and the vther pairtie schuteand hagbuttis in the same agane. Aund sua the craftismen's servandis, aboue written, held and inclosit the said provest and baillies continewallie in the said tolbuyth, frae three houris efternone, quhill aught houris at even, and na man of the said town prensit to relieve their said provest and baillies. And than thai send to the maisters of the Castell, to caus tham if thai mycht stay the said servandis, quha maid ane maner to do the same, bot thai could not bring the same to ane finall end, ffor the said servands wold on noways stay fra, quhill thai had revengit the hurting of ane of them; and thairefter the constable of the castell come down thairfra, and he with the said maisters treatet betwix the said pties in this maner:--That the said provost and baillies sall remit to the said craftischilder, all actioun, cryme, and offens that thai had committit aganes thame in any tyme bygane; and band and oblast thame never to pursew them thairfor; and als commandit thair maisters to resaue them agane in thair services, as thai did befoir. And this being proclainit at the mercat cross, thai scalit, and the said provest and bailies come furth of the same tolbouyth. &c. &c. &c. John Knox, who writes at large upon this tumult, informs us it was inflamed by the deacons of craftes, who, resenting; the superiority assumed over them by the magistrates, would yield no assistance to put down the tumult. They will be magistrates alone, said the recusant deacons, e'en let them rule the populace alone; and accordingly they passed quietly to take _their four-hours penny_, and left the magistrates to help themselves as they could. Many persons were excommunicated for this outrage, and not admitted to church ordinances till they had made satisfaction.] --the best representation exhibited at the time; and no great wonder, since most of the actors were, by profession, the banished men and thieves whom they presented. Other masqueraders there were, of a less marked description. Men were disguised as women, and women as men--children wore the dress of aged people, and tottered with crutch-sticks in their hands, furred gowns on their little backs, and caps on their round heads--while grandsires assumed the infantine tone as well as the dress of children. Besides these, many had their faces painted, and wore their shirts over the rest of their dress; while coloured pasteboard and ribbons furnished out decorations for others. Those who wanted all these properties, blacked their faces, and turned their jackets inside out; and thus the transmutation of the whole assembly into a set of mad grotesque mummers, was at once completed. The pause which the masqueraders made, waiting apparently for some person of the highest authority amongst them, gave those within the Abbey Church full time to observe all these absurdities. They were at no loss to comprehend their purpose and meaning. Few readers can be ignorant, that at an early period, and during the plenitude of her power, the Church of Rome not only connived at, but even encouraged, such Saturnalian licenses as the inhabitants of Kennaquhair and the neighbourhood had now in hand, and that the vulgar, on such occasions, were not only permitted but encouraged by a number of gambols, sometimes puerile and ludicrous, sometimes immoral and profane, to indemnify themselves for the privations and penances imposed on them at other seasons. But, of all other topics for burlesque and ridicule, the rites and ceremonial of the church itself were most frequently resorted to; and, strange to say, with the approbation of the clergy themselves. While the hierarchy flourished in full glory, they do not appear to have dreaded the consequences of suffering the people to become so irreverently familiar with things sacred; they then imagined the laity to be much in the condition of the labourer's horse, which does not submit to the bridle and the whip with greater reluctance, because, at rare intervals, he is allowed to frolic at large in his pasture, and fling out his heels in clumsy gambols at the master who usually drives him. But, when times changed--when doubt of the Roman Catholic doctrine, and hatred of their priesthood, had possessed the reformed party, the clergy discovered, too late, that no small inconvenience arose from the established practice of games and merry-makings, in which they themselves, and all they held most sacred, were made the subject of ridicule. It then became obvious to duller politicians than the Romish churchmen, that the same actions have a very different tendency when done in the spirit of sarcastic insolence and hatred, than when acted merely in exuberance of rude and uncontrollable spirits. They, therefore, though of the latest, endeavoured, where they had any remaining influence, to discourage the renewal of these indecorous festivities. In this particular, the Catholic clergy were joined by most of the reformed preachers, who were more shocked at the profanity and immorality of many of these exhibitions, than disposed to profit by the ridiculous light in which they placed the Church of Rome and her observances. But it was long ere these scandalous and immoral sports could be abrogated;--the rude multitude continued attached to their favourite pastimes, and, both in England and Scotland, the mitre of the Catholic--the rochet of the reformed bishop--and the cloak and band of the Calvinistic divine--were, in turn, compelled to give place to those jocular personages, the Pope of Fools, the Boy-Bishop, and the Abbot of Unreason. [Footnote: From the interesting novel entitled Anastasius, it seems the same burlesque ceremonies were practised in the Greek Church. ] It was the latter personage who now, in full costume, made his approach to the great door of the church of St. Mary's, accoutred in such a manner as to form a caricature, or practical parody, on the costume and attendants of the real Superior, whom he came to beard on the very day of his installation, in the presence of his clergy, and in the chancel of his church. The mock dignitary was a stout-made under-sized fellow, whose thick squab form had been rendered grotesque by a supplemental paunch, well stuffed. He wore a mitre of leather, with the front like a grenadier's cap, adorned with mock embroidery, and trinkets of tin. This surmounted a visage, the nose of which was the most prominent feature, being of unusual size, and at least as richly gemmed as his head-gear. His robe was of buckram, and his cope of canvass, curiously painted, and cut into open work. On one shoulder was fixed the painted figure of an owl; and he bore in the right hand his pastoral staff, and in the left a small mirror having a handle to it, thus resembling a celebrated jester, whose adventures, translated into English, were whilom extremely popular, and which may still be procured in black letter, for about one sterling pound per leaf. The attendants of this mock dignitary had their proper dresses and equipage, bearing the same burlesque resemblance to the officers of the Convent which their leader did to the Superior. They followed their leader in regular procession, and the motley characters, which had waited his arrival, now crowded into the church in his train, shouting as they came,-- A hall, a hall! for the venerable Father Howleglas, the learned Monk of Misrule, and the Right Reverend Abbot of Unreason! The discordant minstrelsy of every kind renewed its din; the boys shrieked and howled, and the men laughed and hallooed, and the women giggled and screamed, and the beasts roared, and the dragon wallopped and hissed, and the hobby-horse neighed, pranced, and capered, and the rest frisked and frolicked, clashing their hobnailed shoes against the pavement, till it sparkled with the marks of their energetic caprioles. It was, in fine, a scene of ridiculous confusion, that deafened the ear, made the eyes giddy, and must have altogether stunned any indifferent spectator; the monks, whom personal apprehension and a consciousness that much of the popular enjoyment arose from the ridicule being directed against them, were, moreover, little comforted by

indecent

How many times the word 'indecent' appears in the text?

with the deeper clamour of men, formed a Babel of sounds, which first drowned, and then awed into utter silence, the official hymns of the Convent. The cause and result of this extraordinary interruption will be explained in the next chapter. Chapter the Fourteenth. Not the wild billow, when it breaks its barrier-- Not the wild wind, escaping from its cavern-- Not the wild fiend, that mingles both together, And pours their rage upon the ripening harvest, Can match the wild freaks of this mirthful meeting-- Comic, yet fearful--droll, and yet destructive. THE CONSPIRACY. The monks ceased their song, which, like that of the choristers in the legend of the Witch of Berkley, died away in a quaver of consternation; and, like a flock of chickens disturbed by the presence of the kite, they at first made a movement to disperse and fly in different directions, and then, with despair, rather than hope, huddled themselves around their new Abbot; who, retaining the lofty and undismayed look which had dignified him through the whole ceremony, stood on the higher step of the altar, as if desirous to be the most conspicuous mark on which danger might discharge itself, and to save his companions by his self-devotion, since he could afford them no other protection. Involuntarily, as it were, Magdalen Graeme and the page stepped from the station which hitherto they had occupied unnoticed, and approached to the altar, as desirous of sharing the fate which approached the monks, whatever that might be. Both bowed reverently low to the Abbot; and while Magdalen seemed about to speak, the youth, looking towards the main entrance, at which the noise now roared most loudly, and which was at the same time assailed with much knocking, laid his hand upon his dagger. The Abbot motioned to both to forbear: Peace, my sister, he said, in a low tone, but which, being in a different key from the tumultuary sounds without, could be distinctly heard, even amidst the tumult;-- Peace, he said, my sister; let the new Superior of Saint Mary's himself receive and reply to the grateful acclamations of the vassals, who come to celebrate his installation.--And thou, my son, forbear, I charge thee, to touch thy earthly weapon;--if it is the pleasure of our protectress, that her shrine be this day desecrated by deeds of violence, and polluted by blood-shedding, let it not, I charge thee, happen through the deed of a Catholic son of the church. The noise and knocking at the outer gate became now every moment louder; and voices were heard impatiently demanding admittance. The Abbot, with dignity, and with a step which even the emergency of danger rendered neither faltering nor precipitate, moved towards the portal, and demanded to know, in a tone of authority, who it was that disturbed their worship, and what they desired? There was a moment's silence, and then a loud laugh from without. At length a voice replied, We desire entrance into the church; and when the door is opened you will soon see who we are. By whose authority do you require entrance? said the Father. By authority of the right reverend Lord Abbot of Unreason. [Footnote: We learn from no less authority than that of Napoleon Bonaparte, that there is but a single step between the sublime and ridiculous; and it is a transition from one extreme to another; so very easy, that the vulgar of every degree are peculiarly captivated with it. Thus the inclination to laugh becomes uncontrollable, when the solemnity and gravity of time, place, and circumstances, render it peculiarly improper. Some species of general license, like that which inspired the ancient Saturnalia, or the modern Carnival, has been commonly indulged to the people at all times and in almost all countries. But it was, I think, peculiar to the Roman Catholic Church, that while they studied how to render their church rites imposing and magnificent, by all that pomp, music, architecture, and external display could add to them, they nevertheless connived, upon special occasions, at the frolics of the rude vulgar, who, in almost all Catholic countries, enjoyed, or at least assumed, the privilege of making: some Lord of the revels, who, under the name of the Abbot of Unreason, the Boy Bishop, or the President of Fools, occupied the churches, profaned the holy places by a mock imitation of the sacred rites, and sung indecent parodies on hymns of the church. The indifference of the clergy, even when their power was greatest, to the indecent exhibitions which they always tolerated, and sometimes encouraged, forms a strong contrast to the sensitiveness with which they regarded any serious attempt, by preaching or writing, to impeach any of the doctrines of the church. It could only be compared to the singular apathy with which they endured, and often admired the gross novels which Chaucer, Dunbar, Boccacio, Bandello, and others, composed upon the bad morals of the clergy. It seems as if the churchmen in both instances had endeavoured to compromise with the laity, and allowed them occasionally to gratify their coarse humour by indecent satire, provided they would abstain from any grave question concerning the foundation of the doctrines on which was erected such an immense fabric of ecclesiastical power. But the sports thus licensed assumed a very different appearance, so soon as the Protestant doctrines began to prevail; and the license which their forefathers had exercised in mere gaiety of heart, and without the least intention of dishonouring religion by their frolics, were now persevered in by the common people as a mode of testifying their utter disregard for the Roman priesthood and its ceremonies. I may observe, for example, the case of an apparitor sent to Borthwick from the Primate of Saint Andrews, to cite the lord of that castle, who was opposed by an Abbot of Unreason, at whose command the officer of the spiritual court was appointed to be ducked in a mill-dam, and obliged to eat up his parchment citation. The reader may be amused with the following whimsical details of this incident, which took place in the castle of Borthwick, in the year 1517. It appears, that in consequence of a process betwixt Master George Hay de Minzeane and the Lord Borthwick, letters of excommunication had passed against the latter, on account of the contumacy of certain witnesses. William Langlands, an apparitor or macer (_bacularius_) of the See of St Andrews, presented these letters to the curate of the church of Borthwick, requiring him to publish the same at the service of high mass. It seems that the inhabitants of the castle were at this time engaged in the favourite sport of enacting the Abbot of Unreason, a species of high jinks, in which a mimic prelate was elected, who, like the Lord of Misrule in England, turned all sort of lawful authority, and particularly the church ritual, into ridicule. This frolicsome person with his retinue, notwithstanding of the apparitor's character, entered the church, seized upon the primate's officer without hesitation, and, dragging him to the mill-dam on the south side of the castle, compelled him to leap into the water. Not contented with this partial immersion, the Abbot of Unreason pronounced, that Mr. William Langlands was not yet sufficiently bathed, and therefore caused his assistants to lay him on his back in the stream, and duck him in the most satisfactory and perfect manner. The unfortunate apparitor was then conducted back to the church, where, for his refreshment after his bath, the letters of excommunication were torn to pieces, and steeped in a bowl of wine; the mock abbot being probably of opinion that a tough parchment was but dry eating, Langlands was compelled to eat the letters, and swallow the wine, and dismissed by the Abbot of Unreason, with the comfortable assurance, that if any more such letters should arrive during the continuance of his office, they should a' gang the same gate, _i. e._ go the same road. A similar scene occurs betwixt a sumner of the Bishop of Rochester, and Harpool, the servant of Lord Cobham, in the old play of Sir John Oldcastle, when the former compels the church-officer to eat his citation. The dialogue, which may be found in the note, contains most of the jests which may be supposed, appropriate to such an extraordinary occasion: _Harpool_ Marry, sir, is, this process parchment? _Sumner._ Yes, marry is it. _Harpool._ And this seal wax? _Sumner._ It is so. _Harpool._ If this be parchment, and this be wax, eat you this parchment and wax, or I will make parchment of your skin, and beat your brains into wax. Sirrah Sumner, despatch--devour, sirrah, devour. _Sumner._ I am my Lord of Rochester's sumner; I came to do my office, and thou shall answer it. _Harpool._ Sirrah, no railing, but, betake thyself to thy teeth. Thou shalt, eat no worse than thou bringest with thee. Thou bringest it for my lord; and wilt thou bring my lord worse than thou wilt eat thyself? _Sumner._ Sir. I brought it not my lord to eat. _Harpool._ O, do you Sir me now? All's one for that; I'll make you eat it for bringing it. _Sumner._ I cannot eat it. _Harpool._ Can you not? 'Sblood, I'll beat you till you have a stomach! (_Beats him._) _Sumner._ Oh, hold, hold, good Mr. Servingman; I will eat it. _Harpool._ Be champing, be chewing, sir, or I will chew you, you rogue. Tough wax is the purest of the honey. _Sumner._ The purest of the honey?--O Lord, sir, oh! oh! _Harpool._ Feed, feed; 'tis wholesome, rogue, wholesome. Cannot you, like an honest sumner, walk with the devil your brother, to fetch in your bailiff's rents, but you must come to a nobleman's house with process! If the seal were broad as the lead which covers Rochester Church, thou shouldst eat it. _Sumner._ Oh, I am almost choked--I am almost choked! _Harpool._ Who's within there? Will you shame my lord? Is there no beer in the house? Butler, I say. _Enter_ BUTLER. _Butler._ Here, here. _Harpool._ Give him beer. Tough old sheep skin's but dry meat. _First Part of Sir John Oldcastle_, Act II. Scene I.] replied the voice from without; and, from the laugh--which followed, it seemed as if there was something highly ludicrous couched under this reply. I know not, and seek not to know, your meaning, replied the Abbot, since it is probably a rude one. But begone, in the name of God, and leave his servants in peace. I speak this, as having lawful authority to command here. Open the door, said another rude voice, and we will try titles with you, Sir Monk, and show you a superior we must all obey. Break open the doors if he dallies any longer, said a third, and down with the carrion monks who would bar us of our privilege! A general shout followed. Ay, ay, our privilege! our privilege! down with the doors, and with the lurdane monks, if they make opposition! The knocking was now exchanged for blows with great, hammers, to which the doors, strong as they were, must soon have given way. But the Abbot, who saw resistance would be in vain, and who did not wish to incense the assailants by an attempt at offering it, besought silence earnestly, and with difficulty obtained a hearing. My children, said he, I will save you from committing a great sin. The porter will presently undo the gate--he is gone to fetch the keys--meantime I pray you to consider with yourselves, if you are in a state of mind to cross the holy threshold. Tillyvally for your papistry! was answered from without; we are in the mood of the monks when they are merriest, and that is when they sup beef-brewis for lanten-kail. So, if your porter hath not the gout, let him come speedily, or we heave away readily.--Said I well, comrades? Bravely said, and it shall be as bravely done, said the multitude; and had not the keys arrived at that moment, and the porter in hasty terror performed his office, throwing open the great door, the populace would have saved him the trouble. The instant he had done so, the affrighted janitor fled, like one who has drawn the bolts of a flood-gate, and expects to be overwhelmed by the rushing inundation. The monks, with one consent, had withdrawn themselves behind the Abbot, who alone kept his station, about three yards from the entrance, showing no signs of fear or perturbation. His brethren--partly encouraged by his devotion, partly ashamed to desert him, and partly animated by a sense of duty.--remained huddled close together, at the back of their Superior. There was a loud laugh and huzza when the doors were opened; but, contrary to what might have been expected, no crowd of enraged assailants rushed into the church. On the contrary, there was a cry of A halt!-a halt--to order, my masters! and let the two reverend fathers greet each other, as beseems them. The appearance of the crowd who were thus called to order, was grotesque in the extreme. It was composed of men, women, and children, ludicrously disguised in various habits, and presenting groups equally diversified and grotesque. Here one fellow with a horse's head painted before him, and a tail behind, and the whole covered with a long foot-cloth, which was supposed to hide the body of the animal, ambled, caracoled, pranced, and plunged, as he performed the celebrated part of the hobby-horse, [Footnote: This exhibition, the play-mare of Scotland, stood high among holyday gambols. It must be carefully separated from the wooden chargers which furnish out our nurseries. It gives rise to Hamlet's ejaculation,-- But oh, but oh, the hobby-horse is forgot! There is a very comic scene in Beaumont and Fletcher's play of Woman Pleased, where Hope-on-high Bombye, a puritan cobbler, refuses to dance with the hobby-horse. There was much difficulty and great variety in the motions which the hobby-horse was expected to exhibit. The learned Mr. Douce, who has contributed so much to the illustration of our theatrical antiquities, has given us a full account of this pageant, and the burlesque horsemanship which it practised. The hobby-horse, says Mr. Douce, was represented by a man equipped with as much pasteboard as was sufficient to form the head and hinder parts of a horse, the quadrupedal defects being concealed by a long mantle or footcloth that nearly touched the ground. The former, on this occasion, exerted all his skill in burlesque horsemanship. In Sympson's play of the Law-breakers, 1636, a miller personates the hobby-horse, and being angry that the Mayor of the city is put in competition with him, exclaims, 'Let the mayor play the hobby-horse among his brethren, an he will; I hope our town-lads cannot want a hobby-horse. Have I practised my reins, my careers, my prankers, my ambles, my false trots, my smooth ambles, and Canterbury paces, and shall master mayor put me beside the hobby-horse? Have I borrowed the fore-horse bells, his plumes, his braveries; nay, had his mane new shorn and frizzled, and shall the mayor put me beside the hobby-horse? --_Douce's Illustrations_, vol. II. p. 468] so often alluded to in our ancient drama; and which still flourishes on the stage in the battle that concludes Bayes's tragedy. To rival the address and agility displayed by this character, another personage advanced in the more formidable character of a huge dragon, with gilded wings, open jaws, and a scarlet tongue, cloven at the end, which made various efforts to overtake and devour a lad, dressed as the lovely Sabaea, daughter of the King of Egypt, who fled before him; while a martial Saint George, grotesquely armed with a goblet for a helmet, and a spit for a lance, ever and anon interfered, and compelled the monster to relinquish his prey. A bear, a wolf, and one or two other wild animals, played their parts with the discretion of Snug the joiner; for the decided preference which they gave to the use of their hind legs, was sufficient, without any formal annunciation, to assure the most timorous spectators that they had to do with habitual bipeds. There was a group of outlaws with Robin Hood and Little John at their head [Footnote: The representation of Robin Hood was the darling Maygame both in England and Scotland, and doubtless the favourite personification was often revived, when the Abbot of Unreason, or other pretences of frolic, gave an unusual decree of license. The Protestant clergy, who had formerly reaped advantage from the opportunities which these sports afforded them of directing their own satire and the ridicule of the lower orders against the Catholic church, began to find that, when these purposes were served, their favourite pastimes deprived them of the wish to attend divine worship, and disturbed the frame of mind in which it can be attended to advantage. The celebrated Bishop Latimer gives a very _naive_ account of the manner in which, bishop as he was, he found himself compelled to give place to Robin Hood and his followers. I came once myselfe riding on a journey homeward from London, and I sent word over night into the towne that I would preach there in the morning, because it was holiday, and me thought it was a holidayes worke. The church stood in my way, and I took my horse and my company, and went thither, (I thought I should have found a great company in the church,) and when I came there the church doore was fast locked. I tarryed there halfe an houre and more. At last the key was found, and one of the parish comes to me and said,--'Sir, this is a busie day with us, we cannot hear you; it is Robin Hood's day. The parish are gone abroad to gather for Robin Hood. I pray you let them not.' I was faine there to give place to Robin Hood. I thought my rochet should have been regarded, though I were not: but it would not serve, it was faine to give place to Robin Hood's men. It is no laughing matter, my friends, it is a weeping matter, a heavie matter, a heavie matter. Under the pretence for gathering for Robin Hood, a traytour, and a theif, to put out a preacher; to have his office lesse esteemed; to preferre Robin Hood before the ministration of God's word; and all this hath come of unpreaching prelates. This realme hath been ill provided for, that it hath had such corrupt judgments in it, to prefer Robin Hood to God's word. --_Bishop Latimer's sixth Sermon before King Edward_. While the English Protestants thus preferred the outlaw's pageant to the preaching of their excellent Bishop, the Scottish calvinistic clergy, with the celebrated John Knox at their head, and backed by the authority of the magistrates of Edinburgh, who had of late been chosen exclusively from this party, found it impossible to control the rage of the populace, when they attempted to deprive them of the privilege of presenting their pageant of Robin Hood. [Note on old Scottish spelling: leading y = modern 'th'; leading v = modern 'u'] (561) Vpon the xxi day of Junij. Archibalde Dowglas of Kilspindie, Provest of Edr., David Symmer and Adame Fullartoun, baillies of the samyne, causit ane cordinare servant, callit James Gillion takin of befoir, for playing in Edr. with Robene Hude, to wnderly the law, and put him to the knawlege of ane assyize qlk yaij haid electit of yair favoraris, quha with schort deliberatioun condemnit him to be hangit for ye said cryme. And the deaconis of ye craftismen fearing vproare, maid great solistatuis at ye handis of ye said provost and baillies, and als requirit John Knox, minister, for eschewing of tumult, to superceid ye execution of him, vnto ye tyme yai suld adverteis my Lord Duke yairof. And yan, if it wes his mynd and will yat he should be disponit vpoun, ye said deaconis and craftismen sould convey him yaire; quha answerit, yat yai culd na way stope ye executioun of justice. Quhan ye time of ye said pouer mans hanging approchit, and yat ye hangman wes cum to ye jibbat with ye ledder, vpoune ye qlk ye said cordinare should have bene hangit, ane certaine and remanent craftischilder, quha wes put to ye horne with ye said Gillione, ffor ye said Robene Huide's _playes_, and vyris yair assistaris and favoraris, past to wappinis, and yai brak down ye said jibbat, and yan chacit ye said provest, baillies, and Alexr. Guthrie, in ye said Alexander's writing buith, and held yame yairin; and yairefter past to ye tolbuyt, and becaus the samyne was steiket, and onnawayes culd get the keyes thairof, thai brak the said tolbuith dore with foure harberis, per force, (the said provest and baillies luckand thairon.) and not onlie put thar the said Gillione to fredome and libertie, and brocht him furth of the said tolbuit, bot alsua the remanent presonaris being thairintill; and this done, the said craftismen's servands, with the said condempnit cordonar, past doun to the Netherbow, to have past furth thairat; bot becaus the samyne on thair coming thairto wes closet, thai past vp agane the Hie streit of the said bourghe to the Castellhill, and in this menetymne the saidis provest and baillies, and thair assistaris being in the writing buith of the said Alexr. Guthrie, past and enterit in the said tolbuyt, and in the said servandes passage vp the Hie streit, then schote furth thairof at thame ane dog, and hurt ane servand of the said childer. This being done, thair wes nathing vthir but the one partie schuteand out and castand stanes furth of the said tolbuyt, and the vther pairtie schuteand hagbuttis in the same agane. Aund sua the craftismen's servandis, aboue written, held and inclosit the said provest and baillies continewallie in the said tolbuyth, frae three houris efternone, quhill aught houris at even, and na man of the said town prensit to relieve their said provest and baillies. And than thai send to the maisters of the Castell, to caus tham if thai mycht stay the said servandis, quha maid ane maner to do the same, bot thai could not bring the same to ane finall end, ffor the said servands wold on noways stay fra, quhill thai had revengit the hurting of ane of them; and thairefter the constable of the castell come down thairfra, and he with the said maisters treatet betwix the said pties in this maner:--That the said provost and baillies sall remit to the said craftischilder, all actioun, cryme, and offens that thai had committit aganes thame in any tyme bygane; and band and oblast thame never to pursew them thairfor; and als commandit thair maisters to resaue them agane in thair services, as thai did befoir. And this being proclainit at the mercat cross, thai scalit, and the said provest and bailies come furth of the same tolbouyth. &c. &c. &c. John Knox, who writes at large upon this tumult, informs us it was inflamed by the deacons of craftes, who, resenting; the superiority assumed over them by the magistrates, would yield no assistance to put down the tumult. They will be magistrates alone, said the recusant deacons, e'en let them rule the populace alone; and accordingly they passed quietly to take _their four-hours penny_, and left the magistrates to help themselves as they could. Many persons were excommunicated for this outrage, and not admitted to church ordinances till they had made satisfaction.] --the best representation exhibited at the time; and no great wonder, since most of the actors were, by profession, the banished men and thieves whom they presented. Other masqueraders there were, of a less marked description. Men were disguised as women, and women as men--children wore the dress of aged people, and tottered with crutch-sticks in their hands, furred gowns on their little backs, and caps on their round heads--while grandsires assumed the infantine tone as well as the dress of children. Besides these, many had their faces painted, and wore their shirts over the rest of their dress; while coloured pasteboard and ribbons furnished out decorations for others. Those who wanted all these properties, blacked their faces, and turned their jackets inside out; and thus the transmutation of the whole assembly into a set of mad grotesque mummers, was at once completed. The pause which the masqueraders made, waiting apparently for some person of the highest authority amongst them, gave those within the Abbey Church full time to observe all these absurdities. They were at no loss to comprehend their purpose and meaning. Few readers can be ignorant, that at an early period, and during the plenitude of her power, the Church of Rome not only connived at, but even encouraged, such Saturnalian licenses as the inhabitants of Kennaquhair and the neighbourhood had now in hand, and that the vulgar, on such occasions, were not only permitted but encouraged by a number of gambols, sometimes puerile and ludicrous, sometimes immoral and profane, to indemnify themselves for the privations and penances imposed on them at other seasons. But, of all other topics for burlesque and ridicule, the rites and ceremonial of the church itself were most frequently resorted to; and, strange to say, with the approbation of the clergy themselves. While the hierarchy flourished in full glory, they do not appear to have dreaded the consequences of suffering the people to become so irreverently familiar with things sacred; they then imagined the laity to be much in the condition of the labourer's horse, which does not submit to the bridle and the whip with greater reluctance, because, at rare intervals, he is allowed to frolic at large in his pasture, and fling out his heels in clumsy gambols at the master who usually drives him. But, when times changed--when doubt of the Roman Catholic doctrine, and hatred of their priesthood, had possessed the reformed party, the clergy discovered, too late, that no small inconvenience arose from the established practice of games and merry-makings, in which they themselves, and all they held most sacred, were made the subject of ridicule. It then became obvious to duller politicians than the Romish churchmen, that the same actions have a very different tendency when done in the spirit of sarcastic insolence and hatred, than when acted merely in exuberance of rude and uncontrollable spirits. They, therefore, though of the latest, endeavoured, where they had any remaining influence, to discourage the renewal of these indecorous festivities. In this particular, the Catholic clergy were joined by most of the reformed preachers, who were more shocked at the profanity and immorality of many of these exhibitions, than disposed to profit by the ridiculous light in which they placed the Church of Rome and her observances. But it was long ere these scandalous and immoral sports could be abrogated;--the rude multitude continued attached to their favourite pastimes, and, both in England and Scotland, the mitre of the Catholic--the rochet of the reformed bishop--and the cloak and band of the Calvinistic divine--were, in turn, compelled to give place to those jocular personages, the Pope of Fools, the Boy-Bishop, and the Abbot of Unreason. [Footnote: From the interesting novel entitled Anastasius, it seems the same burlesque ceremonies were practised in the Greek Church. ] It was the latter personage who now, in full costume, made his approach to the great door of the church of St. Mary's, accoutred in such a manner as to form a caricature, or practical parody, on the costume and attendants of the real Superior, whom he came to beard on the very day of his installation, in the presence of his clergy, and in the chancel of his church. The mock dignitary was a stout-made under-sized fellow, whose thick squab form had been rendered grotesque by a supplemental paunch, well stuffed. He wore a mitre of leather, with the front like a grenadier's cap, adorned with mock embroidery, and trinkets of tin. This surmounted a visage, the nose of which was the most prominent feature, being of unusual size, and at least as richly gemmed as his head-gear. His robe was of buckram, and his cope of canvass, curiously painted, and cut into open work. On one shoulder was fixed the painted figure of an owl; and he bore in the right hand his pastoral staff, and in the left a small mirror having a handle to it, thus resembling a celebrated jester, whose adventures, translated into English, were whilom extremely popular, and which may still be procured in black letter, for about one sterling pound per leaf. The attendants of this mock dignitary had their proper dresses and equipage, bearing the same burlesque resemblance to the officers of the Convent which their leader did to the Superior. They followed their leader in regular procession, and the motley characters, which had waited his arrival, now crowded into the church in his train, shouting as they came,-- A hall, a hall! for the venerable Father Howleglas, the learned Monk of Misrule, and the Right Reverend Abbot of Unreason! The discordant minstrelsy of every kind renewed its din; the boys shrieked and howled, and the men laughed and hallooed, and the women giggled and screamed, and the beasts roared, and the dragon wallopped and hissed, and the hobby-horse neighed, pranced, and capered, and the rest frisked and frolicked, clashing their hobnailed shoes against the pavement, till it sparkled with the marks of their energetic caprioles. It was, in fine, a scene of ridiculous confusion, that deafened the ear, made the eyes giddy, and must have altogether stunned any indifferent spectator; the monks, whom personal apprehension and a consciousness that much of the popular enjoyment arose from the ridicule being directed against them, were, moreover, little comforted by

entrance

How many times the word 'entrance' appears in the text?

with the deeper clamour of men, formed a Babel of sounds, which first drowned, and then awed into utter silence, the official hymns of the Convent. The cause and result of this extraordinary interruption will be explained in the next chapter. Chapter the Fourteenth. Not the wild billow, when it breaks its barrier-- Not the wild wind, escaping from its cavern-- Not the wild fiend, that mingles both together, And pours their rage upon the ripening harvest, Can match the wild freaks of this mirthful meeting-- Comic, yet fearful--droll, and yet destructive. THE CONSPIRACY. The monks ceased their song, which, like that of the choristers in the legend of the Witch of Berkley, died away in a quaver of consternation; and, like a flock of chickens disturbed by the presence of the kite, they at first made a movement to disperse and fly in different directions, and then, with despair, rather than hope, huddled themselves around their new Abbot; who, retaining the lofty and undismayed look which had dignified him through the whole ceremony, stood on the higher step of the altar, as if desirous to be the most conspicuous mark on which danger might discharge itself, and to save his companions by his self-devotion, since he could afford them no other protection. Involuntarily, as it were, Magdalen Graeme and the page stepped from the station which hitherto they had occupied unnoticed, and approached to the altar, as desirous of sharing the fate which approached the monks, whatever that might be. Both bowed reverently low to the Abbot; and while Magdalen seemed about to speak, the youth, looking towards the main entrance, at which the noise now roared most loudly, and which was at the same time assailed with much knocking, laid his hand upon his dagger. The Abbot motioned to both to forbear: Peace, my sister, he said, in a low tone, but which, being in a different key from the tumultuary sounds without, could be distinctly heard, even amidst the tumult;-- Peace, he said, my sister; let the new Superior of Saint Mary's himself receive and reply to the grateful acclamations of the vassals, who come to celebrate his installation.--And thou, my son, forbear, I charge thee, to touch thy earthly weapon;--if it is the pleasure of our protectress, that her shrine be this day desecrated by deeds of violence, and polluted by blood-shedding, let it not, I charge thee, happen through the deed of a Catholic son of the church. The noise and knocking at the outer gate became now every moment louder; and voices were heard impatiently demanding admittance. The Abbot, with dignity, and with a step which even the emergency of danger rendered neither faltering nor precipitate, moved towards the portal, and demanded to know, in a tone of authority, who it was that disturbed their worship, and what they desired? There was a moment's silence, and then a loud laugh from without. At length a voice replied, We desire entrance into the church; and when the door is opened you will soon see who we are. By whose authority do you require entrance? said the Father. By authority of the right reverend Lord Abbot of Unreason. [Footnote: We learn from no less authority than that of Napoleon Bonaparte, that there is but a single step between the sublime and ridiculous; and it is a transition from one extreme to another; so very easy, that the vulgar of every degree are peculiarly captivated with it. Thus the inclination to laugh becomes uncontrollable, when the solemnity and gravity of time, place, and circumstances, render it peculiarly improper. Some species of general license, like that which inspired the ancient Saturnalia, or the modern Carnival, has been commonly indulged to the people at all times and in almost all countries. But it was, I think, peculiar to the Roman Catholic Church, that while they studied how to render their church rites imposing and magnificent, by all that pomp, music, architecture, and external display could add to them, they nevertheless connived, upon special occasions, at the frolics of the rude vulgar, who, in almost all Catholic countries, enjoyed, or at least assumed, the privilege of making: some Lord of the revels, who, under the name of the Abbot of Unreason, the Boy Bishop, or the President of Fools, occupied the churches, profaned the holy places by a mock imitation of the sacred rites, and sung indecent parodies on hymns of the church. The indifference of the clergy, even when their power was greatest, to the indecent exhibitions which they always tolerated, and sometimes encouraged, forms a strong contrast to the sensitiveness with which they regarded any serious attempt, by preaching or writing, to impeach any of the doctrines of the church. It could only be compared to the singular apathy with which they endured, and often admired the gross novels which Chaucer, Dunbar, Boccacio, Bandello, and others, composed upon the bad morals of the clergy. It seems as if the churchmen in both instances had endeavoured to compromise with the laity, and allowed them occasionally to gratify their coarse humour by indecent satire, provided they would abstain from any grave question concerning the foundation of the doctrines on which was erected such an immense fabric of ecclesiastical power. But the sports thus licensed assumed a very different appearance, so soon as the Protestant doctrines began to prevail; and the license which their forefathers had exercised in mere gaiety of heart, and without the least intention of dishonouring religion by their frolics, were now persevered in by the common people as a mode of testifying their utter disregard for the Roman priesthood and its ceremonies. I may observe, for example, the case of an apparitor sent to Borthwick from the Primate of Saint Andrews, to cite the lord of that castle, who was opposed by an Abbot of Unreason, at whose command the officer of the spiritual court was appointed to be ducked in a mill-dam, and obliged to eat up his parchment citation. The reader may be amused with the following whimsical details of this incident, which took place in the castle of Borthwick, in the year 1517. It appears, that in consequence of a process betwixt Master George Hay de Minzeane and the Lord Borthwick, letters of excommunication had passed against the latter, on account of the contumacy of certain witnesses. William Langlands, an apparitor or macer (_bacularius_) of the See of St Andrews, presented these letters to the curate of the church of Borthwick, requiring him to publish the same at the service of high mass. It seems that the inhabitants of the castle were at this time engaged in the favourite sport of enacting the Abbot of Unreason, a species of high jinks, in which a mimic prelate was elected, who, like the Lord of Misrule in England, turned all sort of lawful authority, and particularly the church ritual, into ridicule. This frolicsome person with his retinue, notwithstanding of the apparitor's character, entered the church, seized upon the primate's officer without hesitation, and, dragging him to the mill-dam on the south side of the castle, compelled him to leap into the water. Not contented with this partial immersion, the Abbot of Unreason pronounced, that Mr. William Langlands was not yet sufficiently bathed, and therefore caused his assistants to lay him on his back in the stream, and duck him in the most satisfactory and perfect manner. The unfortunate apparitor was then conducted back to the church, where, for his refreshment after his bath, the letters of excommunication were torn to pieces, and steeped in a bowl of wine; the mock abbot being probably of opinion that a tough parchment was but dry eating, Langlands was compelled to eat the letters, and swallow the wine, and dismissed by the Abbot of Unreason, with the comfortable assurance, that if any more such letters should arrive during the continuance of his office, they should a' gang the same gate, _i. e._ go the same road. A similar scene occurs betwixt a sumner of the Bishop of Rochester, and Harpool, the servant of Lord Cobham, in the old play of Sir John Oldcastle, when the former compels the church-officer to eat his citation. The dialogue, which may be found in the note, contains most of the jests which may be supposed, appropriate to such an extraordinary occasion: _Harpool_ Marry, sir, is, this process parchment? _Sumner._ Yes, marry is it. _Harpool._ And this seal wax? _Sumner._ It is so. _Harpool._ If this be parchment, and this be wax, eat you this parchment and wax, or I will make parchment of your skin, and beat your brains into wax. Sirrah Sumner, despatch--devour, sirrah, devour. _Sumner._ I am my Lord of Rochester's sumner; I came to do my office, and thou shall answer it. _Harpool._ Sirrah, no railing, but, betake thyself to thy teeth. Thou shalt, eat no worse than thou bringest with thee. Thou bringest it for my lord; and wilt thou bring my lord worse than thou wilt eat thyself? _Sumner._ Sir. I brought it not my lord to eat. _Harpool._ O, do you Sir me now? All's one for that; I'll make you eat it for bringing it. _Sumner._ I cannot eat it. _Harpool._ Can you not? 'Sblood, I'll beat you till you have a stomach! (_Beats him._) _Sumner._ Oh, hold, hold, good Mr. Servingman; I will eat it. _Harpool._ Be champing, be chewing, sir, or I will chew you, you rogue. Tough wax is the purest of the honey. _Sumner._ The purest of the honey?--O Lord, sir, oh! oh! _Harpool._ Feed, feed; 'tis wholesome, rogue, wholesome. Cannot you, like an honest sumner, walk with the devil your brother, to fetch in your bailiff's rents, but you must come to a nobleman's house with process! If the seal were broad as the lead which covers Rochester Church, thou shouldst eat it. _Sumner._ Oh, I am almost choked--I am almost choked! _Harpool._ Who's within there? Will you shame my lord? Is there no beer in the house? Butler, I say. _Enter_ BUTLER. _Butler._ Here, here. _Harpool._ Give him beer. Tough old sheep skin's but dry meat. _First Part of Sir John Oldcastle_, Act II. Scene I.] replied the voice from without; and, from the laugh--which followed, it seemed as if there was something highly ludicrous couched under this reply. I know not, and seek not to know, your meaning, replied the Abbot, since it is probably a rude one. But begone, in the name of God, and leave his servants in peace. I speak this, as having lawful authority to command here. Open the door, said another rude voice, and we will try titles with you, Sir Monk, and show you a superior we must all obey. Break open the doors if he dallies any longer, said a third, and down with the carrion monks who would bar us of our privilege! A general shout followed. Ay, ay, our privilege! our privilege! down with the doors, and with the lurdane monks, if they make opposition! The knocking was now exchanged for blows with great, hammers, to which the doors, strong as they were, must soon have given way. But the Abbot, who saw resistance would be in vain, and who did not wish to incense the assailants by an attempt at offering it, besought silence earnestly, and with difficulty obtained a hearing. My children, said he, I will save you from committing a great sin. The porter will presently undo the gate--he is gone to fetch the keys--meantime I pray you to consider with yourselves, if you are in a state of mind to cross the holy threshold. Tillyvally for your papistry! was answered from without; we are in the mood of the monks when they are merriest, and that is when they sup beef-brewis for lanten-kail. So, if your porter hath not the gout, let him come speedily, or we heave away readily.--Said I well, comrades? Bravely said, and it shall be as bravely done, said the multitude; and had not the keys arrived at that moment, and the porter in hasty terror performed his office, throwing open the great door, the populace would have saved him the trouble. The instant he had done so, the affrighted janitor fled, like one who has drawn the bolts of a flood-gate, and expects to be overwhelmed by the rushing inundation. The monks, with one consent, had withdrawn themselves behind the Abbot, who alone kept his station, about three yards from the entrance, showing no signs of fear or perturbation. His brethren--partly encouraged by his devotion, partly ashamed to desert him, and partly animated by a sense of duty.--remained huddled close together, at the back of their Superior. There was a loud laugh and huzza when the doors were opened; but, contrary to what might have been expected, no crowd of enraged assailants rushed into the church. On the contrary, there was a cry of A halt!-a halt--to order, my masters! and let the two reverend fathers greet each other, as beseems them. The appearance of the crowd who were thus called to order, was grotesque in the extreme. It was composed of men, women, and children, ludicrously disguised in various habits, and presenting groups equally diversified and grotesque. Here one fellow with a horse's head painted before him, and a tail behind, and the whole covered with a long foot-cloth, which was supposed to hide the body of the animal, ambled, caracoled, pranced, and plunged, as he performed the celebrated part of the hobby-horse, [Footnote: This exhibition, the play-mare of Scotland, stood high among holyday gambols. It must be carefully separated from the wooden chargers which furnish out our nurseries. It gives rise to Hamlet's ejaculation,-- But oh, but oh, the hobby-horse is forgot! There is a very comic scene in Beaumont and Fletcher's play of Woman Pleased, where Hope-on-high Bombye, a puritan cobbler, refuses to dance with the hobby-horse. There was much difficulty and great variety in the motions which the hobby-horse was expected to exhibit. The learned Mr. Douce, who has contributed so much to the illustration of our theatrical antiquities, has given us a full account of this pageant, and the burlesque horsemanship which it practised. The hobby-horse, says Mr. Douce, was represented by a man equipped with as much pasteboard as was sufficient to form the head and hinder parts of a horse, the quadrupedal defects being concealed by a long mantle or footcloth that nearly touched the ground. The former, on this occasion, exerted all his skill in burlesque horsemanship. In Sympson's play of the Law-breakers, 1636, a miller personates the hobby-horse, and being angry that the Mayor of the city is put in competition with him, exclaims, 'Let the mayor play the hobby-horse among his brethren, an he will; I hope our town-lads cannot want a hobby-horse. Have I practised my reins, my careers, my prankers, my ambles, my false trots, my smooth ambles, and Canterbury paces, and shall master mayor put me beside the hobby-horse? Have I borrowed the fore-horse bells, his plumes, his braveries; nay, had his mane new shorn and frizzled, and shall the mayor put me beside the hobby-horse? --_Douce's Illustrations_, vol. II. p. 468] so often alluded to in our ancient drama; and which still flourishes on the stage in the battle that concludes Bayes's tragedy. To rival the address and agility displayed by this character, another personage advanced in the more formidable character of a huge dragon, with gilded wings, open jaws, and a scarlet tongue, cloven at the end, which made various efforts to overtake and devour a lad, dressed as the lovely Sabaea, daughter of the King of Egypt, who fled before him; while a martial Saint George, grotesquely armed with a goblet for a helmet, and a spit for a lance, ever and anon interfered, and compelled the monster to relinquish his prey. A bear, a wolf, and one or two other wild animals, played their parts with the discretion of Snug the joiner; for the decided preference which they gave to the use of their hind legs, was sufficient, without any formal annunciation, to assure the most timorous spectators that they had to do with habitual bipeds. There was a group of outlaws with Robin Hood and Little John at their head [Footnote: The representation of Robin Hood was the darling Maygame both in England and Scotland, and doubtless the favourite personification was often revived, when the Abbot of Unreason, or other pretences of frolic, gave an unusual decree of license. The Protestant clergy, who had formerly reaped advantage from the opportunities which these sports afforded them of directing their own satire and the ridicule of the lower orders against the Catholic church, began to find that, when these purposes were served, their favourite pastimes deprived them of the wish to attend divine worship, and disturbed the frame of mind in which it can be attended to advantage. The celebrated Bishop Latimer gives a very _naive_ account of the manner in which, bishop as he was, he found himself compelled to give place to Robin Hood and his followers. I came once myselfe riding on a journey homeward from London, and I sent word over night into the towne that I would preach there in the morning, because it was holiday, and me thought it was a holidayes worke. The church stood in my way, and I took my horse and my company, and went thither, (I thought I should have found a great company in the church,) and when I came there the church doore was fast locked. I tarryed there halfe an houre and more. At last the key was found, and one of the parish comes to me and said,--'Sir, this is a busie day with us, we cannot hear you; it is Robin Hood's day. The parish are gone abroad to gather for Robin Hood. I pray you let them not.' I was faine there to give place to Robin Hood. I thought my rochet should have been regarded, though I were not: but it would not serve, it was faine to give place to Robin Hood's men. It is no laughing matter, my friends, it is a weeping matter, a heavie matter, a heavie matter. Under the pretence for gathering for Robin Hood, a traytour, and a theif, to put out a preacher; to have his office lesse esteemed; to preferre Robin Hood before the ministration of God's word; and all this hath come of unpreaching prelates. This realme hath been ill provided for, that it hath had such corrupt judgments in it, to prefer Robin Hood to God's word. --_Bishop Latimer's sixth Sermon before King Edward_. While the English Protestants thus preferred the outlaw's pageant to the preaching of their excellent Bishop, the Scottish calvinistic clergy, with the celebrated John Knox at their head, and backed by the authority of the magistrates of Edinburgh, who had of late been chosen exclusively from this party, found it impossible to control the rage of the populace, when they attempted to deprive them of the privilege of presenting their pageant of Robin Hood. [Note on old Scottish spelling: leading y = modern 'th'; leading v = modern 'u'] (561) Vpon the xxi day of Junij. Archibalde Dowglas of Kilspindie, Provest of Edr., David Symmer and Adame Fullartoun, baillies of the samyne, causit ane cordinare servant, callit James Gillion takin of befoir, for playing in Edr. with Robene Hude, to wnderly the law, and put him to the knawlege of ane assyize qlk yaij haid electit of yair favoraris, quha with schort deliberatioun condemnit him to be hangit for ye said cryme. And the deaconis of ye craftismen fearing vproare, maid great solistatuis at ye handis of ye said provost and baillies, and als requirit John Knox, minister, for eschewing of tumult, to superceid ye execution of him, vnto ye tyme yai suld adverteis my Lord Duke yairof. And yan, if it wes his mynd and will yat he should be disponit vpoun, ye said deaconis and craftismen sould convey him yaire; quha answerit, yat yai culd na way stope ye executioun of justice. Quhan ye time of ye said pouer mans hanging approchit, and yat ye hangman wes cum to ye jibbat with ye ledder, vpoune ye qlk ye said cordinare should have bene hangit, ane certaine and remanent craftischilder, quha wes put to ye horne with ye said Gillione, ffor ye said Robene Huide's _playes_, and vyris yair assistaris and favoraris, past to wappinis, and yai brak down ye said jibbat, and yan chacit ye said provest, baillies, and Alexr. Guthrie, in ye said Alexander's writing buith, and held yame yairin; and yairefter past to ye tolbuyt, and becaus the samyne was steiket, and onnawayes culd get the keyes thairof, thai brak the said tolbuith dore with foure harberis, per force, (the said provest and baillies luckand thairon.) and not onlie put thar the said Gillione to fredome and libertie, and brocht him furth of the said tolbuit, bot alsua the remanent presonaris being thairintill; and this done, the said craftismen's servands, with the said condempnit cordonar, past doun to the Netherbow, to have past furth thairat; bot becaus the samyne on thair coming thairto wes closet, thai past vp agane the Hie streit of the said bourghe to the Castellhill, and in this menetymne the saidis provest and baillies, and thair assistaris being in the writing buith of the said Alexr. Guthrie, past and enterit in the said tolbuyt, and in the said servandes passage vp the Hie streit, then schote furth thairof at thame ane dog, and hurt ane servand of the said childer. This being done, thair wes nathing vthir but the one partie schuteand out and castand stanes furth of the said tolbuyt, and the vther pairtie schuteand hagbuttis in the same agane. Aund sua the craftismen's servandis, aboue written, held and inclosit the said provest and baillies continewallie in the said tolbuyth, frae three houris efternone, quhill aught houris at even, and na man of the said town prensit to relieve their said provest and baillies. And than thai send to the maisters of the Castell, to caus tham if thai mycht stay the said servandis, quha maid ane maner to do the same, bot thai could not bring the same to ane finall end, ffor the said servands wold on noways stay fra, quhill thai had revengit the hurting of ane of them; and thairefter the constable of the castell come down thairfra, and he with the said maisters treatet betwix the said pties in this maner:--That the said provost and baillies sall remit to the said craftischilder, all actioun, cryme, and offens that thai had committit aganes thame in any tyme bygane; and band and oblast thame never to pursew them thairfor; and als commandit thair maisters to resaue them agane in thair services, as thai did befoir. And this being proclainit at the mercat cross, thai scalit, and the said provest and bailies come furth of the same tolbouyth. &c. &c. &c. John Knox, who writes at large upon this tumult, informs us it was inflamed by the deacons of craftes, who, resenting; the superiority assumed over them by the magistrates, would yield no assistance to put down the tumult. They will be magistrates alone, said the recusant deacons, e'en let them rule the populace alone; and accordingly they passed quietly to take _their four-hours penny_, and left the magistrates to help themselves as they could. Many persons were excommunicated for this outrage, and not admitted to church ordinances till they had made satisfaction.] --the best representation exhibited at the time; and no great wonder, since most of the actors were, by profession, the banished men and thieves whom they presented. Other masqueraders there were, of a less marked description. Men were disguised as women, and women as men--children wore the dress of aged people, and tottered with crutch-sticks in their hands, furred gowns on their little backs, and caps on their round heads--while grandsires assumed the infantine tone as well as the dress of children. Besides these, many had their faces painted, and wore their shirts over the rest of their dress; while coloured pasteboard and ribbons furnished out decorations for others. Those who wanted all these properties, blacked their faces, and turned their jackets inside out; and thus the transmutation of the whole assembly into a set of mad grotesque mummers, was at once completed. The pause which the masqueraders made, waiting apparently for some person of the highest authority amongst them, gave those within the Abbey Church full time to observe all these absurdities. They were at no loss to comprehend their purpose and meaning. Few readers can be ignorant, that at an early period, and during the plenitude of her power, the Church of Rome not only connived at, but even encouraged, such Saturnalian licenses as the inhabitants of Kennaquhair and the neighbourhood had now in hand, and that the vulgar, on such occasions, were not only permitted but encouraged by a number of gambols, sometimes puerile and ludicrous, sometimes immoral and profane, to indemnify themselves for the privations and penances imposed on them at other seasons. But, of all other topics for burlesque and ridicule, the rites and ceremonial of the church itself were most frequently resorted to; and, strange to say, with the approbation of the clergy themselves. While the hierarchy flourished in full glory, they do not appear to have dreaded the consequences of suffering the people to become so irreverently familiar with things sacred; they then imagined the laity to be much in the condition of the labourer's horse, which does not submit to the bridle and the whip with greater reluctance, because, at rare intervals, he is allowed to frolic at large in his pasture, and fling out his heels in clumsy gambols at the master who usually drives him. But, when times changed--when doubt of the Roman Catholic doctrine, and hatred of their priesthood, had possessed the reformed party, the clergy discovered, too late, that no small inconvenience arose from the established practice of games and merry-makings, in which they themselves, and all they held most sacred, were made the subject of ridicule. It then became obvious to duller politicians than the Romish churchmen, that the same actions have a very different tendency when done in the spirit of sarcastic insolence and hatred, than when acted merely in exuberance of rude and uncontrollable spirits. They, therefore, though of the latest, endeavoured, where they had any remaining influence, to discourage the renewal of these indecorous festivities. In this particular, the Catholic clergy were joined by most of the reformed preachers, who were more shocked at the profanity and immorality of many of these exhibitions, than disposed to profit by the ridiculous light in which they placed the Church of Rome and her observances. But it was long ere these scandalous and immoral sports could be abrogated;--the rude multitude continued attached to their favourite pastimes, and, both in England and Scotland, the mitre of the Catholic--the rochet of the reformed bishop--and the cloak and band of the Calvinistic divine--were, in turn, compelled to give place to those jocular personages, the Pope of Fools, the Boy-Bishop, and the Abbot of Unreason. [Footnote: From the interesting novel entitled Anastasius, it seems the same burlesque ceremonies were practised in the Greek Church. ] It was the latter personage who now, in full costume, made his approach to the great door of the church of St. Mary's, accoutred in such a manner as to form a caricature, or practical parody, on the costume and attendants of the real Superior, whom he came to beard on the very day of his installation, in the presence of his clergy, and in the chancel of his church. The mock dignitary was a stout-made under-sized fellow, whose thick squab form had been rendered grotesque by a supplemental paunch, well stuffed. He wore a mitre of leather, with the front like a grenadier's cap, adorned with mock embroidery, and trinkets of tin. This surmounted a visage, the nose of which was the most prominent feature, being of unusual size, and at least as richly gemmed as his head-gear. His robe was of buckram, and his cope of canvass, curiously painted, and cut into open work. On one shoulder was fixed the painted figure of an owl; and he bore in the right hand his pastoral staff, and in the left a small mirror having a handle to it, thus resembling a celebrated jester, whose adventures, translated into English, were whilom extremely popular, and which may still be procured in black letter, for about one sterling pound per leaf. The attendants of this mock dignitary had their proper dresses and equipage, bearing the same burlesque resemblance to the officers of the Convent which their leader did to the Superior. They followed their leader in regular procession, and the motley characters, which had waited his arrival, now crowded into the church in his train, shouting as they came,-- A hall, a hall! for the venerable Father Howleglas, the learned Monk of Misrule, and the Right Reverend Abbot of Unreason! The discordant minstrelsy of every kind renewed its din; the boys shrieked and howled, and the men laughed and hallooed, and the women giggled and screamed, and the beasts roared, and the dragon wallopped and hissed, and the hobby-horse neighed, pranced, and capered, and the rest frisked and frolicked, clashing their hobnailed shoes against the pavement, till it sparkled with the marks of their energetic caprioles. It was, in fine, a scene of ridiculous confusion, that deafened the ear, made the eyes giddy, and must have altogether stunned any indifferent spectator; the monks, whom personal apprehension and a consciousness that much of the popular enjoyment arose from the ridicule being directed against them, were, moreover, little comforted by

happen

How many times the word 'happen' appears in the text?

with the deeper clamour of men, formed a Babel of sounds, which first drowned, and then awed into utter silence, the official hymns of the Convent. The cause and result of this extraordinary interruption will be explained in the next chapter. Chapter the Fourteenth. Not the wild billow, when it breaks its barrier-- Not the wild wind, escaping from its cavern-- Not the wild fiend, that mingles both together, And pours their rage upon the ripening harvest, Can match the wild freaks of this mirthful meeting-- Comic, yet fearful--droll, and yet destructive. THE CONSPIRACY. The monks ceased their song, which, like that of the choristers in the legend of the Witch of Berkley, died away in a quaver of consternation; and, like a flock of chickens disturbed by the presence of the kite, they at first made a movement to disperse and fly in different directions, and then, with despair, rather than hope, huddled themselves around their new Abbot; who, retaining the lofty and undismayed look which had dignified him through the whole ceremony, stood on the higher step of the altar, as if desirous to be the most conspicuous mark on which danger might discharge itself, and to save his companions by his self-devotion, since he could afford them no other protection. Involuntarily, as it were, Magdalen Graeme and the page stepped from the station which hitherto they had occupied unnoticed, and approached to the altar, as desirous of sharing the fate which approached the monks, whatever that might be. Both bowed reverently low to the Abbot; and while Magdalen seemed about to speak, the youth, looking towards the main entrance, at which the noise now roared most loudly, and which was at the same time assailed with much knocking, laid his hand upon his dagger. The Abbot motioned to both to forbear: Peace, my sister, he said, in a low tone, but which, being in a different key from the tumultuary sounds without, could be distinctly heard, even amidst the tumult;-- Peace, he said, my sister; let the new Superior of Saint Mary's himself receive and reply to the grateful acclamations of the vassals, who come to celebrate his installation.--And thou, my son, forbear, I charge thee, to touch thy earthly weapon;--if it is the pleasure of our protectress, that her shrine be this day desecrated by deeds of violence, and polluted by blood-shedding, let it not, I charge thee, happen through the deed of a Catholic son of the church. The noise and knocking at the outer gate became now every moment louder; and voices were heard impatiently demanding admittance. The Abbot, with dignity, and with a step which even the emergency of danger rendered neither faltering nor precipitate, moved towards the portal, and demanded to know, in a tone of authority, who it was that disturbed their worship, and what they desired? There was a moment's silence, and then a loud laugh from without. At length a voice replied, We desire entrance into the church; and when the door is opened you will soon see who we are. By whose authority do you require entrance? said the Father. By authority of the right reverend Lord Abbot of Unreason. [Footnote: We learn from no less authority than that of Napoleon Bonaparte, that there is but a single step between the sublime and ridiculous; and it is a transition from one extreme to another; so very easy, that the vulgar of every degree are peculiarly captivated with it. Thus the inclination to laugh becomes uncontrollable, when the solemnity and gravity of time, place, and circumstances, render it peculiarly improper. Some species of general license, like that which inspired the ancient Saturnalia, or the modern Carnival, has been commonly indulged to the people at all times and in almost all countries. But it was, I think, peculiar to the Roman Catholic Church, that while they studied how to render their church rites imposing and magnificent, by all that pomp, music, architecture, and external display could add to them, they nevertheless connived, upon special occasions, at the frolics of the rude vulgar, who, in almost all Catholic countries, enjoyed, or at least assumed, the privilege of making: some Lord of the revels, who, under the name of the Abbot of Unreason, the Boy Bishop, or the President of Fools, occupied the churches, profaned the holy places by a mock imitation of the sacred rites, and sung indecent parodies on hymns of the church. The indifference of the clergy, even when their power was greatest, to the indecent exhibitions which they always tolerated, and sometimes encouraged, forms a strong contrast to the sensitiveness with which they regarded any serious attempt, by preaching or writing, to impeach any of the doctrines of the church. It could only be compared to the singular apathy with which they endured, and often admired the gross novels which Chaucer, Dunbar, Boccacio, Bandello, and others, composed upon the bad morals of the clergy. It seems as if the churchmen in both instances had endeavoured to compromise with the laity, and allowed them occasionally to gratify their coarse humour by indecent satire, provided they would abstain from any grave question concerning the foundation of the doctrines on which was erected such an immense fabric of ecclesiastical power. But the sports thus licensed assumed a very different appearance, so soon as the Protestant doctrines began to prevail; and the license which their forefathers had exercised in mere gaiety of heart, and without the least intention of dishonouring religion by their frolics, were now persevered in by the common people as a mode of testifying their utter disregard for the Roman priesthood and its ceremonies. I may observe, for example, the case of an apparitor sent to Borthwick from the Primate of Saint Andrews, to cite the lord of that castle, who was opposed by an Abbot of Unreason, at whose command the officer of the spiritual court was appointed to be ducked in a mill-dam, and obliged to eat up his parchment citation. The reader may be amused with the following whimsical details of this incident, which took place in the castle of Borthwick, in the year 1517. It appears, that in consequence of a process betwixt Master George Hay de Minzeane and the Lord Borthwick, letters of excommunication had passed against the latter, on account of the contumacy of certain witnesses. William Langlands, an apparitor or macer (_bacularius_) of the See of St Andrews, presented these letters to the curate of the church of Borthwick, requiring him to publish the same at the service of high mass. It seems that the inhabitants of the castle were at this time engaged in the favourite sport of enacting the Abbot of Unreason, a species of high jinks, in which a mimic prelate was elected, who, like the Lord of Misrule in England, turned all sort of lawful authority, and particularly the church ritual, into ridicule. This frolicsome person with his retinue, notwithstanding of the apparitor's character, entered the church, seized upon the primate's officer without hesitation, and, dragging him to the mill-dam on the south side of the castle, compelled him to leap into the water. Not contented with this partial immersion, the Abbot of Unreason pronounced, that Mr. William Langlands was not yet sufficiently bathed, and therefore caused his assistants to lay him on his back in the stream, and duck him in the most satisfactory and perfect manner. The unfortunate apparitor was then conducted back to the church, where, for his refreshment after his bath, the letters of excommunication were torn to pieces, and steeped in a bowl of wine; the mock abbot being probably of opinion that a tough parchment was but dry eating, Langlands was compelled to eat the letters, and swallow the wine, and dismissed by the Abbot of Unreason, with the comfortable assurance, that if any more such letters should arrive during the continuance of his office, they should a' gang the same gate, _i. e._ go the same road. A similar scene occurs betwixt a sumner of the Bishop of Rochester, and Harpool, the servant of Lord Cobham, in the old play of Sir John Oldcastle, when the former compels the church-officer to eat his citation. The dialogue, which may be found in the note, contains most of the jests which may be supposed, appropriate to such an extraordinary occasion: _Harpool_ Marry, sir, is, this process parchment? _Sumner._ Yes, marry is it. _Harpool._ And this seal wax? _Sumner._ It is so. _Harpool._ If this be parchment, and this be wax, eat you this parchment and wax, or I will make parchment of your skin, and beat your brains into wax. Sirrah Sumner, despatch--devour, sirrah, devour. _Sumner._ I am my Lord of Rochester's sumner; I came to do my office, and thou shall answer it. _Harpool._ Sirrah, no railing, but, betake thyself to thy teeth. Thou shalt, eat no worse than thou bringest with thee. Thou bringest it for my lord; and wilt thou bring my lord worse than thou wilt eat thyself? _Sumner._ Sir. I brought it not my lord to eat. _Harpool._ O, do you Sir me now? All's one for that; I'll make you eat it for bringing it. _Sumner._ I cannot eat it. _Harpool._ Can you not? 'Sblood, I'll beat you till you have a stomach! (_Beats him._) _Sumner._ Oh, hold, hold, good Mr. Servingman; I will eat it. _Harpool._ Be champing, be chewing, sir, or I will chew you, you rogue. Tough wax is the purest of the honey. _Sumner._ The purest of the honey?--O Lord, sir, oh! oh! _Harpool._ Feed, feed; 'tis wholesome, rogue, wholesome. Cannot you, like an honest sumner, walk with the devil your brother, to fetch in your bailiff's rents, but you must come to a nobleman's house with process! If the seal were broad as the lead which covers Rochester Church, thou shouldst eat it. _Sumner._ Oh, I am almost choked--I am almost choked! _Harpool._ Who's within there? Will you shame my lord? Is there no beer in the house? Butler, I say. _Enter_ BUTLER. _Butler._ Here, here. _Harpool._ Give him beer. Tough old sheep skin's but dry meat. _First Part of Sir John Oldcastle_, Act II. Scene I.] replied the voice from without; and, from the laugh--which followed, it seemed as if there was something highly ludicrous couched under this reply. I know not, and seek not to know, your meaning, replied the Abbot, since it is probably a rude one. But begone, in the name of God, and leave his servants in peace. I speak this, as having lawful authority to command here. Open the door, said another rude voice, and we will try titles with you, Sir Monk, and show you a superior we must all obey. Break open the doors if he dallies any longer, said a third, and down with the carrion monks who would bar us of our privilege! A general shout followed. Ay, ay, our privilege! our privilege! down with the doors, and with the lurdane monks, if they make opposition! The knocking was now exchanged for blows with great, hammers, to which the doors, strong as they were, must soon have given way. But the Abbot, who saw resistance would be in vain, and who did not wish to incense the assailants by an attempt at offering it, besought silence earnestly, and with difficulty obtained a hearing. My children, said he, I will save you from committing a great sin. The porter will presently undo the gate--he is gone to fetch the keys--meantime I pray you to consider with yourselves, if you are in a state of mind to cross the holy threshold. Tillyvally for your papistry! was answered from without; we are in the mood of the monks when they are merriest, and that is when they sup beef-brewis for lanten-kail. So, if your porter hath not the gout, let him come speedily, or we heave away readily.--Said I well, comrades? Bravely said, and it shall be as bravely done, said the multitude; and had not the keys arrived at that moment, and the porter in hasty terror performed his office, throwing open the great door, the populace would have saved him the trouble. The instant he had done so, the affrighted janitor fled, like one who has drawn the bolts of a flood-gate, and expects to be overwhelmed by the rushing inundation. The monks, with one consent, had withdrawn themselves behind the Abbot, who alone kept his station, about three yards from the entrance, showing no signs of fear or perturbation. His brethren--partly encouraged by his devotion, partly ashamed to desert him, and partly animated by a sense of duty.--remained huddled close together, at the back of their Superior. There was a loud laugh and huzza when the doors were opened; but, contrary to what might have been expected, no crowd of enraged assailants rushed into the church. On the contrary, there was a cry of A halt!-a halt--to order, my masters! and let the two reverend fathers greet each other, as beseems them. The appearance of the crowd who were thus called to order, was grotesque in the extreme. It was composed of men, women, and children, ludicrously disguised in various habits, and presenting groups equally diversified and grotesque. Here one fellow with a horse's head painted before him, and a tail behind, and the whole covered with a long foot-cloth, which was supposed to hide the body of the animal, ambled, caracoled, pranced, and plunged, as he performed the celebrated part of the hobby-horse, [Footnote: This exhibition, the play-mare of Scotland, stood high among holyday gambols. It must be carefully separated from the wooden chargers which furnish out our nurseries. It gives rise to Hamlet's ejaculation,-- But oh, but oh, the hobby-horse is forgot! There is a very comic scene in Beaumont and Fletcher's play of Woman Pleased, where Hope-on-high Bombye, a puritan cobbler, refuses to dance with the hobby-horse. There was much difficulty and great variety in the motions which the hobby-horse was expected to exhibit. The learned Mr. Douce, who has contributed so much to the illustration of our theatrical antiquities, has given us a full account of this pageant, and the burlesque horsemanship which it practised. The hobby-horse, says Mr. Douce, was represented by a man equipped with as much pasteboard as was sufficient to form the head and hinder parts of a horse, the quadrupedal defects being concealed by a long mantle or footcloth that nearly touched the ground. The former, on this occasion, exerted all his skill in burlesque horsemanship. In Sympson's play of the Law-breakers, 1636, a miller personates the hobby-horse, and being angry that the Mayor of the city is put in competition with him, exclaims, 'Let the mayor play the hobby-horse among his brethren, an he will; I hope our town-lads cannot want a hobby-horse. Have I practised my reins, my careers, my prankers, my ambles, my false trots, my smooth ambles, and Canterbury paces, and shall master mayor put me beside the hobby-horse? Have I borrowed the fore-horse bells, his plumes, his braveries; nay, had his mane new shorn and frizzled, and shall the mayor put me beside the hobby-horse? --_Douce's Illustrations_, vol. II. p. 468] so often alluded to in our ancient drama; and which still flourishes on the stage in the battle that concludes Bayes's tragedy. To rival the address and agility displayed by this character, another personage advanced in the more formidable character of a huge dragon, with gilded wings, open jaws, and a scarlet tongue, cloven at the end, which made various efforts to overtake and devour a lad, dressed as the lovely Sabaea, daughter of the King of Egypt, who fled before him; while a martial Saint George, grotesquely armed with a goblet for a helmet, and a spit for a lance, ever and anon interfered, and compelled the monster to relinquish his prey. A bear, a wolf, and one or two other wild animals, played their parts with the discretion of Snug the joiner; for the decided preference which they gave to the use of their hind legs, was sufficient, without any formal annunciation, to assure the most timorous spectators that they had to do with habitual bipeds. There was a group of outlaws with Robin Hood and Little John at their head [Footnote: The representation of Robin Hood was the darling Maygame both in England and Scotland, and doubtless the favourite personification was often revived, when the Abbot of Unreason, or other pretences of frolic, gave an unusual decree of license. The Protestant clergy, who had formerly reaped advantage from the opportunities which these sports afforded them of directing their own satire and the ridicule of the lower orders against the Catholic church, began to find that, when these purposes were served, their favourite pastimes deprived them of the wish to attend divine worship, and disturbed the frame of mind in which it can be attended to advantage. The celebrated Bishop Latimer gives a very _naive_ account of the manner in which, bishop as he was, he found himself compelled to give place to Robin Hood and his followers. I came once myselfe riding on a journey homeward from London, and I sent word over night into the towne that I would preach there in the morning, because it was holiday, and me thought it was a holidayes worke. The church stood in my way, and I took my horse and my company, and went thither, (I thought I should have found a great company in the church,) and when I came there the church doore was fast locked. I tarryed there halfe an houre and more. At last the key was found, and one of the parish comes to me and said,--'Sir, this is a busie day with us, we cannot hear you; it is Robin Hood's day. The parish are gone abroad to gather for Robin Hood. I pray you let them not.' I was faine there to give place to Robin Hood. I thought my rochet should have been regarded, though I were not: but it would not serve, it was faine to give place to Robin Hood's men. It is no laughing matter, my friends, it is a weeping matter, a heavie matter, a heavie matter. Under the pretence for gathering for Robin Hood, a traytour, and a theif, to put out a preacher; to have his office lesse esteemed; to preferre Robin Hood before the ministration of God's word; and all this hath come of unpreaching prelates. This realme hath been ill provided for, that it hath had such corrupt judgments in it, to prefer Robin Hood to God's word. --_Bishop Latimer's sixth Sermon before King Edward_. While the English Protestants thus preferred the outlaw's pageant to the preaching of their excellent Bishop, the Scottish calvinistic clergy, with the celebrated John Knox at their head, and backed by the authority of the magistrates of Edinburgh, who had of late been chosen exclusively from this party, found it impossible to control the rage of the populace, when they attempted to deprive them of the privilege of presenting their pageant of Robin Hood. [Note on old Scottish spelling: leading y = modern 'th'; leading v = modern 'u'] (561) Vpon the xxi day of Junij. Archibalde Dowglas of Kilspindie, Provest of Edr., David Symmer and Adame Fullartoun, baillies of the samyne, causit ane cordinare servant, callit James Gillion takin of befoir, for playing in Edr. with Robene Hude, to wnderly the law, and put him to the knawlege of ane assyize qlk yaij haid electit of yair favoraris, quha with schort deliberatioun condemnit him to be hangit for ye said cryme. And the deaconis of ye craftismen fearing vproare, maid great solistatuis at ye handis of ye said provost and baillies, and als requirit John Knox, minister, for eschewing of tumult, to superceid ye execution of him, vnto ye tyme yai suld adverteis my Lord Duke yairof. And yan, if it wes his mynd and will yat he should be disponit vpoun, ye said deaconis and craftismen sould convey him yaire; quha answerit, yat yai culd na way stope ye executioun of justice. Quhan ye time of ye said pouer mans hanging approchit, and yat ye hangman wes cum to ye jibbat with ye ledder, vpoune ye qlk ye said cordinare should have bene hangit, ane certaine and remanent craftischilder, quha wes put to ye horne with ye said Gillione, ffor ye said Robene Huide's _playes_, and vyris yair assistaris and favoraris, past to wappinis, and yai brak down ye said jibbat, and yan chacit ye said provest, baillies, and Alexr. Guthrie, in ye said Alexander's writing buith, and held yame yairin; and yairefter past to ye tolbuyt, and becaus the samyne was steiket, and onnawayes culd get the keyes thairof, thai brak the said tolbuith dore with foure harberis, per force, (the said provest and baillies luckand thairon.) and not onlie put thar the said Gillione to fredome and libertie, and brocht him furth of the said tolbuit, bot alsua the remanent presonaris being thairintill; and this done, the said craftismen's servands, with the said condempnit cordonar, past doun to the Netherbow, to have past furth thairat; bot becaus the samyne on thair coming thairto wes closet, thai past vp agane the Hie streit of the said bourghe to the Castellhill, and in this menetymne the saidis provest and baillies, and thair assistaris being in the writing buith of the said Alexr. Guthrie, past and enterit in the said tolbuyt, and in the said servandes passage vp the Hie streit, then schote furth thairof at thame ane dog, and hurt ane servand of the said childer. This being done, thair wes nathing vthir but the one partie schuteand out and castand stanes furth of the said tolbuyt, and the vther pairtie schuteand hagbuttis in the same agane. Aund sua the craftismen's servandis, aboue written, held and inclosit the said provest and baillies continewallie in the said tolbuyth, frae three houris efternone, quhill aught houris at even, and na man of the said town prensit to relieve their said provest and baillies. And than thai send to the maisters of the Castell, to caus tham if thai mycht stay the said servandis, quha maid ane maner to do the same, bot thai could not bring the same to ane finall end, ffor the said servands wold on noways stay fra, quhill thai had revengit the hurting of ane of them; and thairefter the constable of the castell come down thairfra, and he with the said maisters treatet betwix the said pties in this maner:--That the said provost and baillies sall remit to the said craftischilder, all actioun, cryme, and offens that thai had committit aganes thame in any tyme bygane; and band and oblast thame never to pursew them thairfor; and als commandit thair maisters to resaue them agane in thair services, as thai did befoir. And this being proclainit at the mercat cross, thai scalit, and the said provest and bailies come furth of the same tolbouyth. &c. &c. &c. John Knox, who writes at large upon this tumult, informs us it was inflamed by the deacons of craftes, who, resenting; the superiority assumed over them by the magistrates, would yield no assistance to put down the tumult. They will be magistrates alone, said the recusant deacons, e'en let them rule the populace alone; and accordingly they passed quietly to take _their four-hours penny_, and left the magistrates to help themselves as they could. Many persons were excommunicated for this outrage, and not admitted to church ordinances till they had made satisfaction.] --the best representation exhibited at the time; and no great wonder, since most of the actors were, by profession, the banished men and thieves whom they presented. Other masqueraders there were, of a less marked description. Men were disguised as women, and women as men--children wore the dress of aged people, and tottered with crutch-sticks in their hands, furred gowns on their little backs, and caps on their round heads--while grandsires assumed the infantine tone as well as the dress of children. Besides these, many had their faces painted, and wore their shirts over the rest of their dress; while coloured pasteboard and ribbons furnished out decorations for others. Those who wanted all these properties, blacked their faces, and turned their jackets inside out; and thus the transmutation of the whole assembly into a set of mad grotesque mummers, was at once completed. The pause which the masqueraders made, waiting apparently for some person of the highest authority amongst them, gave those within the Abbey Church full time to observe all these absurdities. They were at no loss to comprehend their purpose and meaning. Few readers can be ignorant, that at an early period, and during the plenitude of her power, the Church of Rome not only connived at, but even encouraged, such Saturnalian licenses as the inhabitants of Kennaquhair and the neighbourhood had now in hand, and that the vulgar, on such occasions, were not only permitted but encouraged by a number of gambols, sometimes puerile and ludicrous, sometimes immoral and profane, to indemnify themselves for the privations and penances imposed on them at other seasons. But, of all other topics for burlesque and ridicule, the rites and ceremonial of the church itself were most frequently resorted to; and, strange to say, with the approbation of the clergy themselves. While the hierarchy flourished in full glory, they do not appear to have dreaded the consequences of suffering the people to become so irreverently familiar with things sacred; they then imagined the laity to be much in the condition of the labourer's horse, which does not submit to the bridle and the whip with greater reluctance, because, at rare intervals, he is allowed to frolic at large in his pasture, and fling out his heels in clumsy gambols at the master who usually drives him. But, when times changed--when doubt of the Roman Catholic doctrine, and hatred of their priesthood, had possessed the reformed party, the clergy discovered, too late, that no small inconvenience arose from the established practice of games and merry-makings, in which they themselves, and all they held most sacred, were made the subject of ridicule. It then became obvious to duller politicians than the Romish churchmen, that the same actions have a very different tendency when done in the spirit of sarcastic insolence and hatred, than when acted merely in exuberance of rude and uncontrollable spirits. They, therefore, though of the latest, endeavoured, where they had any remaining influence, to discourage the renewal of these indecorous festivities. In this particular, the Catholic clergy were joined by most of the reformed preachers, who were more shocked at the profanity and immorality of many of these exhibitions, than disposed to profit by the ridiculous light in which they placed the Church of Rome and her observances. But it was long ere these scandalous and immoral sports could be abrogated;--the rude multitude continued attached to their favourite pastimes, and, both in England and Scotland, the mitre of the Catholic--the rochet of the reformed bishop--and the cloak and band of the Calvinistic divine--were, in turn, compelled to give place to those jocular personages, the Pope of Fools, the Boy-Bishop, and the Abbot of Unreason. [Footnote: From the interesting novel entitled Anastasius, it seems the same burlesque ceremonies were practised in the Greek Church. ] It was the latter personage who now, in full costume, made his approach to the great door of the church of St. Mary's, accoutred in such a manner as to form a caricature, or practical parody, on the costume and attendants of the real Superior, whom he came to beard on the very day of his installation, in the presence of his clergy, and in the chancel of his church. The mock dignitary was a stout-made under-sized fellow, whose thick squab form had been rendered grotesque by a supplemental paunch, well stuffed. He wore a mitre of leather, with the front like a grenadier's cap, adorned with mock embroidery, and trinkets of tin. This surmounted a visage, the nose of which was the most prominent feature, being of unusual size, and at least as richly gemmed as his head-gear. His robe was of buckram, and his cope of canvass, curiously painted, and cut into open work. On one shoulder was fixed the painted figure of an owl; and he bore in the right hand his pastoral staff, and in the left a small mirror having a handle to it, thus resembling a celebrated jester, whose adventures, translated into English, were whilom extremely popular, and which may still be procured in black letter, for about one sterling pound per leaf. The attendants of this mock dignitary had their proper dresses and equipage, bearing the same burlesque resemblance to the officers of the Convent which their leader did to the Superior. They followed their leader in regular procession, and the motley characters, which had waited his arrival, now crowded into the church in his train, shouting as they came,-- A hall, a hall! for the venerable Father Howleglas, the learned Monk of Misrule, and the Right Reverend Abbot of Unreason! The discordant minstrelsy of every kind renewed its din; the boys shrieked and howled, and the men laughed and hallooed, and the women giggled and screamed, and the beasts roared, and the dragon wallopped and hissed, and the hobby-horse neighed, pranced, and capered, and the rest frisked and frolicked, clashing their hobnailed shoes against the pavement, till it sparkled with the marks of their energetic caprioles. It was, in fine, a scene of ridiculous confusion, that deafened the ear, made the eyes giddy, and must have altogether stunned any indifferent spectator; the monks, whom personal apprehension and a consciousness that much of the popular enjoyment arose from the ridicule being directed against them, were, moreover, little comforted by

wild

How many times the word 'wild' appears in the text?

with the deeper clamour of men, formed a Babel of sounds, which first drowned, and then awed into utter silence, the official hymns of the Convent. The cause and result of this extraordinary interruption will be explained in the next chapter. Chapter the Fourteenth. Not the wild billow, when it breaks its barrier-- Not the wild wind, escaping from its cavern-- Not the wild fiend, that mingles both together, And pours their rage upon the ripening harvest, Can match the wild freaks of this mirthful meeting-- Comic, yet fearful--droll, and yet destructive. THE CONSPIRACY. The monks ceased their song, which, like that of the choristers in the legend of the Witch of Berkley, died away in a quaver of consternation; and, like a flock of chickens disturbed by the presence of the kite, they at first made a movement to disperse and fly in different directions, and then, with despair, rather than hope, huddled themselves around their new Abbot; who, retaining the lofty and undismayed look which had dignified him through the whole ceremony, stood on the higher step of the altar, as if desirous to be the most conspicuous mark on which danger might discharge itself, and to save his companions by his self-devotion, since he could afford them no other protection. Involuntarily, as it were, Magdalen Graeme and the page stepped from the station which hitherto they had occupied unnoticed, and approached to the altar, as desirous of sharing the fate which approached the monks, whatever that might be. Both bowed reverently low to the Abbot; and while Magdalen seemed about to speak, the youth, looking towards the main entrance, at which the noise now roared most loudly, and which was at the same time assailed with much knocking, laid his hand upon his dagger. The Abbot motioned to both to forbear: Peace, my sister, he said, in a low tone, but which, being in a different key from the tumultuary sounds without, could be distinctly heard, even amidst the tumult;-- Peace, he said, my sister; let the new Superior of Saint Mary's himself receive and reply to the grateful acclamations of the vassals, who come to celebrate his installation.--And thou, my son, forbear, I charge thee, to touch thy earthly weapon;--if it is the pleasure of our protectress, that her shrine be this day desecrated by deeds of violence, and polluted by blood-shedding, let it not, I charge thee, happen through the deed of a Catholic son of the church. The noise and knocking at the outer gate became now every moment louder; and voices were heard impatiently demanding admittance. The Abbot, with dignity, and with a step which even the emergency of danger rendered neither faltering nor precipitate, moved towards the portal, and demanded to know, in a tone of authority, who it was that disturbed their worship, and what they desired? There was a moment's silence, and then a loud laugh from without. At length a voice replied, We desire entrance into the church; and when the door is opened you will soon see who we are. By whose authority do you require entrance? said the Father. By authority of the right reverend Lord Abbot of Unreason. [Footnote: We learn from no less authority than that of Napoleon Bonaparte, that there is but a single step between the sublime and ridiculous; and it is a transition from one extreme to another; so very easy, that the vulgar of every degree are peculiarly captivated with it. Thus the inclination to laugh becomes uncontrollable, when the solemnity and gravity of time, place, and circumstances, render it peculiarly improper. Some species of general license, like that which inspired the ancient Saturnalia, or the modern Carnival, has been commonly indulged to the people at all times and in almost all countries. But it was, I think, peculiar to the Roman Catholic Church, that while they studied how to render their church rites imposing and magnificent, by all that pomp, music, architecture, and external display could add to them, they nevertheless connived, upon special occasions, at the frolics of the rude vulgar, who, in almost all Catholic countries, enjoyed, or at least assumed, the privilege of making: some Lord of the revels, who, under the name of the Abbot of Unreason, the Boy Bishop, or the President of Fools, occupied the churches, profaned the holy places by a mock imitation of the sacred rites, and sung indecent parodies on hymns of the church. The indifference of the clergy, even when their power was greatest, to the indecent exhibitions which they always tolerated, and sometimes encouraged, forms a strong contrast to the sensitiveness with which they regarded any serious attempt, by preaching or writing, to impeach any of the doctrines of the church. It could only be compared to the singular apathy with which they endured, and often admired the gross novels which Chaucer, Dunbar, Boccacio, Bandello, and others, composed upon the bad morals of the clergy. It seems as if the churchmen in both instances had endeavoured to compromise with the laity, and allowed them occasionally to gratify their coarse humour by indecent satire, provided they would abstain from any grave question concerning the foundation of the doctrines on which was erected such an immense fabric of ecclesiastical power. But the sports thus licensed assumed a very different appearance, so soon as the Protestant doctrines began to prevail; and the license which their forefathers had exercised in mere gaiety of heart, and without the least intention of dishonouring religion by their frolics, were now persevered in by the common people as a mode of testifying their utter disregard for the Roman priesthood and its ceremonies. I may observe, for example, the case of an apparitor sent to Borthwick from the Primate of Saint Andrews, to cite the lord of that castle, who was opposed by an Abbot of Unreason, at whose command the officer of the spiritual court was appointed to be ducked in a mill-dam, and obliged to eat up his parchment citation. The reader may be amused with the following whimsical details of this incident, which took place in the castle of Borthwick, in the year 1517. It appears, that in consequence of a process betwixt Master George Hay de Minzeane and the Lord Borthwick, letters of excommunication had passed against the latter, on account of the contumacy of certain witnesses. William Langlands, an apparitor or macer (_bacularius_) of the See of St Andrews, presented these letters to the curate of the church of Borthwick, requiring him to publish the same at the service of high mass. It seems that the inhabitants of the castle were at this time engaged in the favourite sport of enacting the Abbot of Unreason, a species of high jinks, in which a mimic prelate was elected, who, like the Lord of Misrule in England, turned all sort of lawful authority, and particularly the church ritual, into ridicule. This frolicsome person with his retinue, notwithstanding of the apparitor's character, entered the church, seized upon the primate's officer without hesitation, and, dragging him to the mill-dam on the south side of the castle, compelled him to leap into the water. Not contented with this partial immersion, the Abbot of Unreason pronounced, that Mr. William Langlands was not yet sufficiently bathed, and therefore caused his assistants to lay him on his back in the stream, and duck him in the most satisfactory and perfect manner. The unfortunate apparitor was then conducted back to the church, where, for his refreshment after his bath, the letters of excommunication were torn to pieces, and steeped in a bowl of wine; the mock abbot being probably of opinion that a tough parchment was but dry eating, Langlands was compelled to eat the letters, and swallow the wine, and dismissed by the Abbot of Unreason, with the comfortable assurance, that if any more such letters should arrive during the continuance of his office, they should a' gang the same gate, _i. e._ go the same road. A similar scene occurs betwixt a sumner of the Bishop of Rochester, and Harpool, the servant of Lord Cobham, in the old play of Sir John Oldcastle, when the former compels the church-officer to eat his citation. The dialogue, which may be found in the note, contains most of the jests which may be supposed, appropriate to such an extraordinary occasion: _Harpool_ Marry, sir, is, this process parchment? _Sumner._ Yes, marry is it. _Harpool._ And this seal wax? _Sumner._ It is so. _Harpool._ If this be parchment, and this be wax, eat you this parchment and wax, or I will make parchment of your skin, and beat your brains into wax. Sirrah Sumner, despatch--devour, sirrah, devour. _Sumner._ I am my Lord of Rochester's sumner; I came to do my office, and thou shall answer it. _Harpool._ Sirrah, no railing, but, betake thyself to thy teeth. Thou shalt, eat no worse than thou bringest with thee. Thou bringest it for my lord; and wilt thou bring my lord worse than thou wilt eat thyself? _Sumner._ Sir. I brought it not my lord to eat. _Harpool._ O, do you Sir me now? All's one for that; I'll make you eat it for bringing it. _Sumner._ I cannot eat it. _Harpool._ Can you not? 'Sblood, I'll beat you till you have a stomach! (_Beats him._) _Sumner._ Oh, hold, hold, good Mr. Servingman; I will eat it. _Harpool._ Be champing, be chewing, sir, or I will chew you, you rogue. Tough wax is the purest of the honey. _Sumner._ The purest of the honey?--O Lord, sir, oh! oh! _Harpool._ Feed, feed; 'tis wholesome, rogue, wholesome. Cannot you, like an honest sumner, walk with the devil your brother, to fetch in your bailiff's rents, but you must come to a nobleman's house with process! If the seal were broad as the lead which covers Rochester Church, thou shouldst eat it. _Sumner._ Oh, I am almost choked--I am almost choked! _Harpool._ Who's within there? Will you shame my lord? Is there no beer in the house? Butler, I say. _Enter_ BUTLER. _Butler._ Here, here. _Harpool._ Give him beer. Tough old sheep skin's but dry meat. _First Part of Sir John Oldcastle_, Act II. Scene I.] replied the voice from without; and, from the laugh--which followed, it seemed as if there was something highly ludicrous couched under this reply. I know not, and seek not to know, your meaning, replied the Abbot, since it is probably a rude one. But begone, in the name of God, and leave his servants in peace. I speak this, as having lawful authority to command here. Open the door, said another rude voice, and we will try titles with you, Sir Monk, and show you a superior we must all obey. Break open the doors if he dallies any longer, said a third, and down with the carrion monks who would bar us of our privilege! A general shout followed. Ay, ay, our privilege! our privilege! down with the doors, and with the lurdane monks, if they make opposition! The knocking was now exchanged for blows with great, hammers, to which the doors, strong as they were, must soon have given way. But the Abbot, who saw resistance would be in vain, and who did not wish to incense the assailants by an attempt at offering it, besought silence earnestly, and with difficulty obtained a hearing. My children, said he, I will save you from committing a great sin. The porter will presently undo the gate--he is gone to fetch the keys--meantime I pray you to consider with yourselves, if you are in a state of mind to cross the holy threshold. Tillyvally for your papistry! was answered from without; we are in the mood of the monks when they are merriest, and that is when they sup beef-brewis for lanten-kail. So, if your porter hath not the gout, let him come speedily, or we heave away readily.--Said I well, comrades? Bravely said, and it shall be as bravely done, said the multitude; and had not the keys arrived at that moment, and the porter in hasty terror performed his office, throwing open the great door, the populace would have saved him the trouble. The instant he had done so, the affrighted janitor fled, like one who has drawn the bolts of a flood-gate, and expects to be overwhelmed by the rushing inundation. The monks, with one consent, had withdrawn themselves behind the Abbot, who alone kept his station, about three yards from the entrance, showing no signs of fear or perturbation. His brethren--partly encouraged by his devotion, partly ashamed to desert him, and partly animated by a sense of duty.--remained huddled close together, at the back of their Superior. There was a loud laugh and huzza when the doors were opened; but, contrary to what might have been expected, no crowd of enraged assailants rushed into the church. On the contrary, there was a cry of A halt!-a halt--to order, my masters! and let the two reverend fathers greet each other, as beseems them. The appearance of the crowd who were thus called to order, was grotesque in the extreme. It was composed of men, women, and children, ludicrously disguised in various habits, and presenting groups equally diversified and grotesque. Here one fellow with a horse's head painted before him, and a tail behind, and the whole covered with a long foot-cloth, which was supposed to hide the body of the animal, ambled, caracoled, pranced, and plunged, as he performed the celebrated part of the hobby-horse, [Footnote: This exhibition, the play-mare of Scotland, stood high among holyday gambols. It must be carefully separated from the wooden chargers which furnish out our nurseries. It gives rise to Hamlet's ejaculation,-- But oh, but oh, the hobby-horse is forgot! There is a very comic scene in Beaumont and Fletcher's play of Woman Pleased, where Hope-on-high Bombye, a puritan cobbler, refuses to dance with the hobby-horse. There was much difficulty and great variety in the motions which the hobby-horse was expected to exhibit. The learned Mr. Douce, who has contributed so much to the illustration of our theatrical antiquities, has given us a full account of this pageant, and the burlesque horsemanship which it practised. The hobby-horse, says Mr. Douce, was represented by a man equipped with as much pasteboard as was sufficient to form the head and hinder parts of a horse, the quadrupedal defects being concealed by a long mantle or footcloth that nearly touched the ground. The former, on this occasion, exerted all his skill in burlesque horsemanship. In Sympson's play of the Law-breakers, 1636, a miller personates the hobby-horse, and being angry that the Mayor of the city is put in competition with him, exclaims, 'Let the mayor play the hobby-horse among his brethren, an he will; I hope our town-lads cannot want a hobby-horse. Have I practised my reins, my careers, my prankers, my ambles, my false trots, my smooth ambles, and Canterbury paces, and shall master mayor put me beside the hobby-horse? Have I borrowed the fore-horse bells, his plumes, his braveries; nay, had his mane new shorn and frizzled, and shall the mayor put me beside the hobby-horse? --_Douce's Illustrations_, vol. II. p. 468] so often alluded to in our ancient drama; and which still flourishes on the stage in the battle that concludes Bayes's tragedy. To rival the address and agility displayed by this character, another personage advanced in the more formidable character of a huge dragon, with gilded wings, open jaws, and a scarlet tongue, cloven at the end, which made various efforts to overtake and devour a lad, dressed as the lovely Sabaea, daughter of the King of Egypt, who fled before him; while a martial Saint George, grotesquely armed with a goblet for a helmet, and a spit for a lance, ever and anon interfered, and compelled the monster to relinquish his prey. A bear, a wolf, and one or two other wild animals, played their parts with the discretion of Snug the joiner; for the decided preference which they gave to the use of their hind legs, was sufficient, without any formal annunciation, to assure the most timorous spectators that they had to do with habitual bipeds. There was a group of outlaws with Robin Hood and Little John at their head [Footnote: The representation of Robin Hood was the darling Maygame both in England and Scotland, and doubtless the favourite personification was often revived, when the Abbot of Unreason, or other pretences of frolic, gave an unusual decree of license. The Protestant clergy, who had formerly reaped advantage from the opportunities which these sports afforded them of directing their own satire and the ridicule of the lower orders against the Catholic church, began to find that, when these purposes were served, their favourite pastimes deprived them of the wish to attend divine worship, and disturbed the frame of mind in which it can be attended to advantage. The celebrated Bishop Latimer gives a very _naive_ account of the manner in which, bishop as he was, he found himself compelled to give place to Robin Hood and his followers. I came once myselfe riding on a journey homeward from London, and I sent word over night into the towne that I would preach there in the morning, because it was holiday, and me thought it was a holidayes worke. The church stood in my way, and I took my horse and my company, and went thither, (I thought I should have found a great company in the church,) and when I came there the church doore was fast locked. I tarryed there halfe an houre and more. At last the key was found, and one of the parish comes to me and said,--'Sir, this is a busie day with us, we cannot hear you; it is Robin Hood's day. The parish are gone abroad to gather for Robin Hood. I pray you let them not.' I was faine there to give place to Robin Hood. I thought my rochet should have been regarded, though I were not: but it would not serve, it was faine to give place to Robin Hood's men. It is no laughing matter, my friends, it is a weeping matter, a heavie matter, a heavie matter. Under the pretence for gathering for Robin Hood, a traytour, and a theif, to put out a preacher; to have his office lesse esteemed; to preferre Robin Hood before the ministration of God's word; and all this hath come of unpreaching prelates. This realme hath been ill provided for, that it hath had such corrupt judgments in it, to prefer Robin Hood to God's word. --_Bishop Latimer's sixth Sermon before King Edward_. While the English Protestants thus preferred the outlaw's pageant to the preaching of their excellent Bishop, the Scottish calvinistic clergy, with the celebrated John Knox at their head, and backed by the authority of the magistrates of Edinburgh, who had of late been chosen exclusively from this party, found it impossible to control the rage of the populace, when they attempted to deprive them of the privilege of presenting their pageant of Robin Hood. [Note on old Scottish spelling: leading y = modern 'th'; leading v = modern 'u'] (561) Vpon the xxi day of Junij. Archibalde Dowglas of Kilspindie, Provest of Edr., David Symmer and Adame Fullartoun, baillies of the samyne, causit ane cordinare servant, callit James Gillion takin of befoir, for playing in Edr. with Robene Hude, to wnderly the law, and put him to the knawlege of ane assyize qlk yaij haid electit of yair favoraris, quha with schort deliberatioun condemnit him to be hangit for ye said cryme. And the deaconis of ye craftismen fearing vproare, maid great solistatuis at ye handis of ye said provost and baillies, and als requirit John Knox, minister, for eschewing of tumult, to superceid ye execution of him, vnto ye tyme yai suld adverteis my Lord Duke yairof. And yan, if it wes his mynd and will yat he should be disponit vpoun, ye said deaconis and craftismen sould convey him yaire; quha answerit, yat yai culd na way stope ye executioun of justice. Quhan ye time of ye said pouer mans hanging approchit, and yat ye hangman wes cum to ye jibbat with ye ledder, vpoune ye qlk ye said cordinare should have bene hangit, ane certaine and remanent craftischilder, quha wes put to ye horne with ye said Gillione, ffor ye said Robene Huide's _playes_, and vyris yair assistaris and favoraris, past to wappinis, and yai brak down ye said jibbat, and yan chacit ye said provest, baillies, and Alexr. Guthrie, in ye said Alexander's writing buith, and held yame yairin; and yairefter past to ye tolbuyt, and becaus the samyne was steiket, and onnawayes culd get the keyes thairof, thai brak the said tolbuith dore with foure harberis, per force, (the said provest and baillies luckand thairon.) and not onlie put thar the said Gillione to fredome and libertie, and brocht him furth of the said tolbuit, bot alsua the remanent presonaris being thairintill; and this done, the said craftismen's servands, with the said condempnit cordonar, past doun to the Netherbow, to have past furth thairat; bot becaus the samyne on thair coming thairto wes closet, thai past vp agane the Hie streit of the said bourghe to the Castellhill, and in this menetymne the saidis provest and baillies, and thair assistaris being in the writing buith of the said Alexr. Guthrie, past and enterit in the said tolbuyt, and in the said servandes passage vp the Hie streit, then schote furth thairof at thame ane dog, and hurt ane servand of the said childer. This being done, thair wes nathing vthir but the one partie schuteand out and castand stanes furth of the said tolbuyt, and the vther pairtie schuteand hagbuttis in the same agane. Aund sua the craftismen's servandis, aboue written, held and inclosit the said provest and baillies continewallie in the said tolbuyth, frae three houris efternone, quhill aught houris at even, and na man of the said town prensit to relieve their said provest and baillies. And than thai send to the maisters of the Castell, to caus tham if thai mycht stay the said servandis, quha maid ane maner to do the same, bot thai could not bring the same to ane finall end, ffor the said servands wold on noways stay fra, quhill thai had revengit the hurting of ane of them; and thairefter the constable of the castell come down thairfra, and he with the said maisters treatet betwix the said pties in this maner:--That the said provost and baillies sall remit to the said craftischilder, all actioun, cryme, and offens that thai had committit aganes thame in any tyme bygane; and band and oblast thame never to pursew them thairfor; and als commandit thair maisters to resaue them agane in thair services, as thai did befoir. And this being proclainit at the mercat cross, thai scalit, and the said provest and bailies come furth of the same tolbouyth. &c. &c. &c. John Knox, who writes at large upon this tumult, informs us it was inflamed by the deacons of craftes, who, resenting; the superiority assumed over them by the magistrates, would yield no assistance to put down the tumult. They will be magistrates alone, said the recusant deacons, e'en let them rule the populace alone; and accordingly they passed quietly to take _their four-hours penny_, and left the magistrates to help themselves as they could. Many persons were excommunicated for this outrage, and not admitted to church ordinances till they had made satisfaction.] --the best representation exhibited at the time; and no great wonder, since most of the actors were, by profession, the banished men and thieves whom they presented. Other masqueraders there were, of a less marked description. Men were disguised as women, and women as men--children wore the dress of aged people, and tottered with crutch-sticks in their hands, furred gowns on their little backs, and caps on their round heads--while grandsires assumed the infantine tone as well as the dress of children. Besides these, many had their faces painted, and wore their shirts over the rest of their dress; while coloured pasteboard and ribbons furnished out decorations for others. Those who wanted all these properties, blacked their faces, and turned their jackets inside out; and thus the transmutation of the whole assembly into a set of mad grotesque mummers, was at once completed. The pause which the masqueraders made, waiting apparently for some person of the highest authority amongst them, gave those within the Abbey Church full time to observe all these absurdities. They were at no loss to comprehend their purpose and meaning. Few readers can be ignorant, that at an early period, and during the plenitude of her power, the Church of Rome not only connived at, but even encouraged, such Saturnalian licenses as the inhabitants of Kennaquhair and the neighbourhood had now in hand, and that the vulgar, on such occasions, were not only permitted but encouraged by a number of gambols, sometimes puerile and ludicrous, sometimes immoral and profane, to indemnify themselves for the privations and penances imposed on them at other seasons. But, of all other topics for burlesque and ridicule, the rites and ceremonial of the church itself were most frequently resorted to; and, strange to say, with the approbation of the clergy themselves. While the hierarchy flourished in full glory, they do not appear to have dreaded the consequences of suffering the people to become so irreverently familiar with things sacred; they then imagined the laity to be much in the condition of the labourer's horse, which does not submit to the bridle and the whip with greater reluctance, because, at rare intervals, he is allowed to frolic at large in his pasture, and fling out his heels in clumsy gambols at the master who usually drives him. But, when times changed--when doubt of the Roman Catholic doctrine, and hatred of their priesthood, had possessed the reformed party, the clergy discovered, too late, that no small inconvenience arose from the established practice of games and merry-makings, in which they themselves, and all they held most sacred, were made the subject of ridicule. It then became obvious to duller politicians than the Romish churchmen, that the same actions have a very different tendency when done in the spirit of sarcastic insolence and hatred, than when acted merely in exuberance of rude and uncontrollable spirits. They, therefore, though of the latest, endeavoured, where they had any remaining influence, to discourage the renewal of these indecorous festivities. In this particular, the Catholic clergy were joined by most of the reformed preachers, who were more shocked at the profanity and immorality of many of these exhibitions, than disposed to profit by the ridiculous light in which they placed the Church of Rome and her observances. But it was long ere these scandalous and immoral sports could be abrogated;--the rude multitude continued attached to their favourite pastimes, and, both in England and Scotland, the mitre of the Catholic--the rochet of the reformed bishop--and the cloak and band of the Calvinistic divine--were, in turn, compelled to give place to those jocular personages, the Pope of Fools, the Boy-Bishop, and the Abbot of Unreason. [Footnote: From the interesting novel entitled Anastasius, it seems the same burlesque ceremonies were practised in the Greek Church. ] It was the latter personage who now, in full costume, made his approach to the great door of the church of St. Mary's, accoutred in such a manner as to form a caricature, or practical parody, on the costume and attendants of the real Superior, whom he came to beard on the very day of his installation, in the presence of his clergy, and in the chancel of his church. The mock dignitary was a stout-made under-sized fellow, whose thick squab form had been rendered grotesque by a supplemental paunch, well stuffed. He wore a mitre of leather, with the front like a grenadier's cap, adorned with mock embroidery, and trinkets of tin. This surmounted a visage, the nose of which was the most prominent feature, being of unusual size, and at least as richly gemmed as his head-gear. His robe was of buckram, and his cope of canvass, curiously painted, and cut into open work. On one shoulder was fixed the painted figure of an owl; and he bore in the right hand his pastoral staff, and in the left a small mirror having a handle to it, thus resembling a celebrated jester, whose adventures, translated into English, were whilom extremely popular, and which may still be procured in black letter, for about one sterling pound per leaf. The attendants of this mock dignitary had their proper dresses and equipage, bearing the same burlesque resemblance to the officers of the Convent which their leader did to the Superior. They followed their leader in regular procession, and the motley characters, which had waited his arrival, now crowded into the church in his train, shouting as they came,-- A hall, a hall! for the venerable Father Howleglas, the learned Monk of Misrule, and the Right Reverend Abbot of Unreason! The discordant minstrelsy of every kind renewed its din; the boys shrieked and howled, and the men laughed and hallooed, and the women giggled and screamed, and the beasts roared, and the dragon wallopped and hissed, and the hobby-horse neighed, pranced, and capered, and the rest frisked and frolicked, clashing their hobnailed shoes against the pavement, till it sparkled with the marks of their energetic caprioles. It was, in fine, a scene of ridiculous confusion, that deafened the ear, made the eyes giddy, and must have altogether stunned any indifferent spectator; the monks, whom personal apprehension and a consciousness that much of the popular enjoyment arose from the ridicule being directed against them, were, moreover, little comforted by

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with the deeper clamour of men, formed a Babel of sounds, which first drowned, and then awed into utter silence, the official hymns of the Convent. The cause and result of this extraordinary interruption will be explained in the next chapter. Chapter the Fourteenth. Not the wild billow, when it breaks its barrier-- Not the wild wind, escaping from its cavern-- Not the wild fiend, that mingles both together, And pours their rage upon the ripening harvest, Can match the wild freaks of this mirthful meeting-- Comic, yet fearful--droll, and yet destructive. THE CONSPIRACY. The monks ceased their song, which, like that of the choristers in the legend of the Witch of Berkley, died away in a quaver of consternation; and, like a flock of chickens disturbed by the presence of the kite, they at first made a movement to disperse and fly in different directions, and then, with despair, rather than hope, huddled themselves around their new Abbot; who, retaining the lofty and undismayed look which had dignified him through the whole ceremony, stood on the higher step of the altar, as if desirous to be the most conspicuous mark on which danger might discharge itself, and to save his companions by his self-devotion, since he could afford them no other protection. Involuntarily, as it were, Magdalen Graeme and the page stepped from the station which hitherto they had occupied unnoticed, and approached to the altar, as desirous of sharing the fate which approached the monks, whatever that might be. Both bowed reverently low to the Abbot; and while Magdalen seemed about to speak, the youth, looking towards the main entrance, at which the noise now roared most loudly, and which was at the same time assailed with much knocking, laid his hand upon his dagger. The Abbot motioned to both to forbear: Peace, my sister, he said, in a low tone, but which, being in a different key from the tumultuary sounds without, could be distinctly heard, even amidst the tumult;-- Peace, he said, my sister; let the new Superior of Saint Mary's himself receive and reply to the grateful acclamations of the vassals, who come to celebrate his installation.--And thou, my son, forbear, I charge thee, to touch thy earthly weapon;--if it is the pleasure of our protectress, that her shrine be this day desecrated by deeds of violence, and polluted by blood-shedding, let it not, I charge thee, happen through the deed of a Catholic son of the church. The noise and knocking at the outer gate became now every moment louder; and voices were heard impatiently demanding admittance. The Abbot, with dignity, and with a step which even the emergency of danger rendered neither faltering nor precipitate, moved towards the portal, and demanded to know, in a tone of authority, who it was that disturbed their worship, and what they desired? There was a moment's silence, and then a loud laugh from without. At length a voice replied, We desire entrance into the church; and when the door is opened you will soon see who we are. By whose authority do you require entrance? said the Father. By authority of the right reverend Lord Abbot of Unreason. [Footnote: We learn from no less authority than that of Napoleon Bonaparte, that there is but a single step between the sublime and ridiculous; and it is a transition from one extreme to another; so very easy, that the vulgar of every degree are peculiarly captivated with it. Thus the inclination to laugh becomes uncontrollable, when the solemnity and gravity of time, place, and circumstances, render it peculiarly improper. Some species of general license, like that which inspired the ancient Saturnalia, or the modern Carnival, has been commonly indulged to the people at all times and in almost all countries. But it was, I think, peculiar to the Roman Catholic Church, that while they studied how to render their church rites imposing and magnificent, by all that pomp, music, architecture, and external display could add to them, they nevertheless connived, upon special occasions, at the frolics of the rude vulgar, who, in almost all Catholic countries, enjoyed, or at least assumed, the privilege of making: some Lord of the revels, who, under the name of the Abbot of Unreason, the Boy Bishop, or the President of Fools, occupied the churches, profaned the holy places by a mock imitation of the sacred rites, and sung indecent parodies on hymns of the church. The indifference of the clergy, even when their power was greatest, to the indecent exhibitions which they always tolerated, and sometimes encouraged, forms a strong contrast to the sensitiveness with which they regarded any serious attempt, by preaching or writing, to impeach any of the doctrines of the church. It could only be compared to the singular apathy with which they endured, and often admired the gross novels which Chaucer, Dunbar, Boccacio, Bandello, and others, composed upon the bad morals of the clergy. It seems as if the churchmen in both instances had endeavoured to compromise with the laity, and allowed them occasionally to gratify their coarse humour by indecent satire, provided they would abstain from any grave question concerning the foundation of the doctrines on which was erected such an immense fabric of ecclesiastical power. But the sports thus licensed assumed a very different appearance, so soon as the Protestant doctrines began to prevail; and the license which their forefathers had exercised in mere gaiety of heart, and without the least intention of dishonouring religion by their frolics, were now persevered in by the common people as a mode of testifying their utter disregard for the Roman priesthood and its ceremonies. I may observe, for example, the case of an apparitor sent to Borthwick from the Primate of Saint Andrews, to cite the lord of that castle, who was opposed by an Abbot of Unreason, at whose command the officer of the spiritual court was appointed to be ducked in a mill-dam, and obliged to eat up his parchment citation. The reader may be amused with the following whimsical details of this incident, which took place in the castle of Borthwick, in the year 1517. It appears, that in consequence of a process betwixt Master George Hay de Minzeane and the Lord Borthwick, letters of excommunication had passed against the latter, on account of the contumacy of certain witnesses. William Langlands, an apparitor or macer (_bacularius_) of the See of St Andrews, presented these letters to the curate of the church of Borthwick, requiring him to publish the same at the service of high mass. It seems that the inhabitants of the castle were at this time engaged in the favourite sport of enacting the Abbot of Unreason, a species of high jinks, in which a mimic prelate was elected, who, like the Lord of Misrule in England, turned all sort of lawful authority, and particularly the church ritual, into ridicule. This frolicsome person with his retinue, notwithstanding of the apparitor's character, entered the church, seized upon the primate's officer without hesitation, and, dragging him to the mill-dam on the south side of the castle, compelled him to leap into the water. Not contented with this partial immersion, the Abbot of Unreason pronounced, that Mr. William Langlands was not yet sufficiently bathed, and therefore caused his assistants to lay him on his back in the stream, and duck him in the most satisfactory and perfect manner. The unfortunate apparitor was then conducted back to the church, where, for his refreshment after his bath, the letters of excommunication were torn to pieces, and steeped in a bowl of wine; the mock abbot being probably of opinion that a tough parchment was but dry eating, Langlands was compelled to eat the letters, and swallow the wine, and dismissed by the Abbot of Unreason, with the comfortable assurance, that if any more such letters should arrive during the continuance of his office, they should a' gang the same gate, _i. e._ go the same road. A similar scene occurs betwixt a sumner of the Bishop of Rochester, and Harpool, the servant of Lord Cobham, in the old play of Sir John Oldcastle, when the former compels the church-officer to eat his citation. The dialogue, which may be found in the note, contains most of the jests which may be supposed, appropriate to such an extraordinary occasion: _Harpool_ Marry, sir, is, this process parchment? _Sumner._ Yes, marry is it. _Harpool._ And this seal wax? _Sumner._ It is so. _Harpool._ If this be parchment, and this be wax, eat you this parchment and wax, or I will make parchment of your skin, and beat your brains into wax. Sirrah Sumner, despatch--devour, sirrah, devour. _Sumner._ I am my Lord of Rochester's sumner; I came to do my office, and thou shall answer it. _Harpool._ Sirrah, no railing, but, betake thyself to thy teeth. Thou shalt, eat no worse than thou bringest with thee. Thou bringest it for my lord; and wilt thou bring my lord worse than thou wilt eat thyself? _Sumner._ Sir. I brought it not my lord to eat. _Harpool._ O, do you Sir me now? All's one for that; I'll make you eat it for bringing it. _Sumner._ I cannot eat it. _Harpool._ Can you not? 'Sblood, I'll beat you till you have a stomach! (_Beats him._) _Sumner._ Oh, hold, hold, good Mr. Servingman; I will eat it. _Harpool._ Be champing, be chewing, sir, or I will chew you, you rogue. Tough wax is the purest of the honey. _Sumner._ The purest of the honey?--O Lord, sir, oh! oh! _Harpool._ Feed, feed; 'tis wholesome, rogue, wholesome. Cannot you, like an honest sumner, walk with the devil your brother, to fetch in your bailiff's rents, but you must come to a nobleman's house with process! If the seal were broad as the lead which covers Rochester Church, thou shouldst eat it. _Sumner._ Oh, I am almost choked--I am almost choked! _Harpool._ Who's within there? Will you shame my lord? Is there no beer in the house? Butler, I say. _Enter_ BUTLER. _Butler._ Here, here. _Harpool._ Give him beer. Tough old sheep skin's but dry meat. _First Part of Sir John Oldcastle_, Act II. Scene I.] replied the voice from without; and, from the laugh--which followed, it seemed as if there was something highly ludicrous couched under this reply. I know not, and seek not to know, your meaning, replied the Abbot, since it is probably a rude one. But begone, in the name of God, and leave his servants in peace. I speak this, as having lawful authority to command here. Open the door, said another rude voice, and we will try titles with you, Sir Monk, and show you a superior we must all obey. Break open the doors if he dallies any longer, said a third, and down with the carrion monks who would bar us of our privilege! A general shout followed. Ay, ay, our privilege! our privilege! down with the doors, and with the lurdane monks, if they make opposition! The knocking was now exchanged for blows with great, hammers, to which the doors, strong as they were, must soon have given way. But the Abbot, who saw resistance would be in vain, and who did not wish to incense the assailants by an attempt at offering it, besought silence earnestly, and with difficulty obtained a hearing. My children, said he, I will save you from committing a great sin. The porter will presently undo the gate--he is gone to fetch the keys--meantime I pray you to consider with yourselves, if you are in a state of mind to cross the holy threshold. Tillyvally for your papistry! was answered from without; we are in the mood of the monks when they are merriest, and that is when they sup beef-brewis for lanten-kail. So, if your porter hath not the gout, let him come speedily, or we heave away readily.--Said I well, comrades? Bravely said, and it shall be as bravely done, said the multitude; and had not the keys arrived at that moment, and the porter in hasty terror performed his office, throwing open the great door, the populace would have saved him the trouble. The instant he had done so, the affrighted janitor fled, like one who has drawn the bolts of a flood-gate, and expects to be overwhelmed by the rushing inundation. The monks, with one consent, had withdrawn themselves behind the Abbot, who alone kept his station, about three yards from the entrance, showing no signs of fear or perturbation. His brethren--partly encouraged by his devotion, partly ashamed to desert him, and partly animated by a sense of duty.--remained huddled close together, at the back of their Superior. There was a loud laugh and huzza when the doors were opened; but, contrary to what might have been expected, no crowd of enraged assailants rushed into the church. On the contrary, there was a cry of A halt!-a halt--to order, my masters! and let the two reverend fathers greet each other, as beseems them. The appearance of the crowd who were thus called to order, was grotesque in the extreme. It was composed of men, women, and children, ludicrously disguised in various habits, and presenting groups equally diversified and grotesque. Here one fellow with a horse's head painted before him, and a tail behind, and the whole covered with a long foot-cloth, which was supposed to hide the body of the animal, ambled, caracoled, pranced, and plunged, as he performed the celebrated part of the hobby-horse, [Footnote: This exhibition, the play-mare of Scotland, stood high among holyday gambols. It must be carefully separated from the wooden chargers which furnish out our nurseries. It gives rise to Hamlet's ejaculation,-- But oh, but oh, the hobby-horse is forgot! There is a very comic scene in Beaumont and Fletcher's play of Woman Pleased, where Hope-on-high Bombye, a puritan cobbler, refuses to dance with the hobby-horse. There was much difficulty and great variety in the motions which the hobby-horse was expected to exhibit. The learned Mr. Douce, who has contributed so much to the illustration of our theatrical antiquities, has given us a full account of this pageant, and the burlesque horsemanship which it practised. The hobby-horse, says Mr. Douce, was represented by a man equipped with as much pasteboard as was sufficient to form the head and hinder parts of a horse, the quadrupedal defects being concealed by a long mantle or footcloth that nearly touched the ground. The former, on this occasion, exerted all his skill in burlesque horsemanship. In Sympson's play of the Law-breakers, 1636, a miller personates the hobby-horse, and being angry that the Mayor of the city is put in competition with him, exclaims, 'Let the mayor play the hobby-horse among his brethren, an he will; I hope our town-lads cannot want a hobby-horse. Have I practised my reins, my careers, my prankers, my ambles, my false trots, my smooth ambles, and Canterbury paces, and shall master mayor put me beside the hobby-horse? Have I borrowed the fore-horse bells, his plumes, his braveries; nay, had his mane new shorn and frizzled, and shall the mayor put me beside the hobby-horse? --_Douce's Illustrations_, vol. II. p. 468] so often alluded to in our ancient drama; and which still flourishes on the stage in the battle that concludes Bayes's tragedy. To rival the address and agility displayed by this character, another personage advanced in the more formidable character of a huge dragon, with gilded wings, open jaws, and a scarlet tongue, cloven at the end, which made various efforts to overtake and devour a lad, dressed as the lovely Sabaea, daughter of the King of Egypt, who fled before him; while a martial Saint George, grotesquely armed with a goblet for a helmet, and a spit for a lance, ever and anon interfered, and compelled the monster to relinquish his prey. A bear, a wolf, and one or two other wild animals, played their parts with the discretion of Snug the joiner; for the decided preference which they gave to the use of their hind legs, was sufficient, without any formal annunciation, to assure the most timorous spectators that they had to do with habitual bipeds. There was a group of outlaws with Robin Hood and Little John at their head [Footnote: The representation of Robin Hood was the darling Maygame both in England and Scotland, and doubtless the favourite personification was often revived, when the Abbot of Unreason, or other pretences of frolic, gave an unusual decree of license. The Protestant clergy, who had formerly reaped advantage from the opportunities which these sports afforded them of directing their own satire and the ridicule of the lower orders against the Catholic church, began to find that, when these purposes were served, their favourite pastimes deprived them of the wish to attend divine worship, and disturbed the frame of mind in which it can be attended to advantage. The celebrated Bishop Latimer gives a very _naive_ account of the manner in which, bishop as he was, he found himself compelled to give place to Robin Hood and his followers. I came once myselfe riding on a journey homeward from London, and I sent word over night into the towne that I would preach there in the morning, because it was holiday, and me thought it was a holidayes worke. The church stood in my way, and I took my horse and my company, and went thither, (I thought I should have found a great company in the church,) and when I came there the church doore was fast locked. I tarryed there halfe an houre and more. At last the key was found, and one of the parish comes to me and said,--'Sir, this is a busie day with us, we cannot hear you; it is Robin Hood's day. The parish are gone abroad to gather for Robin Hood. I pray you let them not.' I was faine there to give place to Robin Hood. I thought my rochet should have been regarded, though I were not: but it would not serve, it was faine to give place to Robin Hood's men. It is no laughing matter, my friends, it is a weeping matter, a heavie matter, a heavie matter. Under the pretence for gathering for Robin Hood, a traytour, and a theif, to put out a preacher; to have his office lesse esteemed; to preferre Robin Hood before the ministration of God's word; and all this hath come of unpreaching prelates. This realme hath been ill provided for, that it hath had such corrupt judgments in it, to prefer Robin Hood to God's word. --_Bishop Latimer's sixth Sermon before King Edward_. While the English Protestants thus preferred the outlaw's pageant to the preaching of their excellent Bishop, the Scottish calvinistic clergy, with the celebrated John Knox at their head, and backed by the authority of the magistrates of Edinburgh, who had of late been chosen exclusively from this party, found it impossible to control the rage of the populace, when they attempted to deprive them of the privilege of presenting their pageant of Robin Hood. [Note on old Scottish spelling: leading y = modern 'th'; leading v = modern 'u'] (561) Vpon the xxi day of Junij. Archibalde Dowglas of Kilspindie, Provest of Edr., David Symmer and Adame Fullartoun, baillies of the samyne, causit ane cordinare servant, callit James Gillion takin of befoir, for playing in Edr. with Robene Hude, to wnderly the law, and put him to the knawlege of ane assyize qlk yaij haid electit of yair favoraris, quha with schort deliberatioun condemnit him to be hangit for ye said cryme. And the deaconis of ye craftismen fearing vproare, maid great solistatuis at ye handis of ye said provost and baillies, and als requirit John Knox, minister, for eschewing of tumult, to superceid ye execution of him, vnto ye tyme yai suld adverteis my Lord Duke yairof. And yan, if it wes his mynd and will yat he should be disponit vpoun, ye said deaconis and craftismen sould convey him yaire; quha answerit, yat yai culd na way stope ye executioun of justice. Quhan ye time of ye said pouer mans hanging approchit, and yat ye hangman wes cum to ye jibbat with ye ledder, vpoune ye qlk ye said cordinare should have bene hangit, ane certaine and remanent craftischilder, quha wes put to ye horne with ye said Gillione, ffor ye said Robene Huide's _playes_, and vyris yair assistaris and favoraris, past to wappinis, and yai brak down ye said jibbat, and yan chacit ye said provest, baillies, and Alexr. Guthrie, in ye said Alexander's writing buith, and held yame yairin; and yairefter past to ye tolbuyt, and becaus the samyne was steiket, and onnawayes culd get the keyes thairof, thai brak the said tolbuith dore with foure harberis, per force, (the said provest and baillies luckand thairon.) and not onlie put thar the said Gillione to fredome and libertie, and brocht him furth of the said tolbuit, bot alsua the remanent presonaris being thairintill; and this done, the said craftismen's servands, with the said condempnit cordonar, past doun to the Netherbow, to have past furth thairat; bot becaus the samyne on thair coming thairto wes closet, thai past vp agane the Hie streit of the said bourghe to the Castellhill, and in this menetymne the saidis provest and baillies, and thair assistaris being in the writing buith of the said Alexr. Guthrie, past and enterit in the said tolbuyt, and in the said servandes passage vp the Hie streit, then schote furth thairof at thame ane dog, and hurt ane servand of the said childer. This being done, thair wes nathing vthir but the one partie schuteand out and castand stanes furth of the said tolbuyt, and the vther pairtie schuteand hagbuttis in the same agane. Aund sua the craftismen's servandis, aboue written, held and inclosit the said provest and baillies continewallie in the said tolbuyth, frae three houris efternone, quhill aught houris at even, and na man of the said town prensit to relieve their said provest and baillies. And than thai send to the maisters of the Castell, to caus tham if thai mycht stay the said servandis, quha maid ane maner to do the same, bot thai could not bring the same to ane finall end, ffor the said servands wold on noways stay fra, quhill thai had revengit the hurting of ane of them; and thairefter the constable of the castell come down thairfra, and he with the said maisters treatet betwix the said pties in this maner:--That the said provost and baillies sall remit to the said craftischilder, all actioun, cryme, and offens that thai had committit aganes thame in any tyme bygane; and band and oblast thame never to pursew them thairfor; and als commandit thair maisters to resaue them agane in thair services, as thai did befoir. And this being proclainit at the mercat cross, thai scalit, and the said provest and bailies come furth of the same tolbouyth. &c. &c. &c. John Knox, who writes at large upon this tumult, informs us it was inflamed by the deacons of craftes, who, resenting; the superiority assumed over them by the magistrates, would yield no assistance to put down the tumult. They will be magistrates alone, said the recusant deacons, e'en let them rule the populace alone; and accordingly they passed quietly to take _their four-hours penny_, and left the magistrates to help themselves as they could. Many persons were excommunicated for this outrage, and not admitted to church ordinances till they had made satisfaction.] --the best representation exhibited at the time; and no great wonder, since most of the actors were, by profession, the banished men and thieves whom they presented. Other masqueraders there were, of a less marked description. Men were disguised as women, and women as men--children wore the dress of aged people, and tottered with crutch-sticks in their hands, furred gowns on their little backs, and caps on their round heads--while grandsires assumed the infantine tone as well as the dress of children. Besides these, many had their faces painted, and wore their shirts over the rest of their dress; while coloured pasteboard and ribbons furnished out decorations for others. Those who wanted all these properties, blacked their faces, and turned their jackets inside out; and thus the transmutation of the whole assembly into a set of mad grotesque mummers, was at once completed. The pause which the masqueraders made, waiting apparently for some person of the highest authority amongst them, gave those within the Abbey Church full time to observe all these absurdities. They were at no loss to comprehend their purpose and meaning. Few readers can be ignorant, that at an early period, and during the plenitude of her power, the Church of Rome not only connived at, but even encouraged, such Saturnalian licenses as the inhabitants of Kennaquhair and the neighbourhood had now in hand, and that the vulgar, on such occasions, were not only permitted but encouraged by a number of gambols, sometimes puerile and ludicrous, sometimes immoral and profane, to indemnify themselves for the privations and penances imposed on them at other seasons. But, of all other topics for burlesque and ridicule, the rites and ceremonial of the church itself were most frequently resorted to; and, strange to say, with the approbation of the clergy themselves. While the hierarchy flourished in full glory, they do not appear to have dreaded the consequences of suffering the people to become so irreverently familiar with things sacred; they then imagined the laity to be much in the condition of the labourer's horse, which does not submit to the bridle and the whip with greater reluctance, because, at rare intervals, he is allowed to frolic at large in his pasture, and fling out his heels in clumsy gambols at the master who usually drives him. But, when times changed--when doubt of the Roman Catholic doctrine, and hatred of their priesthood, had possessed the reformed party, the clergy discovered, too late, that no small inconvenience arose from the established practice of games and merry-makings, in which they themselves, and all they held most sacred, were made the subject of ridicule. It then became obvious to duller politicians than the Romish churchmen, that the same actions have a very different tendency when done in the spirit of sarcastic insolence and hatred, than when acted merely in exuberance of rude and uncontrollable spirits. They, therefore, though of the latest, endeavoured, where they had any remaining influence, to discourage the renewal of these indecorous festivities. In this particular, the Catholic clergy were joined by most of the reformed preachers, who were more shocked at the profanity and immorality of many of these exhibitions, than disposed to profit by the ridiculous light in which they placed the Church of Rome and her observances. But it was long ere these scandalous and immoral sports could be abrogated;--the rude multitude continued attached to their favourite pastimes, and, both in England and Scotland, the mitre of the Catholic--the rochet of the reformed bishop--and the cloak and band of the Calvinistic divine--were, in turn, compelled to give place to those jocular personages, the Pope of Fools, the Boy-Bishop, and the Abbot of Unreason. [Footnote: From the interesting novel entitled Anastasius, it seems the same burlesque ceremonies were practised in the Greek Church. ] It was the latter personage who now, in full costume, made his approach to the great door of the church of St. Mary's, accoutred in such a manner as to form a caricature, or practical parody, on the costume and attendants of the real Superior, whom he came to beard on the very day of his installation, in the presence of his clergy, and in the chancel of his church. The mock dignitary was a stout-made under-sized fellow, whose thick squab form had been rendered grotesque by a supplemental paunch, well stuffed. He wore a mitre of leather, with the front like a grenadier's cap, adorned with mock embroidery, and trinkets of tin. This surmounted a visage, the nose of which was the most prominent feature, being of unusual size, and at least as richly gemmed as his head-gear. His robe was of buckram, and his cope of canvass, curiously painted, and cut into open work. On one shoulder was fixed the painted figure of an owl; and he bore in the right hand his pastoral staff, and in the left a small mirror having a handle to it, thus resembling a celebrated jester, whose adventures, translated into English, were whilom extremely popular, and which may still be procured in black letter, for about one sterling pound per leaf. The attendants of this mock dignitary had their proper dresses and equipage, bearing the same burlesque resemblance to the officers of the Convent which their leader did to the Superior. They followed their leader in regular procession, and the motley characters, which had waited his arrival, now crowded into the church in his train, shouting as they came,-- A hall, a hall! for the venerable Father Howleglas, the learned Monk of Misrule, and the Right Reverend Abbot of Unreason! The discordant minstrelsy of every kind renewed its din; the boys shrieked and howled, and the men laughed and hallooed, and the women giggled and screamed, and the beasts roared, and the dragon wallopped and hissed, and the hobby-horse neighed, pranced, and capered, and the rest frisked and frolicked, clashing their hobnailed shoes against the pavement, till it sparkled with the marks of their energetic caprioles. It was, in fine, a scene of ridiculous confusion, that deafened the ear, made the eyes giddy, and must have altogether stunned any indifferent spectator; the monks, whom personal apprehension and a consciousness that much of the popular enjoyment arose from the ridicule being directed against them, were, moreover, little comforted by

afraid

How many times the word 'afraid' appears in the text?

with the deeper clamour of men, formed a Babel of sounds, which first drowned, and then awed into utter silence, the official hymns of the Convent. The cause and result of this extraordinary interruption will be explained in the next chapter. Chapter the Fourteenth. Not the wild billow, when it breaks its barrier-- Not the wild wind, escaping from its cavern-- Not the wild fiend, that mingles both together, And pours their rage upon the ripening harvest, Can match the wild freaks of this mirthful meeting-- Comic, yet fearful--droll, and yet destructive. THE CONSPIRACY. The monks ceased their song, which, like that of the choristers in the legend of the Witch of Berkley, died away in a quaver of consternation; and, like a flock of chickens disturbed by the presence of the kite, they at first made a movement to disperse and fly in different directions, and then, with despair, rather than hope, huddled themselves around their new Abbot; who, retaining the lofty and undismayed look which had dignified him through the whole ceremony, stood on the higher step of the altar, as if desirous to be the most conspicuous mark on which danger might discharge itself, and to save his companions by his self-devotion, since he could afford them no other protection. Involuntarily, as it were, Magdalen Graeme and the page stepped from the station which hitherto they had occupied unnoticed, and approached to the altar, as desirous of sharing the fate which approached the monks, whatever that might be. Both bowed reverently low to the Abbot; and while Magdalen seemed about to speak, the youth, looking towards the main entrance, at which the noise now roared most loudly, and which was at the same time assailed with much knocking, laid his hand upon his dagger. The Abbot motioned to both to forbear: Peace, my sister, he said, in a low tone, but which, being in a different key from the tumultuary sounds without, could be distinctly heard, even amidst the tumult;-- Peace, he said, my sister; let the new Superior of Saint Mary's himself receive and reply to the grateful acclamations of the vassals, who come to celebrate his installation.--And thou, my son, forbear, I charge thee, to touch thy earthly weapon;--if it is the pleasure of our protectress, that her shrine be this day desecrated by deeds of violence, and polluted by blood-shedding, let it not, I charge thee, happen through the deed of a Catholic son of the church. The noise and knocking at the outer gate became now every moment louder; and voices were heard impatiently demanding admittance. The Abbot, with dignity, and with a step which even the emergency of danger rendered neither faltering nor precipitate, moved towards the portal, and demanded to know, in a tone of authority, who it was that disturbed their worship, and what they desired? There was a moment's silence, and then a loud laugh from without. At length a voice replied, We desire entrance into the church; and when the door is opened you will soon see who we are. By whose authority do you require entrance? said the Father. By authority of the right reverend Lord Abbot of Unreason. [Footnote: We learn from no less authority than that of Napoleon Bonaparte, that there is but a single step between the sublime and ridiculous; and it is a transition from one extreme to another; so very easy, that the vulgar of every degree are peculiarly captivated with it. Thus the inclination to laugh becomes uncontrollable, when the solemnity and gravity of time, place, and circumstances, render it peculiarly improper. Some species of general license, like that which inspired the ancient Saturnalia, or the modern Carnival, has been commonly indulged to the people at all times and in almost all countries. But it was, I think, peculiar to the Roman Catholic Church, that while they studied how to render their church rites imposing and magnificent, by all that pomp, music, architecture, and external display could add to them, they nevertheless connived, upon special occasions, at the frolics of the rude vulgar, who, in almost all Catholic countries, enjoyed, or at least assumed, the privilege of making: some Lord of the revels, who, under the name of the Abbot of Unreason, the Boy Bishop, or the President of Fools, occupied the churches, profaned the holy places by a mock imitation of the sacred rites, and sung indecent parodies on hymns of the church. The indifference of the clergy, even when their power was greatest, to the indecent exhibitions which they always tolerated, and sometimes encouraged, forms a strong contrast to the sensitiveness with which they regarded any serious attempt, by preaching or writing, to impeach any of the doctrines of the church. It could only be compared to the singular apathy with which they endured, and often admired the gross novels which Chaucer, Dunbar, Boccacio, Bandello, and others, composed upon the bad morals of the clergy. It seems as if the churchmen in both instances had endeavoured to compromise with the laity, and allowed them occasionally to gratify their coarse humour by indecent satire, provided they would abstain from any grave question concerning the foundation of the doctrines on which was erected such an immense fabric of ecclesiastical power. But the sports thus licensed assumed a very different appearance, so soon as the Protestant doctrines began to prevail; and the license which their forefathers had exercised in mere gaiety of heart, and without the least intention of dishonouring religion by their frolics, were now persevered in by the common people as a mode of testifying their utter disregard for the Roman priesthood and its ceremonies. I may observe, for example, the case of an apparitor sent to Borthwick from the Primate of Saint Andrews, to cite the lord of that castle, who was opposed by an Abbot of Unreason, at whose command the officer of the spiritual court was appointed to be ducked in a mill-dam, and obliged to eat up his parchment citation. The reader may be amused with the following whimsical details of this incident, which took place in the castle of Borthwick, in the year 1517. It appears, that in consequence of a process betwixt Master George Hay de Minzeane and the Lord Borthwick, letters of excommunication had passed against the latter, on account of the contumacy of certain witnesses. William Langlands, an apparitor or macer (_bacularius_) of the See of St Andrews, presented these letters to the curate of the church of Borthwick, requiring him to publish the same at the service of high mass. It seems that the inhabitants of the castle were at this time engaged in the favourite sport of enacting the Abbot of Unreason, a species of high jinks, in which a mimic prelate was elected, who, like the Lord of Misrule in England, turned all sort of lawful authority, and particularly the church ritual, into ridicule. This frolicsome person with his retinue, notwithstanding of the apparitor's character, entered the church, seized upon the primate's officer without hesitation, and, dragging him to the mill-dam on the south side of the castle, compelled him to leap into the water. Not contented with this partial immersion, the Abbot of Unreason pronounced, that Mr. William Langlands was not yet sufficiently bathed, and therefore caused his assistants to lay him on his back in the stream, and duck him in the most satisfactory and perfect manner. The unfortunate apparitor was then conducted back to the church, where, for his refreshment after his bath, the letters of excommunication were torn to pieces, and steeped in a bowl of wine; the mock abbot being probably of opinion that a tough parchment was but dry eating, Langlands was compelled to eat the letters, and swallow the wine, and dismissed by the Abbot of Unreason, with the comfortable assurance, that if any more such letters should arrive during the continuance of his office, they should a' gang the same gate, _i. e._ go the same road. A similar scene occurs betwixt a sumner of the Bishop of Rochester, and Harpool, the servant of Lord Cobham, in the old play of Sir John Oldcastle, when the former compels the church-officer to eat his citation. The dialogue, which may be found in the note, contains most of the jests which may be supposed, appropriate to such an extraordinary occasion: _Harpool_ Marry, sir, is, this process parchment? _Sumner._ Yes, marry is it. _Harpool._ And this seal wax? _Sumner._ It is so. _Harpool._ If this be parchment, and this be wax, eat you this parchment and wax, or I will make parchment of your skin, and beat your brains into wax. Sirrah Sumner, despatch--devour, sirrah, devour. _Sumner._ I am my Lord of Rochester's sumner; I came to do my office, and thou shall answer it. _Harpool._ Sirrah, no railing, but, betake thyself to thy teeth. Thou shalt, eat no worse than thou bringest with thee. Thou bringest it for my lord; and wilt thou bring my lord worse than thou wilt eat thyself? _Sumner._ Sir. I brought it not my lord to eat. _Harpool._ O, do you Sir me now? All's one for that; I'll make you eat it for bringing it. _Sumner._ I cannot eat it. _Harpool._ Can you not? 'Sblood, I'll beat you till you have a stomach! (_Beats him._) _Sumner._ Oh, hold, hold, good Mr. Servingman; I will eat it. _Harpool._ Be champing, be chewing, sir, or I will chew you, you rogue. Tough wax is the purest of the honey. _Sumner._ The purest of the honey?--O Lord, sir, oh! oh! _Harpool._ Feed, feed; 'tis wholesome, rogue, wholesome. Cannot you, like an honest sumner, walk with the devil your brother, to fetch in your bailiff's rents, but you must come to a nobleman's house with process! If the seal were broad as the lead which covers Rochester Church, thou shouldst eat it. _Sumner._ Oh, I am almost choked--I am almost choked! _Harpool._ Who's within there? Will you shame my lord? Is there no beer in the house? Butler, I say. _Enter_ BUTLER. _Butler._ Here, here. _Harpool._ Give him beer. Tough old sheep skin's but dry meat. _First Part of Sir John Oldcastle_, Act II. Scene I.] replied the voice from without; and, from the laugh--which followed, it seemed as if there was something highly ludicrous couched under this reply. I know not, and seek not to know, your meaning, replied the Abbot, since it is probably a rude one. But begone, in the name of God, and leave his servants in peace. I speak this, as having lawful authority to command here. Open the door, said another rude voice, and we will try titles with you, Sir Monk, and show you a superior we must all obey. Break open the doors if he dallies any longer, said a third, and down with the carrion monks who would bar us of our privilege! A general shout followed. Ay, ay, our privilege! our privilege! down with the doors, and with the lurdane monks, if they make opposition! The knocking was now exchanged for blows with great, hammers, to which the doors, strong as they were, must soon have given way. But the Abbot, who saw resistance would be in vain, and who did not wish to incense the assailants by an attempt at offering it, besought silence earnestly, and with difficulty obtained a hearing. My children, said he, I will save you from committing a great sin. The porter will presently undo the gate--he is gone to fetch the keys--meantime I pray you to consider with yourselves, if you are in a state of mind to cross the holy threshold. Tillyvally for your papistry! was answered from without; we are in the mood of the monks when they are merriest, and that is when they sup beef-brewis for lanten-kail. So, if your porter hath not the gout, let him come speedily, or we heave away readily.--Said I well, comrades? Bravely said, and it shall be as bravely done, said the multitude; and had not the keys arrived at that moment, and the porter in hasty terror performed his office, throwing open the great door, the populace would have saved him the trouble. The instant he had done so, the affrighted janitor fled, like one who has drawn the bolts of a flood-gate, and expects to be overwhelmed by the rushing inundation. The monks, with one consent, had withdrawn themselves behind the Abbot, who alone kept his station, about three yards from the entrance, showing no signs of fear or perturbation. His brethren--partly encouraged by his devotion, partly ashamed to desert him, and partly animated by a sense of duty.--remained huddled close together, at the back of their Superior. There was a loud laugh and huzza when the doors were opened; but, contrary to what might have been expected, no crowd of enraged assailants rushed into the church. On the contrary, there was a cry of A halt!-a halt--to order, my masters! and let the two reverend fathers greet each other, as beseems them. The appearance of the crowd who were thus called to order, was grotesque in the extreme. It was composed of men, women, and children, ludicrously disguised in various habits, and presenting groups equally diversified and grotesque. Here one fellow with a horse's head painted before him, and a tail behind, and the whole covered with a long foot-cloth, which was supposed to hide the body of the animal, ambled, caracoled, pranced, and plunged, as he performed the celebrated part of the hobby-horse, [Footnote: This exhibition, the play-mare of Scotland, stood high among holyday gambols. It must be carefully separated from the wooden chargers which furnish out our nurseries. It gives rise to Hamlet's ejaculation,-- But oh, but oh, the hobby-horse is forgot! There is a very comic scene in Beaumont and Fletcher's play of Woman Pleased, where Hope-on-high Bombye, a puritan cobbler, refuses to dance with the hobby-horse. There was much difficulty and great variety in the motions which the hobby-horse was expected to exhibit. The learned Mr. Douce, who has contributed so much to the illustration of our theatrical antiquities, has given us a full account of this pageant, and the burlesque horsemanship which it practised. The hobby-horse, says Mr. Douce, was represented by a man equipped with as much pasteboard as was sufficient to form the head and hinder parts of a horse, the quadrupedal defects being concealed by a long mantle or footcloth that nearly touched the ground. The former, on this occasion, exerted all his skill in burlesque horsemanship. In Sympson's play of the Law-breakers, 1636, a miller personates the hobby-horse, and being angry that the Mayor of the city is put in competition with him, exclaims, 'Let the mayor play the hobby-horse among his brethren, an he will; I hope our town-lads cannot want a hobby-horse. Have I practised my reins, my careers, my prankers, my ambles, my false trots, my smooth ambles, and Canterbury paces, and shall master mayor put me beside the hobby-horse? Have I borrowed the fore-horse bells, his plumes, his braveries; nay, had his mane new shorn and frizzled, and shall the mayor put me beside the hobby-horse? --_Douce's Illustrations_, vol. II. p. 468] so often alluded to in our ancient drama; and which still flourishes on the stage in the battle that concludes Bayes's tragedy. To rival the address and agility displayed by this character, another personage advanced in the more formidable character of a huge dragon, with gilded wings, open jaws, and a scarlet tongue, cloven at the end, which made various efforts to overtake and devour a lad, dressed as the lovely Sabaea, daughter of the King of Egypt, who fled before him; while a martial Saint George, grotesquely armed with a goblet for a helmet, and a spit for a lance, ever and anon interfered, and compelled the monster to relinquish his prey. A bear, a wolf, and one or two other wild animals, played their parts with the discretion of Snug the joiner; for the decided preference which they gave to the use of their hind legs, was sufficient, without any formal annunciation, to assure the most timorous spectators that they had to do with habitual bipeds. There was a group of outlaws with Robin Hood and Little John at their head [Footnote: The representation of Robin Hood was the darling Maygame both in England and Scotland, and doubtless the favourite personification was often revived, when the Abbot of Unreason, or other pretences of frolic, gave an unusual decree of license. The Protestant clergy, who had formerly reaped advantage from the opportunities which these sports afforded them of directing their own satire and the ridicule of the lower orders against the Catholic church, began to find that, when these purposes were served, their favourite pastimes deprived them of the wish to attend divine worship, and disturbed the frame of mind in which it can be attended to advantage. The celebrated Bishop Latimer gives a very _naive_ account of the manner in which, bishop as he was, he found himself compelled to give place to Robin Hood and his followers. I came once myselfe riding on a journey homeward from London, and I sent word over night into the towne that I would preach there in the morning, because it was holiday, and me thought it was a holidayes worke. The church stood in my way, and I took my horse and my company, and went thither, (I thought I should have found a great company in the church,) and when I came there the church doore was fast locked. I tarryed there halfe an houre and more. At last the key was found, and one of the parish comes to me and said,--'Sir, this is a busie day with us, we cannot hear you; it is Robin Hood's day. The parish are gone abroad to gather for Robin Hood. I pray you let them not.' I was faine there to give place to Robin Hood. I thought my rochet should have been regarded, though I were not: but it would not serve, it was faine to give place to Robin Hood's men. It is no laughing matter, my friends, it is a weeping matter, a heavie matter, a heavie matter. Under the pretence for gathering for Robin Hood, a traytour, and a theif, to put out a preacher; to have his office lesse esteemed; to preferre Robin Hood before the ministration of God's word; and all this hath come of unpreaching prelates. This realme hath been ill provided for, that it hath had such corrupt judgments in it, to prefer Robin Hood to God's word. --_Bishop Latimer's sixth Sermon before King Edward_. While the English Protestants thus preferred the outlaw's pageant to the preaching of their excellent Bishop, the Scottish calvinistic clergy, with the celebrated John Knox at their head, and backed by the authority of the magistrates of Edinburgh, who had of late been chosen exclusively from this party, found it impossible to control the rage of the populace, when they attempted to deprive them of the privilege of presenting their pageant of Robin Hood. [Note on old Scottish spelling: leading y = modern 'th'; leading v = modern 'u'] (561) Vpon the xxi day of Junij. Archibalde Dowglas of Kilspindie, Provest of Edr., David Symmer and Adame Fullartoun, baillies of the samyne, causit ane cordinare servant, callit James Gillion takin of befoir, for playing in Edr. with Robene Hude, to wnderly the law, and put him to the knawlege of ane assyize qlk yaij haid electit of yair favoraris, quha with schort deliberatioun condemnit him to be hangit for ye said cryme. And the deaconis of ye craftismen fearing vproare, maid great solistatuis at ye handis of ye said provost and baillies, and als requirit John Knox, minister, for eschewing of tumult, to superceid ye execution of him, vnto ye tyme yai suld adverteis my Lord Duke yairof. And yan, if it wes his mynd and will yat he should be disponit vpoun, ye said deaconis and craftismen sould convey him yaire; quha answerit, yat yai culd na way stope ye executioun of justice. Quhan ye time of ye said pouer mans hanging approchit, and yat ye hangman wes cum to ye jibbat with ye ledder, vpoune ye qlk ye said cordinare should have bene hangit, ane certaine and remanent craftischilder, quha wes put to ye horne with ye said Gillione, ffor ye said Robene Huide's _playes_, and vyris yair assistaris and favoraris, past to wappinis, and yai brak down ye said jibbat, and yan chacit ye said provest, baillies, and Alexr. Guthrie, in ye said Alexander's writing buith, and held yame yairin; and yairefter past to ye tolbuyt, and becaus the samyne was steiket, and onnawayes culd get the keyes thairof, thai brak the said tolbuith dore with foure harberis, per force, (the said provest and baillies luckand thairon.) and not onlie put thar the said Gillione to fredome and libertie, and brocht him furth of the said tolbuit, bot alsua the remanent presonaris being thairintill; and this done, the said craftismen's servands, with the said condempnit cordonar, past doun to the Netherbow, to have past furth thairat; bot becaus the samyne on thair coming thairto wes closet, thai past vp agane the Hie streit of the said bourghe to the Castellhill, and in this menetymne the saidis provest and baillies, and thair assistaris being in the writing buith of the said Alexr. Guthrie, past and enterit in the said tolbuyt, and in the said servandes passage vp the Hie streit, then schote furth thairof at thame ane dog, and hurt ane servand of the said childer. This being done, thair wes nathing vthir but the one partie schuteand out and castand stanes furth of the said tolbuyt, and the vther pairtie schuteand hagbuttis in the same agane. Aund sua the craftismen's servandis, aboue written, held and inclosit the said provest and baillies continewallie in the said tolbuyth, frae three houris efternone, quhill aught houris at even, and na man of the said town prensit to relieve their said provest and baillies. And than thai send to the maisters of the Castell, to caus tham if thai mycht stay the said servandis, quha maid ane maner to do the same, bot thai could not bring the same to ane finall end, ffor the said servands wold on noways stay fra, quhill thai had revengit the hurting of ane of them; and thairefter the constable of the castell come down thairfra, and he with the said maisters treatet betwix the said pties in this maner:--That the said provost and baillies sall remit to the said craftischilder, all actioun, cryme, and offens that thai had committit aganes thame in any tyme bygane; and band and oblast thame never to pursew them thairfor; and als commandit thair maisters to resaue them agane in thair services, as thai did befoir. And this being proclainit at the mercat cross, thai scalit, and the said provest and bailies come furth of the same tolbouyth. &c. &c. &c. John Knox, who writes at large upon this tumult, informs us it was inflamed by the deacons of craftes, who, resenting; the superiority assumed over them by the magistrates, would yield no assistance to put down the tumult. They will be magistrates alone, said the recusant deacons, e'en let them rule the populace alone; and accordingly they passed quietly to take _their four-hours penny_, and left the magistrates to help themselves as they could. Many persons were excommunicated for this outrage, and not admitted to church ordinances till they had made satisfaction.] --the best representation exhibited at the time; and no great wonder, since most of the actors were, by profession, the banished men and thieves whom they presented. Other masqueraders there were, of a less marked description. Men were disguised as women, and women as men--children wore the dress of aged people, and tottered with crutch-sticks in their hands, furred gowns on their little backs, and caps on their round heads--while grandsires assumed the infantine tone as well as the dress of children. Besides these, many had their faces painted, and wore their shirts over the rest of their dress; while coloured pasteboard and ribbons furnished out decorations for others. Those who wanted all these properties, blacked their faces, and turned their jackets inside out; and thus the transmutation of the whole assembly into a set of mad grotesque mummers, was at once completed. The pause which the masqueraders made, waiting apparently for some person of the highest authority amongst them, gave those within the Abbey Church full time to observe all these absurdities. They were at no loss to comprehend their purpose and meaning. Few readers can be ignorant, that at an early period, and during the plenitude of her power, the Church of Rome not only connived at, but even encouraged, such Saturnalian licenses as the inhabitants of Kennaquhair and the neighbourhood had now in hand, and that the vulgar, on such occasions, were not only permitted but encouraged by a number of gambols, sometimes puerile and ludicrous, sometimes immoral and profane, to indemnify themselves for the privations and penances imposed on them at other seasons. But, of all other topics for burlesque and ridicule, the rites and ceremonial of the church itself were most frequently resorted to; and, strange to say, with the approbation of the clergy themselves. While the hierarchy flourished in full glory, they do not appear to have dreaded the consequences of suffering the people to become so irreverently familiar with things sacred; they then imagined the laity to be much in the condition of the labourer's horse, which does not submit to the bridle and the whip with greater reluctance, because, at rare intervals, he is allowed to frolic at large in his pasture, and fling out his heels in clumsy gambols at the master who usually drives him. But, when times changed--when doubt of the Roman Catholic doctrine, and hatred of their priesthood, had possessed the reformed party, the clergy discovered, too late, that no small inconvenience arose from the established practice of games and merry-makings, in which they themselves, and all they held most sacred, were made the subject of ridicule. It then became obvious to duller politicians than the Romish churchmen, that the same actions have a very different tendency when done in the spirit of sarcastic insolence and hatred, than when acted merely in exuberance of rude and uncontrollable spirits. They, therefore, though of the latest, endeavoured, where they had any remaining influence, to discourage the renewal of these indecorous festivities. In this particular, the Catholic clergy were joined by most of the reformed preachers, who were more shocked at the profanity and immorality of many of these exhibitions, than disposed to profit by the ridiculous light in which they placed the Church of Rome and her observances. But it was long ere these scandalous and immoral sports could be abrogated;--the rude multitude continued attached to their favourite pastimes, and, both in England and Scotland, the mitre of the Catholic--the rochet of the reformed bishop--and the cloak and band of the Calvinistic divine--were, in turn, compelled to give place to those jocular personages, the Pope of Fools, the Boy-Bishop, and the Abbot of Unreason. [Footnote: From the interesting novel entitled Anastasius, it seems the same burlesque ceremonies were practised in the Greek Church. ] It was the latter personage who now, in full costume, made his approach to the great door of the church of St. Mary's, accoutred in such a manner as to form a caricature, or practical parody, on the costume and attendants of the real Superior, whom he came to beard on the very day of his installation, in the presence of his clergy, and in the chancel of his church. The mock dignitary was a stout-made under-sized fellow, whose thick squab form had been rendered grotesque by a supplemental paunch, well stuffed. He wore a mitre of leather, with the front like a grenadier's cap, adorned with mock embroidery, and trinkets of tin. This surmounted a visage, the nose of which was the most prominent feature, being of unusual size, and at least as richly gemmed as his head-gear. His robe was of buckram, and his cope of canvass, curiously painted, and cut into open work. On one shoulder was fixed the painted figure of an owl; and he bore in the right hand his pastoral staff, and in the left a small mirror having a handle to it, thus resembling a celebrated jester, whose adventures, translated into English, were whilom extremely popular, and which may still be procured in black letter, for about one sterling pound per leaf. The attendants of this mock dignitary had their proper dresses and equipage, bearing the same burlesque resemblance to the officers of the Convent which their leader did to the Superior. They followed their leader in regular procession, and the motley characters, which had waited his arrival, now crowded into the church in his train, shouting as they came,-- A hall, a hall! for the venerable Father Howleglas, the learned Monk of Misrule, and the Right Reverend Abbot of Unreason! The discordant minstrelsy of every kind renewed its din; the boys shrieked and howled, and the men laughed and hallooed, and the women giggled and screamed, and the beasts roared, and the dragon wallopped and hissed, and the hobby-horse neighed, pranced, and capered, and the rest frisked and frolicked, clashing their hobnailed shoes against the pavement, till it sparkled with the marks of their energetic caprioles. It was, in fine, a scene of ridiculous confusion, that deafened the ear, made the eyes giddy, and must have altogether stunned any indifferent spectator; the monks, whom personal apprehension and a consciousness that much of the popular enjoyment arose from the ridicule being directed against them, were, moreover, little comforted by

authority

How many times the word 'authority' appears in the text?

with the deeper clamour of men, formed a Babel of sounds, which first drowned, and then awed into utter silence, the official hymns of the Convent. The cause and result of this extraordinary interruption will be explained in the next chapter. Chapter the Fourteenth. Not the wild billow, when it breaks its barrier-- Not the wild wind, escaping from its cavern-- Not the wild fiend, that mingles both together, And pours their rage upon the ripening harvest, Can match the wild freaks of this mirthful meeting-- Comic, yet fearful--droll, and yet destructive. THE CONSPIRACY. The monks ceased their song, which, like that of the choristers in the legend of the Witch of Berkley, died away in a quaver of consternation; and, like a flock of chickens disturbed by the presence of the kite, they at first made a movement to disperse and fly in different directions, and then, with despair, rather than hope, huddled themselves around their new Abbot; who, retaining the lofty and undismayed look which had dignified him through the whole ceremony, stood on the higher step of the altar, as if desirous to be the most conspicuous mark on which danger might discharge itself, and to save his companions by his self-devotion, since he could afford them no other protection. Involuntarily, as it were, Magdalen Graeme and the page stepped from the station which hitherto they had occupied unnoticed, and approached to the altar, as desirous of sharing the fate which approached the monks, whatever that might be. Both bowed reverently low to the Abbot; and while Magdalen seemed about to speak, the youth, looking towards the main entrance, at which the noise now roared most loudly, and which was at the same time assailed with much knocking, laid his hand upon his dagger. The Abbot motioned to both to forbear: Peace, my sister, he said, in a low tone, but which, being in a different key from the tumultuary sounds without, could be distinctly heard, even amidst the tumult;-- Peace, he said, my sister; let the new Superior of Saint Mary's himself receive and reply to the grateful acclamations of the vassals, who come to celebrate his installation.--And thou, my son, forbear, I charge thee, to touch thy earthly weapon;--if it is the pleasure of our protectress, that her shrine be this day desecrated by deeds of violence, and polluted by blood-shedding, let it not, I charge thee, happen through the deed of a Catholic son of the church. The noise and knocking at the outer gate became now every moment louder; and voices were heard impatiently demanding admittance. The Abbot, with dignity, and with a step which even the emergency of danger rendered neither faltering nor precipitate, moved towards the portal, and demanded to know, in a tone of authority, who it was that disturbed their worship, and what they desired? There was a moment's silence, and then a loud laugh from without. At length a voice replied, We desire entrance into the church; and when the door is opened you will soon see who we are. By whose authority do you require entrance? said the Father. By authority of the right reverend Lord Abbot of Unreason. [Footnote: We learn from no less authority than that of Napoleon Bonaparte, that there is but a single step between the sublime and ridiculous; and it is a transition from one extreme to another; so very easy, that the vulgar of every degree are peculiarly captivated with it. Thus the inclination to laugh becomes uncontrollable, when the solemnity and gravity of time, place, and circumstances, render it peculiarly improper. Some species of general license, like that which inspired the ancient Saturnalia, or the modern Carnival, has been commonly indulged to the people at all times and in almost all countries. But it was, I think, peculiar to the Roman Catholic Church, that while they studied how to render their church rites imposing and magnificent, by all that pomp, music, architecture, and external display could add to them, they nevertheless connived, upon special occasions, at the frolics of the rude vulgar, who, in almost all Catholic countries, enjoyed, or at least assumed, the privilege of making: some Lord of the revels, who, under the name of the Abbot of Unreason, the Boy Bishop, or the President of Fools, occupied the churches, profaned the holy places by a mock imitation of the sacred rites, and sung indecent parodies on hymns of the church. The indifference of the clergy, even when their power was greatest, to the indecent exhibitions which they always tolerated, and sometimes encouraged, forms a strong contrast to the sensitiveness with which they regarded any serious attempt, by preaching or writing, to impeach any of the doctrines of the church. It could only be compared to the singular apathy with which they endured, and often admired the gross novels which Chaucer, Dunbar, Boccacio, Bandello, and others, composed upon the bad morals of the clergy. It seems as if the churchmen in both instances had endeavoured to compromise with the laity, and allowed them occasionally to gratify their coarse humour by indecent satire, provided they would abstain from any grave question concerning the foundation of the doctrines on which was erected such an immense fabric of ecclesiastical power. But the sports thus licensed assumed a very different appearance, so soon as the Protestant doctrines began to prevail; and the license which their forefathers had exercised in mere gaiety of heart, and without the least intention of dishonouring religion by their frolics, were now persevered in by the common people as a mode of testifying their utter disregard for the Roman priesthood and its ceremonies. I may observe, for example, the case of an apparitor sent to Borthwick from the Primate of Saint Andrews, to cite the lord of that castle, who was opposed by an Abbot of Unreason, at whose command the officer of the spiritual court was appointed to be ducked in a mill-dam, and obliged to eat up his parchment citation. The reader may be amused with the following whimsical details of this incident, which took place in the castle of Borthwick, in the year 1517. It appears, that in consequence of a process betwixt Master George Hay de Minzeane and the Lord Borthwick, letters of excommunication had passed against the latter, on account of the contumacy of certain witnesses. William Langlands, an apparitor or macer (_bacularius_) of the See of St Andrews, presented these letters to the curate of the church of Borthwick, requiring him to publish the same at the service of high mass. It seems that the inhabitants of the castle were at this time engaged in the favourite sport of enacting the Abbot of Unreason, a species of high jinks, in which a mimic prelate was elected, who, like the Lord of Misrule in England, turned all sort of lawful authority, and particularly the church ritual, into ridicule. This frolicsome person with his retinue, notwithstanding of the apparitor's character, entered the church, seized upon the primate's officer without hesitation, and, dragging him to the mill-dam on the south side of the castle, compelled him to leap into the water. Not contented with this partial immersion, the Abbot of Unreason pronounced, that Mr. William Langlands was not yet sufficiently bathed, and therefore caused his assistants to lay him on his back in the stream, and duck him in the most satisfactory and perfect manner. The unfortunate apparitor was then conducted back to the church, where, for his refreshment after his bath, the letters of excommunication were torn to pieces, and steeped in a bowl of wine; the mock abbot being probably of opinion that a tough parchment was but dry eating, Langlands was compelled to eat the letters, and swallow the wine, and dismissed by the Abbot of Unreason, with the comfortable assurance, that if any more such letters should arrive during the continuance of his office, they should a' gang the same gate, _i. e._ go the same road. A similar scene occurs betwixt a sumner of the Bishop of Rochester, and Harpool, the servant of Lord Cobham, in the old play of Sir John Oldcastle, when the former compels the church-officer to eat his citation. The dialogue, which may be found in the note, contains most of the jests which may be supposed, appropriate to such an extraordinary occasion: _Harpool_ Marry, sir, is, this process parchment? _Sumner._ Yes, marry is it. _Harpool._ And this seal wax? _Sumner._ It is so. _Harpool._ If this be parchment, and this be wax, eat you this parchment and wax, or I will make parchment of your skin, and beat your brains into wax. Sirrah Sumner, despatch--devour, sirrah, devour. _Sumner._ I am my Lord of Rochester's sumner; I came to do my office, and thou shall answer it. _Harpool._ Sirrah, no railing, but, betake thyself to thy teeth. Thou shalt, eat no worse than thou bringest with thee. Thou bringest it for my lord; and wilt thou bring my lord worse than thou wilt eat thyself? _Sumner._ Sir. I brought it not my lord to eat. _Harpool._ O, do you Sir me now? All's one for that; I'll make you eat it for bringing it. _Sumner._ I cannot eat it. _Harpool._ Can you not? 'Sblood, I'll beat you till you have a stomach! (_Beats him._) _Sumner._ Oh, hold, hold, good Mr. Servingman; I will eat it. _Harpool._ Be champing, be chewing, sir, or I will chew you, you rogue. Tough wax is the purest of the honey. _Sumner._ The purest of the honey?--O Lord, sir, oh! oh! _Harpool._ Feed, feed; 'tis wholesome, rogue, wholesome. Cannot you, like an honest sumner, walk with the devil your brother, to fetch in your bailiff's rents, but you must come to a nobleman's house with process! If the seal were broad as the lead which covers Rochester Church, thou shouldst eat it. _Sumner._ Oh, I am almost choked--I am almost choked! _Harpool._ Who's within there? Will you shame my lord? Is there no beer in the house? Butler, I say. _Enter_ BUTLER. _Butler._ Here, here. _Harpool._ Give him beer. Tough old sheep skin's but dry meat. _First Part of Sir John Oldcastle_, Act II. Scene I.] replied the voice from without; and, from the laugh--which followed, it seemed as if there was something highly ludicrous couched under this reply. I know not, and seek not to know, your meaning, replied the Abbot, since it is probably a rude one. But begone, in the name of God, and leave his servants in peace. I speak this, as having lawful authority to command here. Open the door, said another rude voice, and we will try titles with you, Sir Monk, and show you a superior we must all obey. Break open the doors if he dallies any longer, said a third, and down with the carrion monks who would bar us of our privilege! A general shout followed. Ay, ay, our privilege! our privilege! down with the doors, and with the lurdane monks, if they make opposition! The knocking was now exchanged for blows with great, hammers, to which the doors, strong as they were, must soon have given way. But the Abbot, who saw resistance would be in vain, and who did not wish to incense the assailants by an attempt at offering it, besought silence earnestly, and with difficulty obtained a hearing. My children, said he, I will save you from committing a great sin. The porter will presently undo the gate--he is gone to fetch the keys--meantime I pray you to consider with yourselves, if you are in a state of mind to cross the holy threshold. Tillyvally for your papistry! was answered from without; we are in the mood of the monks when they are merriest, and that is when they sup beef-brewis for lanten-kail. So, if your porter hath not the gout, let him come speedily, or we heave away readily.--Said I well, comrades? Bravely said, and it shall be as bravely done, said the multitude; and had not the keys arrived at that moment, and the porter in hasty terror performed his office, throwing open the great door, the populace would have saved him the trouble. The instant he had done so, the affrighted janitor fled, like one who has drawn the bolts of a flood-gate, and expects to be overwhelmed by the rushing inundation. The monks, with one consent, had withdrawn themselves behind the Abbot, who alone kept his station, about three yards from the entrance, showing no signs of fear or perturbation. His brethren--partly encouraged by his devotion, partly ashamed to desert him, and partly animated by a sense of duty.--remained huddled close together, at the back of their Superior. There was a loud laugh and huzza when the doors were opened; but, contrary to what might have been expected, no crowd of enraged assailants rushed into the church. On the contrary, there was a cry of A halt!-a halt--to order, my masters! and let the two reverend fathers greet each other, as beseems them. The appearance of the crowd who were thus called to order, was grotesque in the extreme. It was composed of men, women, and children, ludicrously disguised in various habits, and presenting groups equally diversified and grotesque. Here one fellow with a horse's head painted before him, and a tail behind, and the whole covered with a long foot-cloth, which was supposed to hide the body of the animal, ambled, caracoled, pranced, and plunged, as he performed the celebrated part of the hobby-horse, [Footnote: This exhibition, the play-mare of Scotland, stood high among holyday gambols. It must be carefully separated from the wooden chargers which furnish out our nurseries. It gives rise to Hamlet's ejaculation,-- But oh, but oh, the hobby-horse is forgot! There is a very comic scene in Beaumont and Fletcher's play of Woman Pleased, where Hope-on-high Bombye, a puritan cobbler, refuses to dance with the hobby-horse. There was much difficulty and great variety in the motions which the hobby-horse was expected to exhibit. The learned Mr. Douce, who has contributed so much to the illustration of our theatrical antiquities, has given us a full account of this pageant, and the burlesque horsemanship which it practised. The hobby-horse, says Mr. Douce, was represented by a man equipped with as much pasteboard as was sufficient to form the head and hinder parts of a horse, the quadrupedal defects being concealed by a long mantle or footcloth that nearly touched the ground. The former, on this occasion, exerted all his skill in burlesque horsemanship. In Sympson's play of the Law-breakers, 1636, a miller personates the hobby-horse, and being angry that the Mayor of the city is put in competition with him, exclaims, 'Let the mayor play the hobby-horse among his brethren, an he will; I hope our town-lads cannot want a hobby-horse. Have I practised my reins, my careers, my prankers, my ambles, my false trots, my smooth ambles, and Canterbury paces, and shall master mayor put me beside the hobby-horse? Have I borrowed the fore-horse bells, his plumes, his braveries; nay, had his mane new shorn and frizzled, and shall the mayor put me beside the hobby-horse? --_Douce's Illustrations_, vol. II. p. 468] so often alluded to in our ancient drama; and which still flourishes on the stage in the battle that concludes Bayes's tragedy. To rival the address and agility displayed by this character, another personage advanced in the more formidable character of a huge dragon, with gilded wings, open jaws, and a scarlet tongue, cloven at the end, which made various efforts to overtake and devour a lad, dressed as the lovely Sabaea, daughter of the King of Egypt, who fled before him; while a martial Saint George, grotesquely armed with a goblet for a helmet, and a spit for a lance, ever and anon interfered, and compelled the monster to relinquish his prey. A bear, a wolf, and one or two other wild animals, played their parts with the discretion of Snug the joiner; for the decided preference which they gave to the use of their hind legs, was sufficient, without any formal annunciation, to assure the most timorous spectators that they had to do with habitual bipeds. There was a group of outlaws with Robin Hood and Little John at their head [Footnote: The representation of Robin Hood was the darling Maygame both in England and Scotland, and doubtless the favourite personification was often revived, when the Abbot of Unreason, or other pretences of frolic, gave an unusual decree of license. The Protestant clergy, who had formerly reaped advantage from the opportunities which these sports afforded them of directing their own satire and the ridicule of the lower orders against the Catholic church, began to find that, when these purposes were served, their favourite pastimes deprived them of the wish to attend divine worship, and disturbed the frame of mind in which it can be attended to advantage. The celebrated Bishop Latimer gives a very _naive_ account of the manner in which, bishop as he was, he found himself compelled to give place to Robin Hood and his followers. I came once myselfe riding on a journey homeward from London, and I sent word over night into the towne that I would preach there in the morning, because it was holiday, and me thought it was a holidayes worke. The church stood in my way, and I took my horse and my company, and went thither, (I thought I should have found a great company in the church,) and when I came there the church doore was fast locked. I tarryed there halfe an houre and more. At last the key was found, and one of the parish comes to me and said,--'Sir, this is a busie day with us, we cannot hear you; it is Robin Hood's day. The parish are gone abroad to gather for Robin Hood. I pray you let them not.' I was faine there to give place to Robin Hood. I thought my rochet should have been regarded, though I were not: but it would not serve, it was faine to give place to Robin Hood's men. It is no laughing matter, my friends, it is a weeping matter, a heavie matter, a heavie matter. Under the pretence for gathering for Robin Hood, a traytour, and a theif, to put out a preacher; to have his office lesse esteemed; to preferre Robin Hood before the ministration of God's word; and all this hath come of unpreaching prelates. This realme hath been ill provided for, that it hath had such corrupt judgments in it, to prefer Robin Hood to God's word. --_Bishop Latimer's sixth Sermon before King Edward_. While the English Protestants thus preferred the outlaw's pageant to the preaching of their excellent Bishop, the Scottish calvinistic clergy, with the celebrated John Knox at their head, and backed by the authority of the magistrates of Edinburgh, who had of late been chosen exclusively from this party, found it impossible to control the rage of the populace, when they attempted to deprive them of the privilege of presenting their pageant of Robin Hood. [Note on old Scottish spelling: leading y = modern 'th'; leading v = modern 'u'] (561) Vpon the xxi day of Junij. Archibalde Dowglas of Kilspindie, Provest of Edr., David Symmer and Adame Fullartoun, baillies of the samyne, causit ane cordinare servant, callit James Gillion takin of befoir, for playing in Edr. with Robene Hude, to wnderly the law, and put him to the knawlege of ane assyize qlk yaij haid electit of yair favoraris, quha with schort deliberatioun condemnit him to be hangit for ye said cryme. And the deaconis of ye craftismen fearing vproare, maid great solistatuis at ye handis of ye said provost and baillies, and als requirit John Knox, minister, for eschewing of tumult, to superceid ye execution of him, vnto ye tyme yai suld adverteis my Lord Duke yairof. And yan, if it wes his mynd and will yat he should be disponit vpoun, ye said deaconis and craftismen sould convey him yaire; quha answerit, yat yai culd na way stope ye executioun of justice. Quhan ye time of ye said pouer mans hanging approchit, and yat ye hangman wes cum to ye jibbat with ye ledder, vpoune ye qlk ye said cordinare should have bene hangit, ane certaine and remanent craftischilder, quha wes put to ye horne with ye said Gillione, ffor ye said Robene Huide's _playes_, and vyris yair assistaris and favoraris, past to wappinis, and yai brak down ye said jibbat, and yan chacit ye said provest, baillies, and Alexr. Guthrie, in ye said Alexander's writing buith, and held yame yairin; and yairefter past to ye tolbuyt, and becaus the samyne was steiket, and onnawayes culd get the keyes thairof, thai brak the said tolbuith dore with foure harberis, per force, (the said provest and baillies luckand thairon.) and not onlie put thar the said Gillione to fredome and libertie, and brocht him furth of the said tolbuit, bot alsua the remanent presonaris being thairintill; and this done, the said craftismen's servands, with the said condempnit cordonar, past doun to the Netherbow, to have past furth thairat; bot becaus the samyne on thair coming thairto wes closet, thai past vp agane the Hie streit of the said bourghe to the Castellhill, and in this menetymne the saidis provest and baillies, and thair assistaris being in the writing buith of the said Alexr. Guthrie, past and enterit in the said tolbuyt, and in the said servandes passage vp the Hie streit, then schote furth thairof at thame ane dog, and hurt ane servand of the said childer. This being done, thair wes nathing vthir but the one partie schuteand out and castand stanes furth of the said tolbuyt, and the vther pairtie schuteand hagbuttis in the same agane. Aund sua the craftismen's servandis, aboue written, held and inclosit the said provest and baillies continewallie in the said tolbuyth, frae three houris efternone, quhill aught houris at even, and na man of the said town prensit to relieve their said provest and baillies. And than thai send to the maisters of the Castell, to caus tham if thai mycht stay the said servandis, quha maid ane maner to do the same, bot thai could not bring the same to ane finall end, ffor the said servands wold on noways stay fra, quhill thai had revengit the hurting of ane of them; and thairefter the constable of the castell come down thairfra, and he with the said maisters treatet betwix the said pties in this maner:--That the said provost and baillies sall remit to the said craftischilder, all actioun, cryme, and offens that thai had committit aganes thame in any tyme bygane; and band and oblast thame never to pursew them thairfor; and als commandit thair maisters to resaue them agane in thair services, as thai did befoir. And this being proclainit at the mercat cross, thai scalit, and the said provest and bailies come furth of the same tolbouyth. &c. &c. &c. John Knox, who writes at large upon this tumult, informs us it was inflamed by the deacons of craftes, who, resenting; the superiority assumed over them by the magistrates, would yield no assistance to put down the tumult. They will be magistrates alone, said the recusant deacons, e'en let them rule the populace alone; and accordingly they passed quietly to take _their four-hours penny_, and left the magistrates to help themselves as they could. Many persons were excommunicated for this outrage, and not admitted to church ordinances till they had made satisfaction.] --the best representation exhibited at the time; and no great wonder, since most of the actors were, by profession, the banished men and thieves whom they presented. Other masqueraders there were, of a less marked description. Men were disguised as women, and women as men--children wore the dress of aged people, and tottered with crutch-sticks in their hands, furred gowns on their little backs, and caps on their round heads--while grandsires assumed the infantine tone as well as the dress of children. Besides these, many had their faces painted, and wore their shirts over the rest of their dress; while coloured pasteboard and ribbons furnished out decorations for others. Those who wanted all these properties, blacked their faces, and turned their jackets inside out; and thus the transmutation of the whole assembly into a set of mad grotesque mummers, was at once completed. The pause which the masqueraders made, waiting apparently for some person of the highest authority amongst them, gave those within the Abbey Church full time to observe all these absurdities. They were at no loss to comprehend their purpose and meaning. Few readers can be ignorant, that at an early period, and during the plenitude of her power, the Church of Rome not only connived at, but even encouraged, such Saturnalian licenses as the inhabitants of Kennaquhair and the neighbourhood had now in hand, and that the vulgar, on such occasions, were not only permitted but encouraged by a number of gambols, sometimes puerile and ludicrous, sometimes immoral and profane, to indemnify themselves for the privations and penances imposed on them at other seasons. But, of all other topics for burlesque and ridicule, the rites and ceremonial of the church itself were most frequently resorted to; and, strange to say, with the approbation of the clergy themselves. While the hierarchy flourished in full glory, they do not appear to have dreaded the consequences of suffering the people to become so irreverently familiar with things sacred; they then imagined the laity to be much in the condition of the labourer's horse, which does not submit to the bridle and the whip with greater reluctance, because, at rare intervals, he is allowed to frolic at large in his pasture, and fling out his heels in clumsy gambols at the master who usually drives him. But, when times changed--when doubt of the Roman Catholic doctrine, and hatred of their priesthood, had possessed the reformed party, the clergy discovered, too late, that no small inconvenience arose from the established practice of games and merry-makings, in which they themselves, and all they held most sacred, were made the subject of ridicule. It then became obvious to duller politicians than the Romish churchmen, that the same actions have a very different tendency when done in the spirit of sarcastic insolence and hatred, than when acted merely in exuberance of rude and uncontrollable spirits. They, therefore, though of the latest, endeavoured, where they had any remaining influence, to discourage the renewal of these indecorous festivities. In this particular, the Catholic clergy were joined by most of the reformed preachers, who were more shocked at the profanity and immorality of many of these exhibitions, than disposed to profit by the ridiculous light in which they placed the Church of Rome and her observances. But it was long ere these scandalous and immoral sports could be abrogated;--the rude multitude continued attached to their favourite pastimes, and, both in England and Scotland, the mitre of the Catholic--the rochet of the reformed bishop--and the cloak and band of the Calvinistic divine--were, in turn, compelled to give place to those jocular personages, the Pope of Fools, the Boy-Bishop, and the Abbot of Unreason. [Footnote: From the interesting novel entitled Anastasius, it seems the same burlesque ceremonies were practised in the Greek Church. ] It was the latter personage who now, in full costume, made his approach to the great door of the church of St. Mary's, accoutred in such a manner as to form a caricature, or practical parody, on the costume and attendants of the real Superior, whom he came to beard on the very day of his installation, in the presence of his clergy, and in the chancel of his church. The mock dignitary was a stout-made under-sized fellow, whose thick squab form had been rendered grotesque by a supplemental paunch, well stuffed. He wore a mitre of leather, with the front like a grenadier's cap, adorned with mock embroidery, and trinkets of tin. This surmounted a visage, the nose of which was the most prominent feature, being of unusual size, and at least as richly gemmed as his head-gear. His robe was of buckram, and his cope of canvass, curiously painted, and cut into open work. On one shoulder was fixed the painted figure of an owl; and he bore in the right hand his pastoral staff, and in the left a small mirror having a handle to it, thus resembling a celebrated jester, whose adventures, translated into English, were whilom extremely popular, and which may still be procured in black letter, for about one sterling pound per leaf. The attendants of this mock dignitary had their proper dresses and equipage, bearing the same burlesque resemblance to the officers of the Convent which their leader did to the Superior. They followed their leader in regular procession, and the motley characters, which had waited his arrival, now crowded into the church in his train, shouting as they came,-- A hall, a hall! for the venerable Father Howleglas, the learned Monk of Misrule, and the Right Reverend Abbot of Unreason! The discordant minstrelsy of every kind renewed its din; the boys shrieked and howled, and the men laughed and hallooed, and the women giggled and screamed, and the beasts roared, and the dragon wallopped and hissed, and the hobby-horse neighed, pranced, and capered, and the rest frisked and frolicked, clashing their hobnailed shoes against the pavement, till it sparkled with the marks of their energetic caprioles. It was, in fine, a scene of ridiculous confusion, that deafened the ear, made the eyes giddy, and must have altogether stunned any indifferent spectator; the monks, whom personal apprehension and a consciousness that much of the popular enjoyment arose from the ridicule being directed against them, were, moreover, little comforted by

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with the deeper clamour of men, formed a Babel of sounds, which first drowned, and then awed into utter silence, the official hymns of the Convent. The cause and result of this extraordinary interruption will be explained in the next chapter. Chapter the Fourteenth. Not the wild billow, when it breaks its barrier-- Not the wild wind, escaping from its cavern-- Not the wild fiend, that mingles both together, And pours their rage upon the ripening harvest, Can match the wild freaks of this mirthful meeting-- Comic, yet fearful--droll, and yet destructive. THE CONSPIRACY. The monks ceased their song, which, like that of the choristers in the legend of the Witch of Berkley, died away in a quaver of consternation; and, like a flock of chickens disturbed by the presence of the kite, they at first made a movement to disperse and fly in different directions, and then, with despair, rather than hope, huddled themselves around their new Abbot; who, retaining the lofty and undismayed look which had dignified him through the whole ceremony, stood on the higher step of the altar, as if desirous to be the most conspicuous mark on which danger might discharge itself, and to save his companions by his self-devotion, since he could afford them no other protection. Involuntarily, as it were, Magdalen Graeme and the page stepped from the station which hitherto they had occupied unnoticed, and approached to the altar, as desirous of sharing the fate which approached the monks, whatever that might be. Both bowed reverently low to the Abbot; and while Magdalen seemed about to speak, the youth, looking towards the main entrance, at which the noise now roared most loudly, and which was at the same time assailed with much knocking, laid his hand upon his dagger. The Abbot motioned to both to forbear: Peace, my sister, he said, in a low tone, but which, being in a different key from the tumultuary sounds without, could be distinctly heard, even amidst the tumult;-- Peace, he said, my sister; let the new Superior of Saint Mary's himself receive and reply to the grateful acclamations of the vassals, who come to celebrate his installation.--And thou, my son, forbear, I charge thee, to touch thy earthly weapon;--if it is the pleasure of our protectress, that her shrine be this day desecrated by deeds of violence, and polluted by blood-shedding, let it not, I charge thee, happen through the deed of a Catholic son of the church. The noise and knocking at the outer gate became now every moment louder; and voices were heard impatiently demanding admittance. The Abbot, with dignity, and with a step which even the emergency of danger rendered neither faltering nor precipitate, moved towards the portal, and demanded to know, in a tone of authority, who it was that disturbed their worship, and what they desired? There was a moment's silence, and then a loud laugh from without. At length a voice replied, We desire entrance into the church; and when the door is opened you will soon see who we are. By whose authority do you require entrance? said the Father. By authority of the right reverend Lord Abbot of Unreason. [Footnote: We learn from no less authority than that of Napoleon Bonaparte, that there is but a single step between the sublime and ridiculous; and it is a transition from one extreme to another; so very easy, that the vulgar of every degree are peculiarly captivated with it. Thus the inclination to laugh becomes uncontrollable, when the solemnity and gravity of time, place, and circumstances, render it peculiarly improper. Some species of general license, like that which inspired the ancient Saturnalia, or the modern Carnival, has been commonly indulged to the people at all times and in almost all countries. But it was, I think, peculiar to the Roman Catholic Church, that while they studied how to render their church rites imposing and magnificent, by all that pomp, music, architecture, and external display could add to them, they nevertheless connived, upon special occasions, at the frolics of the rude vulgar, who, in almost all Catholic countries, enjoyed, or at least assumed, the privilege of making: some Lord of the revels, who, under the name of the Abbot of Unreason, the Boy Bishop, or the President of Fools, occupied the churches, profaned the holy places by a mock imitation of the sacred rites, and sung indecent parodies on hymns of the church. The indifference of the clergy, even when their power was greatest, to the indecent exhibitions which they always tolerated, and sometimes encouraged, forms a strong contrast to the sensitiveness with which they regarded any serious attempt, by preaching or writing, to impeach any of the doctrines of the church. It could only be compared to the singular apathy with which they endured, and often admired the gross novels which Chaucer, Dunbar, Boccacio, Bandello, and others, composed upon the bad morals of the clergy. It seems as if the churchmen in both instances had endeavoured to compromise with the laity, and allowed them occasionally to gratify their coarse humour by indecent satire, provided they would abstain from any grave question concerning the foundation of the doctrines on which was erected such an immense fabric of ecclesiastical power. But the sports thus licensed assumed a very different appearance, so soon as the Protestant doctrines began to prevail; and the license which their forefathers had exercised in mere gaiety of heart, and without the least intention of dishonouring religion by their frolics, were now persevered in by the common people as a mode of testifying their utter disregard for the Roman priesthood and its ceremonies. I may observe, for example, the case of an apparitor sent to Borthwick from the Primate of Saint Andrews, to cite the lord of that castle, who was opposed by an Abbot of Unreason, at whose command the officer of the spiritual court was appointed to be ducked in a mill-dam, and obliged to eat up his parchment citation. The reader may be amused with the following whimsical details of this incident, which took place in the castle of Borthwick, in the year 1517. It appears, that in consequence of a process betwixt Master George Hay de Minzeane and the Lord Borthwick, letters of excommunication had passed against the latter, on account of the contumacy of certain witnesses. William Langlands, an apparitor or macer (_bacularius_) of the See of St Andrews, presented these letters to the curate of the church of Borthwick, requiring him to publish the same at the service of high mass. It seems that the inhabitants of the castle were at this time engaged in the favourite sport of enacting the Abbot of Unreason, a species of high jinks, in which a mimic prelate was elected, who, like the Lord of Misrule in England, turned all sort of lawful authority, and particularly the church ritual, into ridicule. This frolicsome person with his retinue, notwithstanding of the apparitor's character, entered the church, seized upon the primate's officer without hesitation, and, dragging him to the mill-dam on the south side of the castle, compelled him to leap into the water. Not contented with this partial immersion, the Abbot of Unreason pronounced, that Mr. William Langlands was not yet sufficiently bathed, and therefore caused his assistants to lay him on his back in the stream, and duck him in the most satisfactory and perfect manner. The unfortunate apparitor was then conducted back to the church, where, for his refreshment after his bath, the letters of excommunication were torn to pieces, and steeped in a bowl of wine; the mock abbot being probably of opinion that a tough parchment was but dry eating, Langlands was compelled to eat the letters, and swallow the wine, and dismissed by the Abbot of Unreason, with the comfortable assurance, that if any more such letters should arrive during the continuance of his office, they should a' gang the same gate, _i. e._ go the same road. A similar scene occurs betwixt a sumner of the Bishop of Rochester, and Harpool, the servant of Lord Cobham, in the old play of Sir John Oldcastle, when the former compels the church-officer to eat his citation. The dialogue, which may be found in the note, contains most of the jests which may be supposed, appropriate to such an extraordinary occasion: _Harpool_ Marry, sir, is, this process parchment? _Sumner._ Yes, marry is it. _Harpool._ And this seal wax? _Sumner._ It is so. _Harpool._ If this be parchment, and this be wax, eat you this parchment and wax, or I will make parchment of your skin, and beat your brains into wax. Sirrah Sumner, despatch--devour, sirrah, devour. _Sumner._ I am my Lord of Rochester's sumner; I came to do my office, and thou shall answer it. _Harpool._ Sirrah, no railing, but, betake thyself to thy teeth. Thou shalt, eat no worse than thou bringest with thee. Thou bringest it for my lord; and wilt thou bring my lord worse than thou wilt eat thyself? _Sumner._ Sir. I brought it not my lord to eat. _Harpool._ O, do you Sir me now? All's one for that; I'll make you eat it for bringing it. _Sumner._ I cannot eat it. _Harpool._ Can you not? 'Sblood, I'll beat you till you have a stomach! (_Beats him._) _Sumner._ Oh, hold, hold, good Mr. Servingman; I will eat it. _Harpool._ Be champing, be chewing, sir, or I will chew you, you rogue. Tough wax is the purest of the honey. _Sumner._ The purest of the honey?--O Lord, sir, oh! oh! _Harpool._ Feed, feed; 'tis wholesome, rogue, wholesome. Cannot you, like an honest sumner, walk with the devil your brother, to fetch in your bailiff's rents, but you must come to a nobleman's house with process! If the seal were broad as the lead which covers Rochester Church, thou shouldst eat it. _Sumner._ Oh, I am almost choked--I am almost choked! _Harpool._ Who's within there? Will you shame my lord? Is there no beer in the house? Butler, I say. _Enter_ BUTLER. _Butler._ Here, here. _Harpool._ Give him beer. Tough old sheep skin's but dry meat. _First Part of Sir John Oldcastle_, Act II. Scene I.] replied the voice from without; and, from the laugh--which followed, it seemed as if there was something highly ludicrous couched under this reply. I know not, and seek not to know, your meaning, replied the Abbot, since it is probably a rude one. But begone, in the name of God, and leave his servants in peace. I speak this, as having lawful authority to command here. Open the door, said another rude voice, and we will try titles with you, Sir Monk, and show you a superior we must all obey. Break open the doors if he dallies any longer, said a third, and down with the carrion monks who would bar us of our privilege! A general shout followed. Ay, ay, our privilege! our privilege! down with the doors, and with the lurdane monks, if they make opposition! The knocking was now exchanged for blows with great, hammers, to which the doors, strong as they were, must soon have given way. But the Abbot, who saw resistance would be in vain, and who did not wish to incense the assailants by an attempt at offering it, besought silence earnestly, and with difficulty obtained a hearing. My children, said he, I will save you from committing a great sin. The porter will presently undo the gate--he is gone to fetch the keys--meantime I pray you to consider with yourselves, if you are in a state of mind to cross the holy threshold. Tillyvally for your papistry! was answered from without; we are in the mood of the monks when they are merriest, and that is when they sup beef-brewis for lanten-kail. So, if your porter hath not the gout, let him come speedily, or we heave away readily.--Said I well, comrades? Bravely said, and it shall be as bravely done, said the multitude; and had not the keys arrived at that moment, and the porter in hasty terror performed his office, throwing open the great door, the populace would have saved him the trouble. The instant he had done so, the affrighted janitor fled, like one who has drawn the bolts of a flood-gate, and expects to be overwhelmed by the rushing inundation. The monks, with one consent, had withdrawn themselves behind the Abbot, who alone kept his station, about three yards from the entrance, showing no signs of fear or perturbation. His brethren--partly encouraged by his devotion, partly ashamed to desert him, and partly animated by a sense of duty.--remained huddled close together, at the back of their Superior. There was a loud laugh and huzza when the doors were opened; but, contrary to what might have been expected, no crowd of enraged assailants rushed into the church. On the contrary, there was a cry of A halt!-a halt--to order, my masters! and let the two reverend fathers greet each other, as beseems them. The appearance of the crowd who were thus called to order, was grotesque in the extreme. It was composed of men, women, and children, ludicrously disguised in various habits, and presenting groups equally diversified and grotesque. Here one fellow with a horse's head painted before him, and a tail behind, and the whole covered with a long foot-cloth, which was supposed to hide the body of the animal, ambled, caracoled, pranced, and plunged, as he performed the celebrated part of the hobby-horse, [Footnote: This exhibition, the play-mare of Scotland, stood high among holyday gambols. It must be carefully separated from the wooden chargers which furnish out our nurseries. It gives rise to Hamlet's ejaculation,-- But oh, but oh, the hobby-horse is forgot! There is a very comic scene in Beaumont and Fletcher's play of Woman Pleased, where Hope-on-high Bombye, a puritan cobbler, refuses to dance with the hobby-horse. There was much difficulty and great variety in the motions which the hobby-horse was expected to exhibit. The learned Mr. Douce, who has contributed so much to the illustration of our theatrical antiquities, has given us a full account of this pageant, and the burlesque horsemanship which it practised. The hobby-horse, says Mr. Douce, was represented by a man equipped with as much pasteboard as was sufficient to form the head and hinder parts of a horse, the quadrupedal defects being concealed by a long mantle or footcloth that nearly touched the ground. The former, on this occasion, exerted all his skill in burlesque horsemanship. In Sympson's play of the Law-breakers, 1636, a miller personates the hobby-horse, and being angry that the Mayor of the city is put in competition with him, exclaims, 'Let the mayor play the hobby-horse among his brethren, an he will; I hope our town-lads cannot want a hobby-horse. Have I practised my reins, my careers, my prankers, my ambles, my false trots, my smooth ambles, and Canterbury paces, and shall master mayor put me beside the hobby-horse? Have I borrowed the fore-horse bells, his plumes, his braveries; nay, had his mane new shorn and frizzled, and shall the mayor put me beside the hobby-horse? --_Douce's Illustrations_, vol. II. p. 468] so often alluded to in our ancient drama; and which still flourishes on the stage in the battle that concludes Bayes's tragedy. To rival the address and agility displayed by this character, another personage advanced in the more formidable character of a huge dragon, with gilded wings, open jaws, and a scarlet tongue, cloven at the end, which made various efforts to overtake and devour a lad, dressed as the lovely Sabaea, daughter of the King of Egypt, who fled before him; while a martial Saint George, grotesquely armed with a goblet for a helmet, and a spit for a lance, ever and anon interfered, and compelled the monster to relinquish his prey. A bear, a wolf, and one or two other wild animals, played their parts with the discretion of Snug the joiner; for the decided preference which they gave to the use of their hind legs, was sufficient, without any formal annunciation, to assure the most timorous spectators that they had to do with habitual bipeds. There was a group of outlaws with Robin Hood and Little John at their head [Footnote: The representation of Robin Hood was the darling Maygame both in England and Scotland, and doubtless the favourite personification was often revived, when the Abbot of Unreason, or other pretences of frolic, gave an unusual decree of license. The Protestant clergy, who had formerly reaped advantage from the opportunities which these sports afforded them of directing their own satire and the ridicule of the lower orders against the Catholic church, began to find that, when these purposes were served, their favourite pastimes deprived them of the wish to attend divine worship, and disturbed the frame of mind in which it can be attended to advantage. The celebrated Bishop Latimer gives a very _naive_ account of the manner in which, bishop as he was, he found himself compelled to give place to Robin Hood and his followers. I came once myselfe riding on a journey homeward from London, and I sent word over night into the towne that I would preach there in the morning, because it was holiday, and me thought it was a holidayes worke. The church stood in my way, and I took my horse and my company, and went thither, (I thought I should have found a great company in the church,) and when I came there the church doore was fast locked. I tarryed there halfe an houre and more. At last the key was found, and one of the parish comes to me and said,--'Sir, this is a busie day with us, we cannot hear you; it is Robin Hood's day. The parish are gone abroad to gather for Robin Hood. I pray you let them not.' I was faine there to give place to Robin Hood. I thought my rochet should have been regarded, though I were not: but it would not serve, it was faine to give place to Robin Hood's men. It is no laughing matter, my friends, it is a weeping matter, a heavie matter, a heavie matter. Under the pretence for gathering for Robin Hood, a traytour, and a theif, to put out a preacher; to have his office lesse esteemed; to preferre Robin Hood before the ministration of God's word; and all this hath come of unpreaching prelates. This realme hath been ill provided for, that it hath had such corrupt judgments in it, to prefer Robin Hood to God's word. --_Bishop Latimer's sixth Sermon before King Edward_. While the English Protestants thus preferred the outlaw's pageant to the preaching of their excellent Bishop, the Scottish calvinistic clergy, with the celebrated John Knox at their head, and backed by the authority of the magistrates of Edinburgh, who had of late been chosen exclusively from this party, found it impossible to control the rage of the populace, when they attempted to deprive them of the privilege of presenting their pageant of Robin Hood. [Note on old Scottish spelling: leading y = modern 'th'; leading v = modern 'u'] (561) Vpon the xxi day of Junij. Archibalde Dowglas of Kilspindie, Provest of Edr., David Symmer and Adame Fullartoun, baillies of the samyne, causit ane cordinare servant, callit James Gillion takin of befoir, for playing in Edr. with Robene Hude, to wnderly the law, and put him to the knawlege of ane assyize qlk yaij haid electit of yair favoraris, quha with schort deliberatioun condemnit him to be hangit for ye said cryme. And the deaconis of ye craftismen fearing vproare, maid great solistatuis at ye handis of ye said provost and baillies, and als requirit John Knox, minister, for eschewing of tumult, to superceid ye execution of him, vnto ye tyme yai suld adverteis my Lord Duke yairof. And yan, if it wes his mynd and will yat he should be disponit vpoun, ye said deaconis and craftismen sould convey him yaire; quha answerit, yat yai culd na way stope ye executioun of justice. Quhan ye time of ye said pouer mans hanging approchit, and yat ye hangman wes cum to ye jibbat with ye ledder, vpoune ye qlk ye said cordinare should have bene hangit, ane certaine and remanent craftischilder, quha wes put to ye horne with ye said Gillione, ffor ye said Robene Huide's _playes_, and vyris yair assistaris and favoraris, past to wappinis, and yai brak down ye said jibbat, and yan chacit ye said provest, baillies, and Alexr. Guthrie, in ye said Alexander's writing buith, and held yame yairin; and yairefter past to ye tolbuyt, and becaus the samyne was steiket, and onnawayes culd get the keyes thairof, thai brak the said tolbuith dore with foure harberis, per force, (the said provest and baillies luckand thairon.) and not onlie put thar the said Gillione to fredome and libertie, and brocht him furth of the said tolbuit, bot alsua the remanent presonaris being thairintill; and this done, the said craftismen's servands, with the said condempnit cordonar, past doun to the Netherbow, to have past furth thairat; bot becaus the samyne on thair coming thairto wes closet, thai past vp agane the Hie streit of the said bourghe to the Castellhill, and in this menetymne the saidis provest and baillies, and thair assistaris being in the writing buith of the said Alexr. Guthrie, past and enterit in the said tolbuyt, and in the said servandes passage vp the Hie streit, then schote furth thairof at thame ane dog, and hurt ane servand of the said childer. This being done, thair wes nathing vthir but the one partie schuteand out and castand stanes furth of the said tolbuyt, and the vther pairtie schuteand hagbuttis in the same agane. Aund sua the craftismen's servandis, aboue written, held and inclosit the said provest and baillies continewallie in the said tolbuyth, frae three houris efternone, quhill aught houris at even, and na man of the said town prensit to relieve their said provest and baillies. And than thai send to the maisters of the Castell, to caus tham if thai mycht stay the said servandis, quha maid ane maner to do the same, bot thai could not bring the same to ane finall end, ffor the said servands wold on noways stay fra, quhill thai had revengit the hurting of ane of them; and thairefter the constable of the castell come down thairfra, and he with the said maisters treatet betwix the said pties in this maner:--That the said provost and baillies sall remit to the said craftischilder, all actioun, cryme, and offens that thai had committit aganes thame in any tyme bygane; and band and oblast thame never to pursew them thairfor; and als commandit thair maisters to resaue them agane in thair services, as thai did befoir. And this being proclainit at the mercat cross, thai scalit, and the said provest and bailies come furth of the same tolbouyth. &c. &c. &c. John Knox, who writes at large upon this tumult, informs us it was inflamed by the deacons of craftes, who, resenting; the superiority assumed over them by the magistrates, would yield no assistance to put down the tumult. They will be magistrates alone, said the recusant deacons, e'en let them rule the populace alone; and accordingly they passed quietly to take _their four-hours penny_, and left the magistrates to help themselves as they could. Many persons were excommunicated for this outrage, and not admitted to church ordinances till they had made satisfaction.] --the best representation exhibited at the time; and no great wonder, since most of the actors were, by profession, the banished men and thieves whom they presented. Other masqueraders there were, of a less marked description. Men were disguised as women, and women as men--children wore the dress of aged people, and tottered with crutch-sticks in their hands, furred gowns on their little backs, and caps on their round heads--while grandsires assumed the infantine tone as well as the dress of children. Besides these, many had their faces painted, and wore their shirts over the rest of their dress; while coloured pasteboard and ribbons furnished out decorations for others. Those who wanted all these properties, blacked their faces, and turned their jackets inside out; and thus the transmutation of the whole assembly into a set of mad grotesque mummers, was at once completed. The pause which the masqueraders made, waiting apparently for some person of the highest authority amongst them, gave those within the Abbey Church full time to observe all these absurdities. They were at no loss to comprehend their purpose and meaning. Few readers can be ignorant, that at an early period, and during the plenitude of her power, the Church of Rome not only connived at, but even encouraged, such Saturnalian licenses as the inhabitants of Kennaquhair and the neighbourhood had now in hand, and that the vulgar, on such occasions, were not only permitted but encouraged by a number of gambols, sometimes puerile and ludicrous, sometimes immoral and profane, to indemnify themselves for the privations and penances imposed on them at other seasons. But, of all other topics for burlesque and ridicule, the rites and ceremonial of the church itself were most frequently resorted to; and, strange to say, with the approbation of the clergy themselves. While the hierarchy flourished in full glory, they do not appear to have dreaded the consequences of suffering the people to become so irreverently familiar with things sacred; they then imagined the laity to be much in the condition of the labourer's horse, which does not submit to the bridle and the whip with greater reluctance, because, at rare intervals, he is allowed to frolic at large in his pasture, and fling out his heels in clumsy gambols at the master who usually drives him. But, when times changed--when doubt of the Roman Catholic doctrine, and hatred of their priesthood, had possessed the reformed party, the clergy discovered, too late, that no small inconvenience arose from the established practice of games and merry-makings, in which they themselves, and all they held most sacred, were made the subject of ridicule. It then became obvious to duller politicians than the Romish churchmen, that the same actions have a very different tendency when done in the spirit of sarcastic insolence and hatred, than when acted merely in exuberance of rude and uncontrollable spirits. They, therefore, though of the latest, endeavoured, where they had any remaining influence, to discourage the renewal of these indecorous festivities. In this particular, the Catholic clergy were joined by most of the reformed preachers, who were more shocked at the profanity and immorality of many of these exhibitions, than disposed to profit by the ridiculous light in which they placed the Church of Rome and her observances. But it was long ere these scandalous and immoral sports could be abrogated;--the rude multitude continued attached to their favourite pastimes, and, both in England and Scotland, the mitre of the Catholic--the rochet of the reformed bishop--and the cloak and band of the Calvinistic divine--were, in turn, compelled to give place to those jocular personages, the Pope of Fools, the Boy-Bishop, and the Abbot of Unreason. [Footnote: From the interesting novel entitled Anastasius, it seems the same burlesque ceremonies were practised in the Greek Church. ] It was the latter personage who now, in full costume, made his approach to the great door of the church of St. Mary's, accoutred in such a manner as to form a caricature, or practical parody, on the costume and attendants of the real Superior, whom he came to beard on the very day of his installation, in the presence of his clergy, and in the chancel of his church. The mock dignitary was a stout-made under-sized fellow, whose thick squab form had been rendered grotesque by a supplemental paunch, well stuffed. He wore a mitre of leather, with the front like a grenadier's cap, adorned with mock embroidery, and trinkets of tin. This surmounted a visage, the nose of which was the most prominent feature, being of unusual size, and at least as richly gemmed as his head-gear. His robe was of buckram, and his cope of canvass, curiously painted, and cut into open work. On one shoulder was fixed the painted figure of an owl; and he bore in the right hand his pastoral staff, and in the left a small mirror having a handle to it, thus resembling a celebrated jester, whose adventures, translated into English, were whilom extremely popular, and which may still be procured in black letter, for about one sterling pound per leaf. The attendants of this mock dignitary had their proper dresses and equipage, bearing the same burlesque resemblance to the officers of the Convent which their leader did to the Superior. They followed their leader in regular procession, and the motley characters, which had waited his arrival, now crowded into the church in his train, shouting as they came,-- A hall, a hall! for the venerable Father Howleglas, the learned Monk of Misrule, and the Right Reverend Abbot of Unreason! The discordant minstrelsy of every kind renewed its din; the boys shrieked and howled, and the men laughed and hallooed, and the women giggled and screamed, and the beasts roared, and the dragon wallopped and hissed, and the hobby-horse neighed, pranced, and capered, and the rest frisked and frolicked, clashing their hobnailed shoes against the pavement, till it sparkled with the marks of their energetic caprioles. It was, in fine, a scene of ridiculous confusion, that deafened the ear, made the eyes giddy, and must have altogether stunned any indifferent spectator; the monks, whom personal apprehension and a consciousness that much of the popular enjoyment arose from the ridicule being directed against them, were, moreover, little comforted by

countries

How many times the word 'countries' appears in the text?

with the deeper clamour of men, formed a Babel of sounds, which first drowned, and then awed into utter silence, the official hymns of the Convent. The cause and result of this extraordinary interruption will be explained in the next chapter. Chapter the Fourteenth. Not the wild billow, when it breaks its barrier-- Not the wild wind, escaping from its cavern-- Not the wild fiend, that mingles both together, And pours their rage upon the ripening harvest, Can match the wild freaks of this mirthful meeting-- Comic, yet fearful--droll, and yet destructive. THE CONSPIRACY. The monks ceased their song, which, like that of the choristers in the legend of the Witch of Berkley, died away in a quaver of consternation; and, like a flock of chickens disturbed by the presence of the kite, they at first made a movement to disperse and fly in different directions, and then, with despair, rather than hope, huddled themselves around their new Abbot; who, retaining the lofty and undismayed look which had dignified him through the whole ceremony, stood on the higher step of the altar, as if desirous to be the most conspicuous mark on which danger might discharge itself, and to save his companions by his self-devotion, since he could afford them no other protection. Involuntarily, as it were, Magdalen Graeme and the page stepped from the station which hitherto they had occupied unnoticed, and approached to the altar, as desirous of sharing the fate which approached the monks, whatever that might be. Both bowed reverently low to the Abbot; and while Magdalen seemed about to speak, the youth, looking towards the main entrance, at which the noise now roared most loudly, and which was at the same time assailed with much knocking, laid his hand upon his dagger. The Abbot motioned to both to forbear: Peace, my sister, he said, in a low tone, but which, being in a different key from the tumultuary sounds without, could be distinctly heard, even amidst the tumult;-- Peace, he said, my sister; let the new Superior of Saint Mary's himself receive and reply to the grateful acclamations of the vassals, who come to celebrate his installation.--And thou, my son, forbear, I charge thee, to touch thy earthly weapon;--if it is the pleasure of our protectress, that her shrine be this day desecrated by deeds of violence, and polluted by blood-shedding, let it not, I charge thee, happen through the deed of a Catholic son of the church. The noise and knocking at the outer gate became now every moment louder; and voices were heard impatiently demanding admittance. The Abbot, with dignity, and with a step which even the emergency of danger rendered neither faltering nor precipitate, moved towards the portal, and demanded to know, in a tone of authority, who it was that disturbed their worship, and what they desired? There was a moment's silence, and then a loud laugh from without. At length a voice replied, We desire entrance into the church; and when the door is opened you will soon see who we are. By whose authority do you require entrance? said the Father. By authority of the right reverend Lord Abbot of Unreason. [Footnote: We learn from no less authority than that of Napoleon Bonaparte, that there is but a single step between the sublime and ridiculous; and it is a transition from one extreme to another; so very easy, that the vulgar of every degree are peculiarly captivated with it. Thus the inclination to laugh becomes uncontrollable, when the solemnity and gravity of time, place, and circumstances, render it peculiarly improper. Some species of general license, like that which inspired the ancient Saturnalia, or the modern Carnival, has been commonly indulged to the people at all times and in almost all countries. But it was, I think, peculiar to the Roman Catholic Church, that while they studied how to render their church rites imposing and magnificent, by all that pomp, music, architecture, and external display could add to them, they nevertheless connived, upon special occasions, at the frolics of the rude vulgar, who, in almost all Catholic countries, enjoyed, or at least assumed, the privilege of making: some Lord of the revels, who, under the name of the Abbot of Unreason, the Boy Bishop, or the President of Fools, occupied the churches, profaned the holy places by a mock imitation of the sacred rites, and sung indecent parodies on hymns of the church. The indifference of the clergy, even when their power was greatest, to the indecent exhibitions which they always tolerated, and sometimes encouraged, forms a strong contrast to the sensitiveness with which they regarded any serious attempt, by preaching or writing, to impeach any of the doctrines of the church. It could only be compared to the singular apathy with which they endured, and often admired the gross novels which Chaucer, Dunbar, Boccacio, Bandello, and others, composed upon the bad morals of the clergy. It seems as if the churchmen in both instances had endeavoured to compromise with the laity, and allowed them occasionally to gratify their coarse humour by indecent satire, provided they would abstain from any grave question concerning the foundation of the doctrines on which was erected such an immense fabric of ecclesiastical power. But the sports thus licensed assumed a very different appearance, so soon as the Protestant doctrines began to prevail; and the license which their forefathers had exercised in mere gaiety of heart, and without the least intention of dishonouring religion by their frolics, were now persevered in by the common people as a mode of testifying their utter disregard for the Roman priesthood and its ceremonies. I may observe, for example, the case of an apparitor sent to Borthwick from the Primate of Saint Andrews, to cite the lord of that castle, who was opposed by an Abbot of Unreason, at whose command the officer of the spiritual court was appointed to be ducked in a mill-dam, and obliged to eat up his parchment citation. The reader may be amused with the following whimsical details of this incident, which took place in the castle of Borthwick, in the year 1517. It appears, that in consequence of a process betwixt Master George Hay de Minzeane and the Lord Borthwick, letters of excommunication had passed against the latter, on account of the contumacy of certain witnesses. William Langlands, an apparitor or macer (_bacularius_) of the See of St Andrews, presented these letters to the curate of the church of Borthwick, requiring him to publish the same at the service of high mass. It seems that the inhabitants of the castle were at this time engaged in the favourite sport of enacting the Abbot of Unreason, a species of high jinks, in which a mimic prelate was elected, who, like the Lord of Misrule in England, turned all sort of lawful authority, and particularly the church ritual, into ridicule. This frolicsome person with his retinue, notwithstanding of the apparitor's character, entered the church, seized upon the primate's officer without hesitation, and, dragging him to the mill-dam on the south side of the castle, compelled him to leap into the water. Not contented with this partial immersion, the Abbot of Unreason pronounced, that Mr. William Langlands was not yet sufficiently bathed, and therefore caused his assistants to lay him on his back in the stream, and duck him in the most satisfactory and perfect manner. The unfortunate apparitor was then conducted back to the church, where, for his refreshment after his bath, the letters of excommunication were torn to pieces, and steeped in a bowl of wine; the mock abbot being probably of opinion that a tough parchment was but dry eating, Langlands was compelled to eat the letters, and swallow the wine, and dismissed by the Abbot of Unreason, with the comfortable assurance, that if any more such letters should arrive during the continuance of his office, they should a' gang the same gate, _i. e._ go the same road. A similar scene occurs betwixt a sumner of the Bishop of Rochester, and Harpool, the servant of Lord Cobham, in the old play of Sir John Oldcastle, when the former compels the church-officer to eat his citation. The dialogue, which may be found in the note, contains most of the jests which may be supposed, appropriate to such an extraordinary occasion: _Harpool_ Marry, sir, is, this process parchment? _Sumner._ Yes, marry is it. _Harpool._ And this seal wax? _Sumner._ It is so. _Harpool._ If this be parchment, and this be wax, eat you this parchment and wax, or I will make parchment of your skin, and beat your brains into wax. Sirrah Sumner, despatch--devour, sirrah, devour. _Sumner._ I am my Lord of Rochester's sumner; I came to do my office, and thou shall answer it. _Harpool._ Sirrah, no railing, but, betake thyself to thy teeth. Thou shalt, eat no worse than thou bringest with thee. Thou bringest it for my lord; and wilt thou bring my lord worse than thou wilt eat thyself? _Sumner._ Sir. I brought it not my lord to eat. _Harpool._ O, do you Sir me now? All's one for that; I'll make you eat it for bringing it. _Sumner._ I cannot eat it. _Harpool._ Can you not? 'Sblood, I'll beat you till you have a stomach! (_Beats him._) _Sumner._ Oh, hold, hold, good Mr. Servingman; I will eat it. _Harpool._ Be champing, be chewing, sir, or I will chew you, you rogue. Tough wax is the purest of the honey. _Sumner._ The purest of the honey?--O Lord, sir, oh! oh! _Harpool._ Feed, feed; 'tis wholesome, rogue, wholesome. Cannot you, like an honest sumner, walk with the devil your brother, to fetch in your bailiff's rents, but you must come to a nobleman's house with process! If the seal were broad as the lead which covers Rochester Church, thou shouldst eat it. _Sumner._ Oh, I am almost choked--I am almost choked! _Harpool._ Who's within there? Will you shame my lord? Is there no beer in the house? Butler, I say. _Enter_ BUTLER. _Butler._ Here, here. _Harpool._ Give him beer. Tough old sheep skin's but dry meat. _First Part of Sir John Oldcastle_, Act II. Scene I.] replied the voice from without; and, from the laugh--which followed, it seemed as if there was something highly ludicrous couched under this reply. I know not, and seek not to know, your meaning, replied the Abbot, since it is probably a rude one. But begone, in the name of God, and leave his servants in peace. I speak this, as having lawful authority to command here. Open the door, said another rude voice, and we will try titles with you, Sir Monk, and show you a superior we must all obey. Break open the doors if he dallies any longer, said a third, and down with the carrion monks who would bar us of our privilege! A general shout followed. Ay, ay, our privilege! our privilege! down with the doors, and with the lurdane monks, if they make opposition! The knocking was now exchanged for blows with great, hammers, to which the doors, strong as they were, must soon have given way. But the Abbot, who saw resistance would be in vain, and who did not wish to incense the assailants by an attempt at offering it, besought silence earnestly, and with difficulty obtained a hearing. My children, said he, I will save you from committing a great sin. The porter will presently undo the gate--he is gone to fetch the keys--meantime I pray you to consider with yourselves, if you are in a state of mind to cross the holy threshold. Tillyvally for your papistry! was answered from without; we are in the mood of the monks when they are merriest, and that is when they sup beef-brewis for lanten-kail. So, if your porter hath not the gout, let him come speedily, or we heave away readily.--Said I well, comrades? Bravely said, and it shall be as bravely done, said the multitude; and had not the keys arrived at that moment, and the porter in hasty terror performed his office, throwing open the great door, the populace would have saved him the trouble. The instant he had done so, the affrighted janitor fled, like one who has drawn the bolts of a flood-gate, and expects to be overwhelmed by the rushing inundation. The monks, with one consent, had withdrawn themselves behind the Abbot, who alone kept his station, about three yards from the entrance, showing no signs of fear or perturbation. His brethren--partly encouraged by his devotion, partly ashamed to desert him, and partly animated by a sense of duty.--remained huddled close together, at the back of their Superior. There was a loud laugh and huzza when the doors were opened; but, contrary to what might have been expected, no crowd of enraged assailants rushed into the church. On the contrary, there was a cry of A halt!-a halt--to order, my masters! and let the two reverend fathers greet each other, as beseems them. The appearance of the crowd who were thus called to order, was grotesque in the extreme. It was composed of men, women, and children, ludicrously disguised in various habits, and presenting groups equally diversified and grotesque. Here one fellow with a horse's head painted before him, and a tail behind, and the whole covered with a long foot-cloth, which was supposed to hide the body of the animal, ambled, caracoled, pranced, and plunged, as he performed the celebrated part of the hobby-horse, [Footnote: This exhibition, the play-mare of Scotland, stood high among holyday gambols. It must be carefully separated from the wooden chargers which furnish out our nurseries. It gives rise to Hamlet's ejaculation,-- But oh, but oh, the hobby-horse is forgot! There is a very comic scene in Beaumont and Fletcher's play of Woman Pleased, where Hope-on-high Bombye, a puritan cobbler, refuses to dance with the hobby-horse. There was much difficulty and great variety in the motions which the hobby-horse was expected to exhibit. The learned Mr. Douce, who has contributed so much to the illustration of our theatrical antiquities, has given us a full account of this pageant, and the burlesque horsemanship which it practised. The hobby-horse, says Mr. Douce, was represented by a man equipped with as much pasteboard as was sufficient to form the head and hinder parts of a horse, the quadrupedal defects being concealed by a long mantle or footcloth that nearly touched the ground. The former, on this occasion, exerted all his skill in burlesque horsemanship. In Sympson's play of the Law-breakers, 1636, a miller personates the hobby-horse, and being angry that the Mayor of the city is put in competition with him, exclaims, 'Let the mayor play the hobby-horse among his brethren, an he will; I hope our town-lads cannot want a hobby-horse. Have I practised my reins, my careers, my prankers, my ambles, my false trots, my smooth ambles, and Canterbury paces, and shall master mayor put me beside the hobby-horse? Have I borrowed the fore-horse bells, his plumes, his braveries; nay, had his mane new shorn and frizzled, and shall the mayor put me beside the hobby-horse? --_Douce's Illustrations_, vol. II. p. 468] so often alluded to in our ancient drama; and which still flourishes on the stage in the battle that concludes Bayes's tragedy. To rival the address and agility displayed by this character, another personage advanced in the more formidable character of a huge dragon, with gilded wings, open jaws, and a scarlet tongue, cloven at the end, which made various efforts to overtake and devour a lad, dressed as the lovely Sabaea, daughter of the King of Egypt, who fled before him; while a martial Saint George, grotesquely armed with a goblet for a helmet, and a spit for a lance, ever and anon interfered, and compelled the monster to relinquish his prey. A bear, a wolf, and one or two other wild animals, played their parts with the discretion of Snug the joiner; for the decided preference which they gave to the use of their hind legs, was sufficient, without any formal annunciation, to assure the most timorous spectators that they had to do with habitual bipeds. There was a group of outlaws with Robin Hood and Little John at their head [Footnote: The representation of Robin Hood was the darling Maygame both in England and Scotland, and doubtless the favourite personification was often revived, when the Abbot of Unreason, or other pretences of frolic, gave an unusual decree of license. The Protestant clergy, who had formerly reaped advantage from the opportunities which these sports afforded them of directing their own satire and the ridicule of the lower orders against the Catholic church, began to find that, when these purposes were served, their favourite pastimes deprived them of the wish to attend divine worship, and disturbed the frame of mind in which it can be attended to advantage. The celebrated Bishop Latimer gives a very _naive_ account of the manner in which, bishop as he was, he found himself compelled to give place to Robin Hood and his followers. I came once myselfe riding on a journey homeward from London, and I sent word over night into the towne that I would preach there in the morning, because it was holiday, and me thought it was a holidayes worke. The church stood in my way, and I took my horse and my company, and went thither, (I thought I should have found a great company in the church,) and when I came there the church doore was fast locked. I tarryed there halfe an houre and more. At last the key was found, and one of the parish comes to me and said,--'Sir, this is a busie day with us, we cannot hear you; it is Robin Hood's day. The parish are gone abroad to gather for Robin Hood. I pray you let them not.' I was faine there to give place to Robin Hood. I thought my rochet should have been regarded, though I were not: but it would not serve, it was faine to give place to Robin Hood's men. It is no laughing matter, my friends, it is a weeping matter, a heavie matter, a heavie matter. Under the pretence for gathering for Robin Hood, a traytour, and a theif, to put out a preacher; to have his office lesse esteemed; to preferre Robin Hood before the ministration of God's word; and all this hath come of unpreaching prelates. This realme hath been ill provided for, that it hath had such corrupt judgments in it, to prefer Robin Hood to God's word. --_Bishop Latimer's sixth Sermon before King Edward_. While the English Protestants thus preferred the outlaw's pageant to the preaching of their excellent Bishop, the Scottish calvinistic clergy, with the celebrated John Knox at their head, and backed by the authority of the magistrates of Edinburgh, who had of late been chosen exclusively from this party, found it impossible to control the rage of the populace, when they attempted to deprive them of the privilege of presenting their pageant of Robin Hood. [Note on old Scottish spelling: leading y = modern 'th'; leading v = modern 'u'] (561) Vpon the xxi day of Junij. Archibalde Dowglas of Kilspindie, Provest of Edr., David Symmer and Adame Fullartoun, baillies of the samyne, causit ane cordinare servant, callit James Gillion takin of befoir, for playing in Edr. with Robene Hude, to wnderly the law, and put him to the knawlege of ane assyize qlk yaij haid electit of yair favoraris, quha with schort deliberatioun condemnit him to be hangit for ye said cryme. And the deaconis of ye craftismen fearing vproare, maid great solistatuis at ye handis of ye said provost and baillies, and als requirit John Knox, minister, for eschewing of tumult, to superceid ye execution of him, vnto ye tyme yai suld adverteis my Lord Duke yairof. And yan, if it wes his mynd and will yat he should be disponit vpoun, ye said deaconis and craftismen sould convey him yaire; quha answerit, yat yai culd na way stope ye executioun of justice. Quhan ye time of ye said pouer mans hanging approchit, and yat ye hangman wes cum to ye jibbat with ye ledder, vpoune ye qlk ye said cordinare should have bene hangit, ane certaine and remanent craftischilder, quha wes put to ye horne with ye said Gillione, ffor ye said Robene Huide's _playes_, and vyris yair assistaris and favoraris, past to wappinis, and yai brak down ye said jibbat, and yan chacit ye said provest, baillies, and Alexr. Guthrie, in ye said Alexander's writing buith, and held yame yairin; and yairefter past to ye tolbuyt, and becaus the samyne was steiket, and onnawayes culd get the keyes thairof, thai brak the said tolbuith dore with foure harberis, per force, (the said provest and baillies luckand thairon.) and not onlie put thar the said Gillione to fredome and libertie, and brocht him furth of the said tolbuit, bot alsua the remanent presonaris being thairintill; and this done, the said craftismen's servands, with the said condempnit cordonar, past doun to the Netherbow, to have past furth thairat; bot becaus the samyne on thair coming thairto wes closet, thai past vp agane the Hie streit of the said bourghe to the Castellhill, and in this menetymne the saidis provest and baillies, and thair assistaris being in the writing buith of the said Alexr. Guthrie, past and enterit in the said tolbuyt, and in the said servandes passage vp the Hie streit, then schote furth thairof at thame ane dog, and hurt ane servand of the said childer. This being done, thair wes nathing vthir but the one partie schuteand out and castand stanes furth of the said tolbuyt, and the vther pairtie schuteand hagbuttis in the same agane. Aund sua the craftismen's servandis, aboue written, held and inclosit the said provest and baillies continewallie in the said tolbuyth, frae three houris efternone, quhill aught houris at even, and na man of the said town prensit to relieve their said provest and baillies. And than thai send to the maisters of the Castell, to caus tham if thai mycht stay the said servandis, quha maid ane maner to do the same, bot thai could not bring the same to ane finall end, ffor the said servands wold on noways stay fra, quhill thai had revengit the hurting of ane of them; and thairefter the constable of the castell come down thairfra, and he with the said maisters treatet betwix the said pties in this maner:--That the said provost and baillies sall remit to the said craftischilder, all actioun, cryme, and offens that thai had committit aganes thame in any tyme bygane; and band and oblast thame never to pursew them thairfor; and als commandit thair maisters to resaue them agane in thair services, as thai did befoir. And this being proclainit at the mercat cross, thai scalit, and the said provest and bailies come furth of the same tolbouyth. &c. &c. &c. John Knox, who writes at large upon this tumult, informs us it was inflamed by the deacons of craftes, who, resenting; the superiority assumed over them by the magistrates, would yield no assistance to put down the tumult. They will be magistrates alone, said the recusant deacons, e'en let them rule the populace alone; and accordingly they passed quietly to take _their four-hours penny_, and left the magistrates to help themselves as they could. Many persons were excommunicated for this outrage, and not admitted to church ordinances till they had made satisfaction.] --the best representation exhibited at the time; and no great wonder, since most of the actors were, by profession, the banished men and thieves whom they presented. Other masqueraders there were, of a less marked description. Men were disguised as women, and women as men--children wore the dress of aged people, and tottered with crutch-sticks in their hands, furred gowns on their little backs, and caps on their round heads--while grandsires assumed the infantine tone as well as the dress of children. Besides these, many had their faces painted, and wore their shirts over the rest of their dress; while coloured pasteboard and ribbons furnished out decorations for others. Those who wanted all these properties, blacked their faces, and turned their jackets inside out; and thus the transmutation of the whole assembly into a set of mad grotesque mummers, was at once completed. The pause which the masqueraders made, waiting apparently for some person of the highest authority amongst them, gave those within the Abbey Church full time to observe all these absurdities. They were at no loss to comprehend their purpose and meaning. Few readers can be ignorant, that at an early period, and during the plenitude of her power, the Church of Rome not only connived at, but even encouraged, such Saturnalian licenses as the inhabitants of Kennaquhair and the neighbourhood had now in hand, and that the vulgar, on such occasions, were not only permitted but encouraged by a number of gambols, sometimes puerile and ludicrous, sometimes immoral and profane, to indemnify themselves for the privations and penances imposed on them at other seasons. But, of all other topics for burlesque and ridicule, the rites and ceremonial of the church itself were most frequently resorted to; and, strange to say, with the approbation of the clergy themselves. While the hierarchy flourished in full glory, they do not appear to have dreaded the consequences of suffering the people to become so irreverently familiar with things sacred; they then imagined the laity to be much in the condition of the labourer's horse, which does not submit to the bridle and the whip with greater reluctance, because, at rare intervals, he is allowed to frolic at large in his pasture, and fling out his heels in clumsy gambols at the master who usually drives him. But, when times changed--when doubt of the Roman Catholic doctrine, and hatred of their priesthood, had possessed the reformed party, the clergy discovered, too late, that no small inconvenience arose from the established practice of games and merry-makings, in which they themselves, and all they held most sacred, were made the subject of ridicule. It then became obvious to duller politicians than the Romish churchmen, that the same actions have a very different tendency when done in the spirit of sarcastic insolence and hatred, than when acted merely in exuberance of rude and uncontrollable spirits. They, therefore, though of the latest, endeavoured, where they had any remaining influence, to discourage the renewal of these indecorous festivities. In this particular, the Catholic clergy were joined by most of the reformed preachers, who were more shocked at the profanity and immorality of many of these exhibitions, than disposed to profit by the ridiculous light in which they placed the Church of Rome and her observances. But it was long ere these scandalous and immoral sports could be abrogated;--the rude multitude continued attached to their favourite pastimes, and, both in England and Scotland, the mitre of the Catholic--the rochet of the reformed bishop--and the cloak and band of the Calvinistic divine--were, in turn, compelled to give place to those jocular personages, the Pope of Fools, the Boy-Bishop, and the Abbot of Unreason. [Footnote: From the interesting novel entitled Anastasius, it seems the same burlesque ceremonies were practised in the Greek Church. ] It was the latter personage who now, in full costume, made his approach to the great door of the church of St. Mary's, accoutred in such a manner as to form a caricature, or practical parody, on the costume and attendants of the real Superior, whom he came to beard on the very day of his installation, in the presence of his clergy, and in the chancel of his church. The mock dignitary was a stout-made under-sized fellow, whose thick squab form had been rendered grotesque by a supplemental paunch, well stuffed. He wore a mitre of leather, with the front like a grenadier's cap, adorned with mock embroidery, and trinkets of tin. This surmounted a visage, the nose of which was the most prominent feature, being of unusual size, and at least as richly gemmed as his head-gear. His robe was of buckram, and his cope of canvass, curiously painted, and cut into open work. On one shoulder was fixed the painted figure of an owl; and he bore in the right hand his pastoral staff, and in the left a small mirror having a handle to it, thus resembling a celebrated jester, whose adventures, translated into English, were whilom extremely popular, and which may still be procured in black letter, for about one sterling pound per leaf. The attendants of this mock dignitary had their proper dresses and equipage, bearing the same burlesque resemblance to the officers of the Convent which their leader did to the Superior. They followed their leader in regular procession, and the motley characters, which had waited his arrival, now crowded into the church in his train, shouting as they came,-- A hall, a hall! for the venerable Father Howleglas, the learned Monk of Misrule, and the Right Reverend Abbot of Unreason! The discordant minstrelsy of every kind renewed its din; the boys shrieked and howled, and the men laughed and hallooed, and the women giggled and screamed, and the beasts roared, and the dragon wallopped and hissed, and the hobby-horse neighed, pranced, and capered, and the rest frisked and frolicked, clashing their hobnailed shoes against the pavement, till it sparkled with the marks of their energetic caprioles. It was, in fine, a scene of ridiculous confusion, that deafened the ear, made the eyes giddy, and must have altogether stunned any indifferent spectator; the monks, whom personal apprehension and a consciousness that much of the popular enjoyment arose from the ridicule being directed against them, were, moreover, little comforted by

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with the deeper clamour of men, formed a Babel of sounds, which first drowned, and then awed into utter silence, the official hymns of the Convent. The cause and result of this extraordinary interruption will be explained in the next chapter. Chapter the Fourteenth. Not the wild billow, when it breaks its barrier-- Not the wild wind, escaping from its cavern-- Not the wild fiend, that mingles both together, And pours their rage upon the ripening harvest, Can match the wild freaks of this mirthful meeting-- Comic, yet fearful--droll, and yet destructive. THE CONSPIRACY. The monks ceased their song, which, like that of the choristers in the legend of the Witch of Berkley, died away in a quaver of consternation; and, like a flock of chickens disturbed by the presence of the kite, they at first made a movement to disperse and fly in different directions, and then, with despair, rather than hope, huddled themselves around their new Abbot; who, retaining the lofty and undismayed look which had dignified him through the whole ceremony, stood on the higher step of the altar, as if desirous to be the most conspicuous mark on which danger might discharge itself, and to save his companions by his self-devotion, since he could afford them no other protection. Involuntarily, as it were, Magdalen Graeme and the page stepped from the station which hitherto they had occupied unnoticed, and approached to the altar, as desirous of sharing the fate which approached the monks, whatever that might be. Both bowed reverently low to the Abbot; and while Magdalen seemed about to speak, the youth, looking towards the main entrance, at which the noise now roared most loudly, and which was at the same time assailed with much knocking, laid his hand upon his dagger. The Abbot motioned to both to forbear: Peace, my sister, he said, in a low tone, but which, being in a different key from the tumultuary sounds without, could be distinctly heard, even amidst the tumult;-- Peace, he said, my sister; let the new Superior of Saint Mary's himself receive and reply to the grateful acclamations of the vassals, who come to celebrate his installation.--And thou, my son, forbear, I charge thee, to touch thy earthly weapon;--if it is the pleasure of our protectress, that her shrine be this day desecrated by deeds of violence, and polluted by blood-shedding, let it not, I charge thee, happen through the deed of a Catholic son of the church. The noise and knocking at the outer gate became now every moment louder; and voices were heard impatiently demanding admittance. The Abbot, with dignity, and with a step which even the emergency of danger rendered neither faltering nor precipitate, moved towards the portal, and demanded to know, in a tone of authority, who it was that disturbed their worship, and what they desired? There was a moment's silence, and then a loud laugh from without. At length a voice replied, We desire entrance into the church; and when the door is opened you will soon see who we are. By whose authority do you require entrance? said the Father. By authority of the right reverend Lord Abbot of Unreason. [Footnote: We learn from no less authority than that of Napoleon Bonaparte, that there is but a single step between the sublime and ridiculous; and it is a transition from one extreme to another; so very easy, that the vulgar of every degree are peculiarly captivated with it. Thus the inclination to laugh becomes uncontrollable, when the solemnity and gravity of time, place, and circumstances, render it peculiarly improper. Some species of general license, like that which inspired the ancient Saturnalia, or the modern Carnival, has been commonly indulged to the people at all times and in almost all countries. But it was, I think, peculiar to the Roman Catholic Church, that while they studied how to render their church rites imposing and magnificent, by all that pomp, music, architecture, and external display could add to them, they nevertheless connived, upon special occasions, at the frolics of the rude vulgar, who, in almost all Catholic countries, enjoyed, or at least assumed, the privilege of making: some Lord of the revels, who, under the name of the Abbot of Unreason, the Boy Bishop, or the President of Fools, occupied the churches, profaned the holy places by a mock imitation of the sacred rites, and sung indecent parodies on hymns of the church. The indifference of the clergy, even when their power was greatest, to the indecent exhibitions which they always tolerated, and sometimes encouraged, forms a strong contrast to the sensitiveness with which they regarded any serious attempt, by preaching or writing, to impeach any of the doctrines of the church. It could only be compared to the singular apathy with which they endured, and often admired the gross novels which Chaucer, Dunbar, Boccacio, Bandello, and others, composed upon the bad morals of the clergy. It seems as if the churchmen in both instances had endeavoured to compromise with the laity, and allowed them occasionally to gratify their coarse humour by indecent satire, provided they would abstain from any grave question concerning the foundation of the doctrines on which was erected such an immense fabric of ecclesiastical power. But the sports thus licensed assumed a very different appearance, so soon as the Protestant doctrines began to prevail; and the license which their forefathers had exercised in mere gaiety of heart, and without the least intention of dishonouring religion by their frolics, were now persevered in by the common people as a mode of testifying their utter disregard for the Roman priesthood and its ceremonies. I may observe, for example, the case of an apparitor sent to Borthwick from the Primate of Saint Andrews, to cite the lord of that castle, who was opposed by an Abbot of Unreason, at whose command the officer of the spiritual court was appointed to be ducked in a mill-dam, and obliged to eat up his parchment citation. The reader may be amused with the following whimsical details of this incident, which took place in the castle of Borthwick, in the year 1517. It appears, that in consequence of a process betwixt Master George Hay de Minzeane and the Lord Borthwick, letters of excommunication had passed against the latter, on account of the contumacy of certain witnesses. William Langlands, an apparitor or macer (_bacularius_) of the See of St Andrews, presented these letters to the curate of the church of Borthwick, requiring him to publish the same at the service of high mass. It seems that the inhabitants of the castle were at this time engaged in the favourite sport of enacting the Abbot of Unreason, a species of high jinks, in which a mimic prelate was elected, who, like the Lord of Misrule in England, turned all sort of lawful authority, and particularly the church ritual, into ridicule. This frolicsome person with his retinue, notwithstanding of the apparitor's character, entered the church, seized upon the primate's officer without hesitation, and, dragging him to the mill-dam on the south side of the castle, compelled him to leap into the water. Not contented with this partial immersion, the Abbot of Unreason pronounced, that Mr. William Langlands was not yet sufficiently bathed, and therefore caused his assistants to lay him on his back in the stream, and duck him in the most satisfactory and perfect manner. The unfortunate apparitor was then conducted back to the church, where, for his refreshment after his bath, the letters of excommunication were torn to pieces, and steeped in a bowl of wine; the mock abbot being probably of opinion that a tough parchment was but dry eating, Langlands was compelled to eat the letters, and swallow the wine, and dismissed by the Abbot of Unreason, with the comfortable assurance, that if any more such letters should arrive during the continuance of his office, they should a' gang the same gate, _i. e._ go the same road. A similar scene occurs betwixt a sumner of the Bishop of Rochester, and Harpool, the servant of Lord Cobham, in the old play of Sir John Oldcastle, when the former compels the church-officer to eat his citation. The dialogue, which may be found in the note, contains most of the jests which may be supposed, appropriate to such an extraordinary occasion: _Harpool_ Marry, sir, is, this process parchment? _Sumner._ Yes, marry is it. _Harpool._ And this seal wax? _Sumner._ It is so. _Harpool._ If this be parchment, and this be wax, eat you this parchment and wax, or I will make parchment of your skin, and beat your brains into wax. Sirrah Sumner, despatch--devour, sirrah, devour. _Sumner._ I am my Lord of Rochester's sumner; I came to do my office, and thou shall answer it. _Harpool._ Sirrah, no railing, but, betake thyself to thy teeth. Thou shalt, eat no worse than thou bringest with thee. Thou bringest it for my lord; and wilt thou bring my lord worse than thou wilt eat thyself? _Sumner._ Sir. I brought it not my lord to eat. _Harpool._ O, do you Sir me now? All's one for that; I'll make you eat it for bringing it. _Sumner._ I cannot eat it. _Harpool._ Can you not? 'Sblood, I'll beat you till you have a stomach! (_Beats him._) _Sumner._ Oh, hold, hold, good Mr. Servingman; I will eat it. _Harpool._ Be champing, be chewing, sir, or I will chew you, you rogue. Tough wax is the purest of the honey. _Sumner._ The purest of the honey?--O Lord, sir, oh! oh! _Harpool._ Feed, feed; 'tis wholesome, rogue, wholesome. Cannot you, like an honest sumner, walk with the devil your brother, to fetch in your bailiff's rents, but you must come to a nobleman's house with process! If the seal were broad as the lead which covers Rochester Church, thou shouldst eat it. _Sumner._ Oh, I am almost choked--I am almost choked! _Harpool._ Who's within there? Will you shame my lord? Is there no beer in the house? Butler, I say. _Enter_ BUTLER. _Butler._ Here, here. _Harpool._ Give him beer. Tough old sheep skin's but dry meat. _First Part of Sir John Oldcastle_, Act II. Scene I.] replied the voice from without; and, from the laugh--which followed, it seemed as if there was something highly ludicrous couched under this reply. I know not, and seek not to know, your meaning, replied the Abbot, since it is probably a rude one. But begone, in the name of God, and leave his servants in peace. I speak this, as having lawful authority to command here. Open the door, said another rude voice, and we will try titles with you, Sir Monk, and show you a superior we must all obey. Break open the doors if he dallies any longer, said a third, and down with the carrion monks who would bar us of our privilege! A general shout followed. Ay, ay, our privilege! our privilege! down with the doors, and with the lurdane monks, if they make opposition! The knocking was now exchanged for blows with great, hammers, to which the doors, strong as they were, must soon have given way. But the Abbot, who saw resistance would be in vain, and who did not wish to incense the assailants by an attempt at offering it, besought silence earnestly, and with difficulty obtained a hearing. My children, said he, I will save you from committing a great sin. The porter will presently undo the gate--he is gone to fetch the keys--meantime I pray you to consider with yourselves, if you are in a state of mind to cross the holy threshold. Tillyvally for your papistry! was answered from without; we are in the mood of the monks when they are merriest, and that is when they sup beef-brewis for lanten-kail. So, if your porter hath not the gout, let him come speedily, or we heave away readily.--Said I well, comrades? Bravely said, and it shall be as bravely done, said the multitude; and had not the keys arrived at that moment, and the porter in hasty terror performed his office, throwing open the great door, the populace would have saved him the trouble. The instant he had done so, the affrighted janitor fled, like one who has drawn the bolts of a flood-gate, and expects to be overwhelmed by the rushing inundation. The monks, with one consent, had withdrawn themselves behind the Abbot, who alone kept his station, about three yards from the entrance, showing no signs of fear or perturbation. His brethren--partly encouraged by his devotion, partly ashamed to desert him, and partly animated by a sense of duty.--remained huddled close together, at the back of their Superior. There was a loud laugh and huzza when the doors were opened; but, contrary to what might have been expected, no crowd of enraged assailants rushed into the church. On the contrary, there was a cry of A halt!-a halt--to order, my masters! and let the two reverend fathers greet each other, as beseems them. The appearance of the crowd who were thus called to order, was grotesque in the extreme. It was composed of men, women, and children, ludicrously disguised in various habits, and presenting groups equally diversified and grotesque. Here one fellow with a horse's head painted before him, and a tail behind, and the whole covered with a long foot-cloth, which was supposed to hide the body of the animal, ambled, caracoled, pranced, and plunged, as he performed the celebrated part of the hobby-horse, [Footnote: This exhibition, the play-mare of Scotland, stood high among holyday gambols. It must be carefully separated from the wooden chargers which furnish out our nurseries. It gives rise to Hamlet's ejaculation,-- But oh, but oh, the hobby-horse is forgot! There is a very comic scene in Beaumont and Fletcher's play of Woman Pleased, where Hope-on-high Bombye, a puritan cobbler, refuses to dance with the hobby-horse. There was much difficulty and great variety in the motions which the hobby-horse was expected to exhibit. The learned Mr. Douce, who has contributed so much to the illustration of our theatrical antiquities, has given us a full account of this pageant, and the burlesque horsemanship which it practised. The hobby-horse, says Mr. Douce, was represented by a man equipped with as much pasteboard as was sufficient to form the head and hinder parts of a horse, the quadrupedal defects being concealed by a long mantle or footcloth that nearly touched the ground. The former, on this occasion, exerted all his skill in burlesque horsemanship. In Sympson's play of the Law-breakers, 1636, a miller personates the hobby-horse, and being angry that the Mayor of the city is put in competition with him, exclaims, 'Let the mayor play the hobby-horse among his brethren, an he will; I hope our town-lads cannot want a hobby-horse. Have I practised my reins, my careers, my prankers, my ambles, my false trots, my smooth ambles, and Canterbury paces, and shall master mayor put me beside the hobby-horse? Have I borrowed the fore-horse bells, his plumes, his braveries; nay, had his mane new shorn and frizzled, and shall the mayor put me beside the hobby-horse? --_Douce's Illustrations_, vol. II. p. 468] so often alluded to in our ancient drama; and which still flourishes on the stage in the battle that concludes Bayes's tragedy. To rival the address and agility displayed by this character, another personage advanced in the more formidable character of a huge dragon, with gilded wings, open jaws, and a scarlet tongue, cloven at the end, which made various efforts to overtake and devour a lad, dressed as the lovely Sabaea, daughter of the King of Egypt, who fled before him; while a martial Saint George, grotesquely armed with a goblet for a helmet, and a spit for a lance, ever and anon interfered, and compelled the monster to relinquish his prey. A bear, a wolf, and one or two other wild animals, played their parts with the discretion of Snug the joiner; for the decided preference which they gave to the use of their hind legs, was sufficient, without any formal annunciation, to assure the most timorous spectators that they had to do with habitual bipeds. There was a group of outlaws with Robin Hood and Little John at their head [Footnote: The representation of Robin Hood was the darling Maygame both in England and Scotland, and doubtless the favourite personification was often revived, when the Abbot of Unreason, or other pretences of frolic, gave an unusual decree of license. The Protestant clergy, who had formerly reaped advantage from the opportunities which these sports afforded them of directing their own satire and the ridicule of the lower orders against the Catholic church, began to find that, when these purposes were served, their favourite pastimes deprived them of the wish to attend divine worship, and disturbed the frame of mind in which it can be attended to advantage. The celebrated Bishop Latimer gives a very _naive_ account of the manner in which, bishop as he was, he found himself compelled to give place to Robin Hood and his followers. I came once myselfe riding on a journey homeward from London, and I sent word over night into the towne that I would preach there in the morning, because it was holiday, and me thought it was a holidayes worke. The church stood in my way, and I took my horse and my company, and went thither, (I thought I should have found a great company in the church,) and when I came there the church doore was fast locked. I tarryed there halfe an houre and more. At last the key was found, and one of the parish comes to me and said,--'Sir, this is a busie day with us, we cannot hear you; it is Robin Hood's day. The parish are gone abroad to gather for Robin Hood. I pray you let them not.' I was faine there to give place to Robin Hood. I thought my rochet should have been regarded, though I were not: but it would not serve, it was faine to give place to Robin Hood's men. It is no laughing matter, my friends, it is a weeping matter, a heavie matter, a heavie matter. Under the pretence for gathering for Robin Hood, a traytour, and a theif, to put out a preacher; to have his office lesse esteemed; to preferre Robin Hood before the ministration of God's word; and all this hath come of unpreaching prelates. This realme hath been ill provided for, that it hath had such corrupt judgments in it, to prefer Robin Hood to God's word. --_Bishop Latimer's sixth Sermon before King Edward_. While the English Protestants thus preferred the outlaw's pageant to the preaching of their excellent Bishop, the Scottish calvinistic clergy, with the celebrated John Knox at their head, and backed by the authority of the magistrates of Edinburgh, who had of late been chosen exclusively from this party, found it impossible to control the rage of the populace, when they attempted to deprive them of the privilege of presenting their pageant of Robin Hood. [Note on old Scottish spelling: leading y = modern 'th'; leading v = modern 'u'] (561) Vpon the xxi day of Junij. Archibalde Dowglas of Kilspindie, Provest of Edr., David Symmer and Adame Fullartoun, baillies of the samyne, causit ane cordinare servant, callit James Gillion takin of befoir, for playing in Edr. with Robene Hude, to wnderly the law, and put him to the knawlege of ane assyize qlk yaij haid electit of yair favoraris, quha with schort deliberatioun condemnit him to be hangit for ye said cryme. And the deaconis of ye craftismen fearing vproare, maid great solistatuis at ye handis of ye said provost and baillies, and als requirit John Knox, minister, for eschewing of tumult, to superceid ye execution of him, vnto ye tyme yai suld adverteis my Lord Duke yairof. And yan, if it wes his mynd and will yat he should be disponit vpoun, ye said deaconis and craftismen sould convey him yaire; quha answerit, yat yai culd na way stope ye executioun of justice. Quhan ye time of ye said pouer mans hanging approchit, and yat ye hangman wes cum to ye jibbat with ye ledder, vpoune ye qlk ye said cordinare should have bene hangit, ane certaine and remanent craftischilder, quha wes put to ye horne with ye said Gillione, ffor ye said Robene Huide's _playes_, and vyris yair assistaris and favoraris, past to wappinis, and yai brak down ye said jibbat, and yan chacit ye said provest, baillies, and Alexr. Guthrie, in ye said Alexander's writing buith, and held yame yairin; and yairefter past to ye tolbuyt, and becaus the samyne was steiket, and onnawayes culd get the keyes thairof, thai brak the said tolbuith dore with foure harberis, per force, (the said provest and baillies luckand thairon.) and not onlie put thar the said Gillione to fredome and libertie, and brocht him furth of the said tolbuit, bot alsua the remanent presonaris being thairintill; and this done, the said craftismen's servands, with the said condempnit cordonar, past doun to the Netherbow, to have past furth thairat; bot becaus the samyne on thair coming thairto wes closet, thai past vp agane the Hie streit of the said bourghe to the Castellhill, and in this menetymne the saidis provest and baillies, and thair assistaris being in the writing buith of the said Alexr. Guthrie, past and enterit in the said tolbuyt, and in the said servandes passage vp the Hie streit, then schote furth thairof at thame ane dog, and hurt ane servand of the said childer. This being done, thair wes nathing vthir but the one partie schuteand out and castand stanes furth of the said tolbuyt, and the vther pairtie schuteand hagbuttis in the same agane. Aund sua the craftismen's servandis, aboue written, held and inclosit the said provest and baillies continewallie in the said tolbuyth, frae three houris efternone, quhill aught houris at even, and na man of the said town prensit to relieve their said provest and baillies. And than thai send to the maisters of the Castell, to caus tham if thai mycht stay the said servandis, quha maid ane maner to do the same, bot thai could not bring the same to ane finall end, ffor the said servands wold on noways stay fra, quhill thai had revengit the hurting of ane of them; and thairefter the constable of the castell come down thairfra, and he with the said maisters treatet betwix the said pties in this maner:--That the said provost and baillies sall remit to the said craftischilder, all actioun, cryme, and offens that thai had committit aganes thame in any tyme bygane; and band and oblast thame never to pursew them thairfor; and als commandit thair maisters to resaue them agane in thair services, as thai did befoir. And this being proclainit at the mercat cross, thai scalit, and the said provest and bailies come furth of the same tolbouyth. &c. &c. &c. John Knox, who writes at large upon this tumult, informs us it was inflamed by the deacons of craftes, who, resenting; the superiority assumed over them by the magistrates, would yield no assistance to put down the tumult. They will be magistrates alone, said the recusant deacons, e'en let them rule the populace alone; and accordingly they passed quietly to take _their four-hours penny_, and left the magistrates to help themselves as they could. Many persons were excommunicated for this outrage, and not admitted to church ordinances till they had made satisfaction.] --the best representation exhibited at the time; and no great wonder, since most of the actors were, by profession, the banished men and thieves whom they presented. Other masqueraders there were, of a less marked description. Men were disguised as women, and women as men--children wore the dress of aged people, and tottered with crutch-sticks in their hands, furred gowns on their little backs, and caps on their round heads--while grandsires assumed the infantine tone as well as the dress of children. Besides these, many had their faces painted, and wore their shirts over the rest of their dress; while coloured pasteboard and ribbons furnished out decorations for others. Those who wanted all these properties, blacked their faces, and turned their jackets inside out; and thus the transmutation of the whole assembly into a set of mad grotesque mummers, was at once completed. The pause which the masqueraders made, waiting apparently for some person of the highest authority amongst them, gave those within the Abbey Church full time to observe all these absurdities. They were at no loss to comprehend their purpose and meaning. Few readers can be ignorant, that at an early period, and during the plenitude of her power, the Church of Rome not only connived at, but even encouraged, such Saturnalian licenses as the inhabitants of Kennaquhair and the neighbourhood had now in hand, and that the vulgar, on such occasions, were not only permitted but encouraged by a number of gambols, sometimes puerile and ludicrous, sometimes immoral and profane, to indemnify themselves for the privations and penances imposed on them at other seasons. But, of all other topics for burlesque and ridicule, the rites and ceremonial of the church itself were most frequently resorted to; and, strange to say, with the approbation of the clergy themselves. While the hierarchy flourished in full glory, they do not appear to have dreaded the consequences of suffering the people to become so irreverently familiar with things sacred; they then imagined the laity to be much in the condition of the labourer's horse, which does not submit to the bridle and the whip with greater reluctance, because, at rare intervals, he is allowed to frolic at large in his pasture, and fling out his heels in clumsy gambols at the master who usually drives him. But, when times changed--when doubt of the Roman Catholic doctrine, and hatred of their priesthood, had possessed the reformed party, the clergy discovered, too late, that no small inconvenience arose from the established practice of games and merry-makings, in which they themselves, and all they held most sacred, were made the subject of ridicule. It then became obvious to duller politicians than the Romish churchmen, that the same actions have a very different tendency when done in the spirit of sarcastic insolence and hatred, than when acted merely in exuberance of rude and uncontrollable spirits. They, therefore, though of the latest, endeavoured, where they had any remaining influence, to discourage the renewal of these indecorous festivities. In this particular, the Catholic clergy were joined by most of the reformed preachers, who were more shocked at the profanity and immorality of many of these exhibitions, than disposed to profit by the ridiculous light in which they placed the Church of Rome and her observances. But it was long ere these scandalous and immoral sports could be abrogated;--the rude multitude continued attached to their favourite pastimes, and, both in England and Scotland, the mitre of the Catholic--the rochet of the reformed bishop--and the cloak and band of the Calvinistic divine--were, in turn, compelled to give place to those jocular personages, the Pope of Fools, the Boy-Bishop, and the Abbot of Unreason. [Footnote: From the interesting novel entitled Anastasius, it seems the same burlesque ceremonies were practised in the Greek Church. ] It was the latter personage who now, in full costume, made his approach to the great door of the church of St. Mary's, accoutred in such a manner as to form a caricature, or practical parody, on the costume and attendants of the real Superior, whom he came to beard on the very day of his installation, in the presence of his clergy, and in the chancel of his church. The mock dignitary was a stout-made under-sized fellow, whose thick squab form had been rendered grotesque by a supplemental paunch, well stuffed. He wore a mitre of leather, with the front like a grenadier's cap, adorned with mock embroidery, and trinkets of tin. This surmounted a visage, the nose of which was the most prominent feature, being of unusual size, and at least as richly gemmed as his head-gear. His robe was of buckram, and his cope of canvass, curiously painted, and cut into open work. On one shoulder was fixed the painted figure of an owl; and he bore in the right hand his pastoral staff, and in the left a small mirror having a handle to it, thus resembling a celebrated jester, whose adventures, translated into English, were whilom extremely popular, and which may still be procured in black letter, for about one sterling pound per leaf. The attendants of this mock dignitary had their proper dresses and equipage, bearing the same burlesque resemblance to the officers of the Convent which their leader did to the Superior. They followed their leader in regular procession, and the motley characters, which had waited his arrival, now crowded into the church in his train, shouting as they came,-- A hall, a hall! for the venerable Father Howleglas, the learned Monk of Misrule, and the Right Reverend Abbot of Unreason! The discordant minstrelsy of every kind renewed its din; the boys shrieked and howled, and the men laughed and hallooed, and the women giggled and screamed, and the beasts roared, and the dragon wallopped and hissed, and the hobby-horse neighed, pranced, and capered, and the rest frisked and frolicked, clashing their hobnailed shoes against the pavement, till it sparkled with the marks of their energetic caprioles. It was, in fine, a scene of ridiculous confusion, that deafened the ear, made the eyes giddy, and must have altogether stunned any indifferent spectator; the monks, whom personal apprehension and a consciousness that much of the popular enjoyment arose from the ridicule being directed against them, were, moreover, little comforted by

sister

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with the deeper clamour of men, formed a Babel of sounds, which first drowned, and then awed into utter silence, the official hymns of the Convent. The cause and result of this extraordinary interruption will be explained in the next chapter. Chapter the Fourteenth. Not the wild billow, when it breaks its barrier-- Not the wild wind, escaping from its cavern-- Not the wild fiend, that mingles both together, And pours their rage upon the ripening harvest, Can match the wild freaks of this mirthful meeting-- Comic, yet fearful--droll, and yet destructive. THE CONSPIRACY. The monks ceased their song, which, like that of the choristers in the legend of the Witch of Berkley, died away in a quaver of consternation; and, like a flock of chickens disturbed by the presence of the kite, they at first made a movement to disperse and fly in different directions, and then, with despair, rather than hope, huddled themselves around their new Abbot; who, retaining the lofty and undismayed look which had dignified him through the whole ceremony, stood on the higher step of the altar, as if desirous to be the most conspicuous mark on which danger might discharge itself, and to save his companions by his self-devotion, since he could afford them no other protection. Involuntarily, as it were, Magdalen Graeme and the page stepped from the station which hitherto they had occupied unnoticed, and approached to the altar, as desirous of sharing the fate which approached the monks, whatever that might be. Both bowed reverently low to the Abbot; and while Magdalen seemed about to speak, the youth, looking towards the main entrance, at which the noise now roared most loudly, and which was at the same time assailed with much knocking, laid his hand upon his dagger. The Abbot motioned to both to forbear: Peace, my sister, he said, in a low tone, but which, being in a different key from the tumultuary sounds without, could be distinctly heard, even amidst the tumult;-- Peace, he said, my sister; let the new Superior of Saint Mary's himself receive and reply to the grateful acclamations of the vassals, who come to celebrate his installation.--And thou, my son, forbear, I charge thee, to touch thy earthly weapon;--if it is the pleasure of our protectress, that her shrine be this day desecrated by deeds of violence, and polluted by blood-shedding, let it not, I charge thee, happen through the deed of a Catholic son of the church. The noise and knocking at the outer gate became now every moment louder; and voices were heard impatiently demanding admittance. The Abbot, with dignity, and with a step which even the emergency of danger rendered neither faltering nor precipitate, moved towards the portal, and demanded to know, in a tone of authority, who it was that disturbed their worship, and what they desired? There was a moment's silence, and then a loud laugh from without. At length a voice replied, We desire entrance into the church; and when the door is opened you will soon see who we are. By whose authority do you require entrance? said the Father. By authority of the right reverend Lord Abbot of Unreason. [Footnote: We learn from no less authority than that of Napoleon Bonaparte, that there is but a single step between the sublime and ridiculous; and it is a transition from one extreme to another; so very easy, that the vulgar of every degree are peculiarly captivated with it. Thus the inclination to laugh becomes uncontrollable, when the solemnity and gravity of time, place, and circumstances, render it peculiarly improper. Some species of general license, like that which inspired the ancient Saturnalia, or the modern Carnival, has been commonly indulged to the people at all times and in almost all countries. But it was, I think, peculiar to the Roman Catholic Church, that while they studied how to render their church rites imposing and magnificent, by all that pomp, music, architecture, and external display could add to them, they nevertheless connived, upon special occasions, at the frolics of the rude vulgar, who, in almost all Catholic countries, enjoyed, or at least assumed, the privilege of making: some Lord of the revels, who, under the name of the Abbot of Unreason, the Boy Bishop, or the President of Fools, occupied the churches, profaned the holy places by a mock imitation of the sacred rites, and sung indecent parodies on hymns of the church. The indifference of the clergy, even when their power was greatest, to the indecent exhibitions which they always tolerated, and sometimes encouraged, forms a strong contrast to the sensitiveness with which they regarded any serious attempt, by preaching or writing, to impeach any of the doctrines of the church. It could only be compared to the singular apathy with which they endured, and often admired the gross novels which Chaucer, Dunbar, Boccacio, Bandello, and others, composed upon the bad morals of the clergy. It seems as if the churchmen in both instances had endeavoured to compromise with the laity, and allowed them occasionally to gratify their coarse humour by indecent satire, provided they would abstain from any grave question concerning the foundation of the doctrines on which was erected such an immense fabric of ecclesiastical power. But the sports thus licensed assumed a very different appearance, so soon as the Protestant doctrines began to prevail; and the license which their forefathers had exercised in mere gaiety of heart, and without the least intention of dishonouring religion by their frolics, were now persevered in by the common people as a mode of testifying their utter disregard for the Roman priesthood and its ceremonies. I may observe, for example, the case of an apparitor sent to Borthwick from the Primate of Saint Andrews, to cite the lord of that castle, who was opposed by an Abbot of Unreason, at whose command the officer of the spiritual court was appointed to be ducked in a mill-dam, and obliged to eat up his parchment citation. The reader may be amused with the following whimsical details of this incident, which took place in the castle of Borthwick, in the year 1517. It appears, that in consequence of a process betwixt Master George Hay de Minzeane and the Lord Borthwick, letters of excommunication had passed against the latter, on account of the contumacy of certain witnesses. William Langlands, an apparitor or macer (_bacularius_) of the See of St Andrews, presented these letters to the curate of the church of Borthwick, requiring him to publish the same at the service of high mass. It seems that the inhabitants of the castle were at this time engaged in the favourite sport of enacting the Abbot of Unreason, a species of high jinks, in which a mimic prelate was elected, who, like the Lord of Misrule in England, turned all sort of lawful authority, and particularly the church ritual, into ridicule. This frolicsome person with his retinue, notwithstanding of the apparitor's character, entered the church, seized upon the primate's officer without hesitation, and, dragging him to the mill-dam on the south side of the castle, compelled him to leap into the water. Not contented with this partial immersion, the Abbot of Unreason pronounced, that Mr. William Langlands was not yet sufficiently bathed, and therefore caused his assistants to lay him on his back in the stream, and duck him in the most satisfactory and perfect manner. The unfortunate apparitor was then conducted back to the church, where, for his refreshment after his bath, the letters of excommunication were torn to pieces, and steeped in a bowl of wine; the mock abbot being probably of opinion that a tough parchment was but dry eating, Langlands was compelled to eat the letters, and swallow the wine, and dismissed by the Abbot of Unreason, with the comfortable assurance, that if any more such letters should arrive during the continuance of his office, they should a' gang the same gate, _i. e._ go the same road. A similar scene occurs betwixt a sumner of the Bishop of Rochester, and Harpool, the servant of Lord Cobham, in the old play of Sir John Oldcastle, when the former compels the church-officer to eat his citation. The dialogue, which may be found in the note, contains most of the jests which may be supposed, appropriate to such an extraordinary occasion: _Harpool_ Marry, sir, is, this process parchment? _Sumner._ Yes, marry is it. _Harpool._ And this seal wax? _Sumner._ It is so. _Harpool._ If this be parchment, and this be wax, eat you this parchment and wax, or I will make parchment of your skin, and beat your brains into wax. Sirrah Sumner, despatch--devour, sirrah, devour. _Sumner._ I am my Lord of Rochester's sumner; I came to do my office, and thou shall answer it. _Harpool._ Sirrah, no railing, but, betake thyself to thy teeth. Thou shalt, eat no worse than thou bringest with thee. Thou bringest it for my lord; and wilt thou bring my lord worse than thou wilt eat thyself? _Sumner._ Sir. I brought it not my lord to eat. _Harpool._ O, do you Sir me now? All's one for that; I'll make you eat it for bringing it. _Sumner._ I cannot eat it. _Harpool._ Can you not? 'Sblood, I'll beat you till you have a stomach! (_Beats him._) _Sumner._ Oh, hold, hold, good Mr. Servingman; I will eat it. _Harpool._ Be champing, be chewing, sir, or I will chew you, you rogue. Tough wax is the purest of the honey. _Sumner._ The purest of the honey?--O Lord, sir, oh! oh! _Harpool._ Feed, feed; 'tis wholesome, rogue, wholesome. Cannot you, like an honest sumner, walk with the devil your brother, to fetch in your bailiff's rents, but you must come to a nobleman's house with process! If the seal were broad as the lead which covers Rochester Church, thou shouldst eat it. _Sumner._ Oh, I am almost choked--I am almost choked! _Harpool._ Who's within there? Will you shame my lord? Is there no beer in the house? Butler, I say. _Enter_ BUTLER. _Butler._ Here, here. _Harpool._ Give him beer. Tough old sheep skin's but dry meat. _First Part of Sir John Oldcastle_, Act II. Scene I.] replied the voice from without; and, from the laugh--which followed, it seemed as if there was something highly ludicrous couched under this reply. I know not, and seek not to know, your meaning, replied the Abbot, since it is probably a rude one. But begone, in the name of God, and leave his servants in peace. I speak this, as having lawful authority to command here. Open the door, said another rude voice, and we will try titles with you, Sir Monk, and show you a superior we must all obey. Break open the doors if he dallies any longer, said a third, and down with the carrion monks who would bar us of our privilege! A general shout followed. Ay, ay, our privilege! our privilege! down with the doors, and with the lurdane monks, if they make opposition! The knocking was now exchanged for blows with great, hammers, to which the doors, strong as they were, must soon have given way. But the Abbot, who saw resistance would be in vain, and who did not wish to incense the assailants by an attempt at offering it, besought silence earnestly, and with difficulty obtained a hearing. My children, said he, I will save you from committing a great sin. The porter will presently undo the gate--he is gone to fetch the keys--meantime I pray you to consider with yourselves, if you are in a state of mind to cross the holy threshold. Tillyvally for your papistry! was answered from without; we are in the mood of the monks when they are merriest, and that is when they sup beef-brewis for lanten-kail. So, if your porter hath not the gout, let him come speedily, or we heave away readily.--Said I well, comrades? Bravely said, and it shall be as bravely done, said the multitude; and had not the keys arrived at that moment, and the porter in hasty terror performed his office, throwing open the great door, the populace would have saved him the trouble. The instant he had done so, the affrighted janitor fled, like one who has drawn the bolts of a flood-gate, and expects to be overwhelmed by the rushing inundation. The monks, with one consent, had withdrawn themselves behind the Abbot, who alone kept his station, about three yards from the entrance, showing no signs of fear or perturbation. His brethren--partly encouraged by his devotion, partly ashamed to desert him, and partly animated by a sense of duty.--remained huddled close together, at the back of their Superior. There was a loud laugh and huzza when the doors were opened; but, contrary to what might have been expected, no crowd of enraged assailants rushed into the church. On the contrary, there was a cry of A halt!-a halt--to order, my masters! and let the two reverend fathers greet each other, as beseems them. The appearance of the crowd who were thus called to order, was grotesque in the extreme. It was composed of men, women, and children, ludicrously disguised in various habits, and presenting groups equally diversified and grotesque. Here one fellow with a horse's head painted before him, and a tail behind, and the whole covered with a long foot-cloth, which was supposed to hide the body of the animal, ambled, caracoled, pranced, and plunged, as he performed the celebrated part of the hobby-horse, [Footnote: This exhibition, the play-mare of Scotland, stood high among holyday gambols. It must be carefully separated from the wooden chargers which furnish out our nurseries. It gives rise to Hamlet's ejaculation,-- But oh, but oh, the hobby-horse is forgot! There is a very comic scene in Beaumont and Fletcher's play of Woman Pleased, where Hope-on-high Bombye, a puritan cobbler, refuses to dance with the hobby-horse. There was much difficulty and great variety in the motions which the hobby-horse was expected to exhibit. The learned Mr. Douce, who has contributed so much to the illustration of our theatrical antiquities, has given us a full account of this pageant, and the burlesque horsemanship which it practised. The hobby-horse, says Mr. Douce, was represented by a man equipped with as much pasteboard as was sufficient to form the head and hinder parts of a horse, the quadrupedal defects being concealed by a long mantle or footcloth that nearly touched the ground. The former, on this occasion, exerted all his skill in burlesque horsemanship. In Sympson's play of the Law-breakers, 1636, a miller personates the hobby-horse, and being angry that the Mayor of the city is put in competition with him, exclaims, 'Let the mayor play the hobby-horse among his brethren, an he will; I hope our town-lads cannot want a hobby-horse. Have I practised my reins, my careers, my prankers, my ambles, my false trots, my smooth ambles, and Canterbury paces, and shall master mayor put me beside the hobby-horse? Have I borrowed the fore-horse bells, his plumes, his braveries; nay, had his mane new shorn and frizzled, and shall the mayor put me beside the hobby-horse? --_Douce's Illustrations_, vol. II. p. 468] so often alluded to in our ancient drama; and which still flourishes on the stage in the battle that concludes Bayes's tragedy. To rival the address and agility displayed by this character, another personage advanced in the more formidable character of a huge dragon, with gilded wings, open jaws, and a scarlet tongue, cloven at the end, which made various efforts to overtake and devour a lad, dressed as the lovely Sabaea, daughter of the King of Egypt, who fled before him; while a martial Saint George, grotesquely armed with a goblet for a helmet, and a spit for a lance, ever and anon interfered, and compelled the monster to relinquish his prey. A bear, a wolf, and one or two other wild animals, played their parts with the discretion of Snug the joiner; for the decided preference which they gave to the use of their hind legs, was sufficient, without any formal annunciation, to assure the most timorous spectators that they had to do with habitual bipeds. There was a group of outlaws with Robin Hood and Little John at their head [Footnote: The representation of Robin Hood was the darling Maygame both in England and Scotland, and doubtless the favourite personification was often revived, when the Abbot of Unreason, or other pretences of frolic, gave an unusual decree of license. The Protestant clergy, who had formerly reaped advantage from the opportunities which these sports afforded them of directing their own satire and the ridicule of the lower orders against the Catholic church, began to find that, when these purposes were served, their favourite pastimes deprived them of the wish to attend divine worship, and disturbed the frame of mind in which it can be attended to advantage. The celebrated Bishop Latimer gives a very _naive_ account of the manner in which, bishop as he was, he found himself compelled to give place to Robin Hood and his followers. I came once myselfe riding on a journey homeward from London, and I sent word over night into the towne that I would preach there in the morning, because it was holiday, and me thought it was a holidayes worke. The church stood in my way, and I took my horse and my company, and went thither, (I thought I should have found a great company in the church,) and when I came there the church doore was fast locked. I tarryed there halfe an houre and more. At last the key was found, and one of the parish comes to me and said,--'Sir, this is a busie day with us, we cannot hear you; it is Robin Hood's day. The parish are gone abroad to gather for Robin Hood. I pray you let them not.' I was faine there to give place to Robin Hood. I thought my rochet should have been regarded, though I were not: but it would not serve, it was faine to give place to Robin Hood's men. It is no laughing matter, my friends, it is a weeping matter, a heavie matter, a heavie matter. Under the pretence for gathering for Robin Hood, a traytour, and a theif, to put out a preacher; to have his office lesse esteemed; to preferre Robin Hood before the ministration of God's word; and all this hath come of unpreaching prelates. This realme hath been ill provided for, that it hath had such corrupt judgments in it, to prefer Robin Hood to God's word. --_Bishop Latimer's sixth Sermon before King Edward_. While the English Protestants thus preferred the outlaw's pageant to the preaching of their excellent Bishop, the Scottish calvinistic clergy, with the celebrated John Knox at their head, and backed by the authority of the magistrates of Edinburgh, who had of late been chosen exclusively from this party, found it impossible to control the rage of the populace, when they attempted to deprive them of the privilege of presenting their pageant of Robin Hood. [Note on old Scottish spelling: leading y = modern 'th'; leading v = modern 'u'] (561) Vpon the xxi day of Junij. Archibalde Dowglas of Kilspindie, Provest of Edr., David Symmer and Adame Fullartoun, baillies of the samyne, causit ane cordinare servant, callit James Gillion takin of befoir, for playing in Edr. with Robene Hude, to wnderly the law, and put him to the knawlege of ane assyize qlk yaij haid electit of yair favoraris, quha with schort deliberatioun condemnit him to be hangit for ye said cryme. And the deaconis of ye craftismen fearing vproare, maid great solistatuis at ye handis of ye said provost and baillies, and als requirit John Knox, minister, for eschewing of tumult, to superceid ye execution of him, vnto ye tyme yai suld adverteis my Lord Duke yairof. And yan, if it wes his mynd and will yat he should be disponit vpoun, ye said deaconis and craftismen sould convey him yaire; quha answerit, yat yai culd na way stope ye executioun of justice. Quhan ye time of ye said pouer mans hanging approchit, and yat ye hangman wes cum to ye jibbat with ye ledder, vpoune ye qlk ye said cordinare should have bene hangit, ane certaine and remanent craftischilder, quha wes put to ye horne with ye said Gillione, ffor ye said Robene Huide's _playes_, and vyris yair assistaris and favoraris, past to wappinis, and yai brak down ye said jibbat, and yan chacit ye said provest, baillies, and Alexr. Guthrie, in ye said Alexander's writing buith, and held yame yairin; and yairefter past to ye tolbuyt, and becaus the samyne was steiket, and onnawayes culd get the keyes thairof, thai brak the said tolbuith dore with foure harberis, per force, (the said provest and baillies luckand thairon.) and not onlie put thar the said Gillione to fredome and libertie, and brocht him furth of the said tolbuit, bot alsua the remanent presonaris being thairintill; and this done, the said craftismen's servands, with the said condempnit cordonar, past doun to the Netherbow, to have past furth thairat; bot becaus the samyne on thair coming thairto wes closet, thai past vp agane the Hie streit of the said bourghe to the Castellhill, and in this menetymne the saidis provest and baillies, and thair assistaris being in the writing buith of the said Alexr. Guthrie, past and enterit in the said tolbuyt, and in the said servandes passage vp the Hie streit, then schote furth thairof at thame ane dog, and hurt ane servand of the said childer. This being done, thair wes nathing vthir but the one partie schuteand out and castand stanes furth of the said tolbuyt, and the vther pairtie schuteand hagbuttis in the same agane. Aund sua the craftismen's servandis, aboue written, held and inclosit the said provest and baillies continewallie in the said tolbuyth, frae three houris efternone, quhill aught houris at even, and na man of the said town prensit to relieve their said provest and baillies. And than thai send to the maisters of the Castell, to caus tham if thai mycht stay the said servandis, quha maid ane maner to do the same, bot thai could not bring the same to ane finall end, ffor the said servands wold on noways stay fra, quhill thai had revengit the hurting of ane of them; and thairefter the constable of the castell come down thairfra, and he with the said maisters treatet betwix the said pties in this maner:--That the said provost and baillies sall remit to the said craftischilder, all actioun, cryme, and offens that thai had committit aganes thame in any tyme bygane; and band and oblast thame never to pursew them thairfor; and als commandit thair maisters to resaue them agane in thair services, as thai did befoir. And this being proclainit at the mercat cross, thai scalit, and the said provest and bailies come furth of the same tolbouyth. &c. &c. &c. John Knox, who writes at large upon this tumult, informs us it was inflamed by the deacons of craftes, who, resenting; the superiority assumed over them by the magistrates, would yield no assistance to put down the tumult. They will be magistrates alone, said the recusant deacons, e'en let them rule the populace alone; and accordingly they passed quietly to take _their four-hours penny_, and left the magistrates to help themselves as they could. Many persons were excommunicated for this outrage, and not admitted to church ordinances till they had made satisfaction.] --the best representation exhibited at the time; and no great wonder, since most of the actors were, by profession, the banished men and thieves whom they presented. Other masqueraders there were, of a less marked description. Men were disguised as women, and women as men--children wore the dress of aged people, and tottered with crutch-sticks in their hands, furred gowns on their little backs, and caps on their round heads--while grandsires assumed the infantine tone as well as the dress of children. Besides these, many had their faces painted, and wore their shirts over the rest of their dress; while coloured pasteboard and ribbons furnished out decorations for others. Those who wanted all these properties, blacked their faces, and turned their jackets inside out; and thus the transmutation of the whole assembly into a set of mad grotesque mummers, was at once completed. The pause which the masqueraders made, waiting apparently for some person of the highest authority amongst them, gave those within the Abbey Church full time to observe all these absurdities. They were at no loss to comprehend their purpose and meaning. Few readers can be ignorant, that at an early period, and during the plenitude of her power, the Church of Rome not only connived at, but even encouraged, such Saturnalian licenses as the inhabitants of Kennaquhair and the neighbourhood had now in hand, and that the vulgar, on such occasions, were not only permitted but encouraged by a number of gambols, sometimes puerile and ludicrous, sometimes immoral and profane, to indemnify themselves for the privations and penances imposed on them at other seasons. But, of all other topics for burlesque and ridicule, the rites and ceremonial of the church itself were most frequently resorted to; and, strange to say, with the approbation of the clergy themselves. While the hierarchy flourished in full glory, they do not appear to have dreaded the consequences of suffering the people to become so irreverently familiar with things sacred; they then imagined the laity to be much in the condition of the labourer's horse, which does not submit to the bridle and the whip with greater reluctance, because, at rare intervals, he is allowed to frolic at large in his pasture, and fling out his heels in clumsy gambols at the master who usually drives him. But, when times changed--when doubt of the Roman Catholic doctrine, and hatred of their priesthood, had possessed the reformed party, the clergy discovered, too late, that no small inconvenience arose from the established practice of games and merry-makings, in which they themselves, and all they held most sacred, were made the subject of ridicule. It then became obvious to duller politicians than the Romish churchmen, that the same actions have a very different tendency when done in the spirit of sarcastic insolence and hatred, than when acted merely in exuberance of rude and uncontrollable spirits. They, therefore, though of the latest, endeavoured, where they had any remaining influence, to discourage the renewal of these indecorous festivities. In this particular, the Catholic clergy were joined by most of the reformed preachers, who were more shocked at the profanity and immorality of many of these exhibitions, than disposed to profit by the ridiculous light in which they placed the Church of Rome and her observances. But it was long ere these scandalous and immoral sports could be abrogated;--the rude multitude continued attached to their favourite pastimes, and, both in England and Scotland, the mitre of the Catholic--the rochet of the reformed bishop--and the cloak and band of the Calvinistic divine--were, in turn, compelled to give place to those jocular personages, the Pope of Fools, the Boy-Bishop, and the Abbot of Unreason. [Footnote: From the interesting novel entitled Anastasius, it seems the same burlesque ceremonies were practised in the Greek Church. ] It was the latter personage who now, in full costume, made his approach to the great door of the church of St. Mary's, accoutred in such a manner as to form a caricature, or practical parody, on the costume and attendants of the real Superior, whom he came to beard on the very day of his installation, in the presence of his clergy, and in the chancel of his church. The mock dignitary was a stout-made under-sized fellow, whose thick squab form had been rendered grotesque by a supplemental paunch, well stuffed. He wore a mitre of leather, with the front like a grenadier's cap, adorned with mock embroidery, and trinkets of tin. This surmounted a visage, the nose of which was the most prominent feature, being of unusual size, and at least as richly gemmed as his head-gear. His robe was of buckram, and his cope of canvass, curiously painted, and cut into open work. On one shoulder was fixed the painted figure of an owl; and he bore in the right hand his pastoral staff, and in the left a small mirror having a handle to it, thus resembling a celebrated jester, whose adventures, translated into English, were whilom extremely popular, and which may still be procured in black letter, for about one sterling pound per leaf. The attendants of this mock dignitary had their proper dresses and equipage, bearing the same burlesque resemblance to the officers of the Convent which their leader did to the Superior. They followed their leader in regular procession, and the motley characters, which had waited his arrival, now crowded into the church in his train, shouting as they came,-- A hall, a hall! for the venerable Father Howleglas, the learned Monk of Misrule, and the Right Reverend Abbot of Unreason! The discordant minstrelsy of every kind renewed its din; the boys shrieked and howled, and the men laughed and hallooed, and the women giggled and screamed, and the beasts roared, and the dragon wallopped and hissed, and the hobby-horse neighed, pranced, and capered, and the rest frisked and frolicked, clashing their hobnailed shoes against the pavement, till it sparkled with the marks of their energetic caprioles. It was, in fine, a scene of ridiculous confusion, that deafened the ear, made the eyes giddy, and must have altogether stunned any indifferent spectator; the monks, whom personal apprehension and a consciousness that much of the popular enjoyment arose from the ridicule being directed against them, were, moreover, little comforted by

its

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with the deeper clamour of men, formed a Babel of sounds, which first drowned, and then awed into utter silence, the official hymns of the Convent. The cause and result of this extraordinary interruption will be explained in the next chapter. Chapter the Fourteenth. Not the wild billow, when it breaks its barrier-- Not the wild wind, escaping from its cavern-- Not the wild fiend, that mingles both together, And pours their rage upon the ripening harvest, Can match the wild freaks of this mirthful meeting-- Comic, yet fearful--droll, and yet destructive. THE CONSPIRACY. The monks ceased their song, which, like that of the choristers in the legend of the Witch of Berkley, died away in a quaver of consternation; and, like a flock of chickens disturbed by the presence of the kite, they at first made a movement to disperse and fly in different directions, and then, with despair, rather than hope, huddled themselves around their new Abbot; who, retaining the lofty and undismayed look which had dignified him through the whole ceremony, stood on the higher step of the altar, as if desirous to be the most conspicuous mark on which danger might discharge itself, and to save his companions by his self-devotion, since he could afford them no other protection. Involuntarily, as it were, Magdalen Graeme and the page stepped from the station which hitherto they had occupied unnoticed, and approached to the altar, as desirous of sharing the fate which approached the monks, whatever that might be. Both bowed reverently low to the Abbot; and while Magdalen seemed about to speak, the youth, looking towards the main entrance, at which the noise now roared most loudly, and which was at the same time assailed with much knocking, laid his hand upon his dagger. The Abbot motioned to both to forbear: Peace, my sister, he said, in a low tone, but which, being in a different key from the tumultuary sounds without, could be distinctly heard, even amidst the tumult;-- Peace, he said, my sister; let the new Superior of Saint Mary's himself receive and reply to the grateful acclamations of the vassals, who come to celebrate his installation.--And thou, my son, forbear, I charge thee, to touch thy earthly weapon;--if it is the pleasure of our protectress, that her shrine be this day desecrated by deeds of violence, and polluted by blood-shedding, let it not, I charge thee, happen through the deed of a Catholic son of the church. The noise and knocking at the outer gate became now every moment louder; and voices were heard impatiently demanding admittance. The Abbot, with dignity, and with a step which even the emergency of danger rendered neither faltering nor precipitate, moved towards the portal, and demanded to know, in a tone of authority, who it was that disturbed their worship, and what they desired? There was a moment's silence, and then a loud laugh from without. At length a voice replied, We desire entrance into the church; and when the door is opened you will soon see who we are. By whose authority do you require entrance? said the Father. By authority of the right reverend Lord Abbot of Unreason. [Footnote: We learn from no less authority than that of Napoleon Bonaparte, that there is but a single step between the sublime and ridiculous; and it is a transition from one extreme to another; so very easy, that the vulgar of every degree are peculiarly captivated with it. Thus the inclination to laugh becomes uncontrollable, when the solemnity and gravity of time, place, and circumstances, render it peculiarly improper. Some species of general license, like that which inspired the ancient Saturnalia, or the modern Carnival, has been commonly indulged to the people at all times and in almost all countries. But it was, I think, peculiar to the Roman Catholic Church, that while they studied how to render their church rites imposing and magnificent, by all that pomp, music, architecture, and external display could add to them, they nevertheless connived, upon special occasions, at the frolics of the rude vulgar, who, in almost all Catholic countries, enjoyed, or at least assumed, the privilege of making: some Lord of the revels, who, under the name of the Abbot of Unreason, the Boy Bishop, or the President of Fools, occupied the churches, profaned the holy places by a mock imitation of the sacred rites, and sung indecent parodies on hymns of the church. The indifference of the clergy, even when their power was greatest, to the indecent exhibitions which they always tolerated, and sometimes encouraged, forms a strong contrast to the sensitiveness with which they regarded any serious attempt, by preaching or writing, to impeach any of the doctrines of the church. It could only be compared to the singular apathy with which they endured, and often admired the gross novels which Chaucer, Dunbar, Boccacio, Bandello, and others, composed upon the bad morals of the clergy. It seems as if the churchmen in both instances had endeavoured to compromise with the laity, and allowed them occasionally to gratify their coarse humour by indecent satire, provided they would abstain from any grave question concerning the foundation of the doctrines on which was erected such an immense fabric of ecclesiastical power. But the sports thus licensed assumed a very different appearance, so soon as the Protestant doctrines began to prevail; and the license which their forefathers had exercised in mere gaiety of heart, and without the least intention of dishonouring religion by their frolics, were now persevered in by the common people as a mode of testifying their utter disregard for the Roman priesthood and its ceremonies. I may observe, for example, the case of an apparitor sent to Borthwick from the Primate of Saint Andrews, to cite the lord of that castle, who was opposed by an Abbot of Unreason, at whose command the officer of the spiritual court was appointed to be ducked in a mill-dam, and obliged to eat up his parchment citation. The reader may be amused with the following whimsical details of this incident, which took place in the castle of Borthwick, in the year 1517. It appears, that in consequence of a process betwixt Master George Hay de Minzeane and the Lord Borthwick, letters of excommunication had passed against the latter, on account of the contumacy of certain witnesses. William Langlands, an apparitor or macer (_bacularius_) of the See of St Andrews, presented these letters to the curate of the church of Borthwick, requiring him to publish the same at the service of high mass. It seems that the inhabitants of the castle were at this time engaged in the favourite sport of enacting the Abbot of Unreason, a species of high jinks, in which a mimic prelate was elected, who, like the Lord of Misrule in England, turned all sort of lawful authority, and particularly the church ritual, into ridicule. This frolicsome person with his retinue, notwithstanding of the apparitor's character, entered the church, seized upon the primate's officer without hesitation, and, dragging him to the mill-dam on the south side of the castle, compelled him to leap into the water. Not contented with this partial immersion, the Abbot of Unreason pronounced, that Mr. William Langlands was not yet sufficiently bathed, and therefore caused his assistants to lay him on his back in the stream, and duck him in the most satisfactory and perfect manner. The unfortunate apparitor was then conducted back to the church, where, for his refreshment after his bath, the letters of excommunication were torn to pieces, and steeped in a bowl of wine; the mock abbot being probably of opinion that a tough parchment was but dry eating, Langlands was compelled to eat the letters, and swallow the wine, and dismissed by the Abbot of Unreason, with the comfortable assurance, that if any more such letters should arrive during the continuance of his office, they should a' gang the same gate, _i. e._ go the same road. A similar scene occurs betwixt a sumner of the Bishop of Rochester, and Harpool, the servant of Lord Cobham, in the old play of Sir John Oldcastle, when the former compels the church-officer to eat his citation. The dialogue, which may be found in the note, contains most of the jests which may be supposed, appropriate to such an extraordinary occasion: _Harpool_ Marry, sir, is, this process parchment? _Sumner._ Yes, marry is it. _Harpool._ And this seal wax? _Sumner._ It is so. _Harpool._ If this be parchment, and this be wax, eat you this parchment and wax, or I will make parchment of your skin, and beat your brains into wax. Sirrah Sumner, despatch--devour, sirrah, devour. _Sumner._ I am my Lord of Rochester's sumner; I came to do my office, and thou shall answer it. _Harpool._ Sirrah, no railing, but, betake thyself to thy teeth. Thou shalt, eat no worse than thou bringest with thee. Thou bringest it for my lord; and wilt thou bring my lord worse than thou wilt eat thyself? _Sumner._ Sir. I brought it not my lord to eat. _Harpool._ O, do you Sir me now? All's one for that; I'll make you eat it for bringing it. _Sumner._ I cannot eat it. _Harpool._ Can you not? 'Sblood, I'll beat you till you have a stomach! (_Beats him._) _Sumner._ Oh, hold, hold, good Mr. Servingman; I will eat it. _Harpool._ Be champing, be chewing, sir, or I will chew you, you rogue. Tough wax is the purest of the honey. _Sumner._ The purest of the honey?--O Lord, sir, oh! oh! _Harpool._ Feed, feed; 'tis wholesome, rogue, wholesome. Cannot you, like an honest sumner, walk with the devil your brother, to fetch in your bailiff's rents, but you must come to a nobleman's house with process! If the seal were broad as the lead which covers Rochester Church, thou shouldst eat it. _Sumner._ Oh, I am almost choked--I am almost choked! _Harpool._ Who's within there? Will you shame my lord? Is there no beer in the house? Butler, I say. _Enter_ BUTLER. _Butler._ Here, here. _Harpool._ Give him beer. Tough old sheep skin's but dry meat. _First Part of Sir John Oldcastle_, Act II. Scene I.] replied the voice from without; and, from the laugh--which followed, it seemed as if there was something highly ludicrous couched under this reply. I know not, and seek not to know, your meaning, replied the Abbot, since it is probably a rude one. But begone, in the name of God, and leave his servants in peace. I speak this, as having lawful authority to command here. Open the door, said another rude voice, and we will try titles with you, Sir Monk, and show you a superior we must all obey. Break open the doors if he dallies any longer, said a third, and down with the carrion monks who would bar us of our privilege! A general shout followed. Ay, ay, our privilege! our privilege! down with the doors, and with the lurdane monks, if they make opposition! The knocking was now exchanged for blows with great, hammers, to which the doors, strong as they were, must soon have given way. But the Abbot, who saw resistance would be in vain, and who did not wish to incense the assailants by an attempt at offering it, besought silence earnestly, and with difficulty obtained a hearing. My children, said he, I will save you from committing a great sin. The porter will presently undo the gate--he is gone to fetch the keys--meantime I pray you to consider with yourselves, if you are in a state of mind to cross the holy threshold. Tillyvally for your papistry! was answered from without; we are in the mood of the monks when they are merriest, and that is when they sup beef-brewis for lanten-kail. So, if your porter hath not the gout, let him come speedily, or we heave away readily.--Said I well, comrades? Bravely said, and it shall be as bravely done, said the multitude; and had not the keys arrived at that moment, and the porter in hasty terror performed his office, throwing open the great door, the populace would have saved him the trouble. The instant he had done so, the affrighted janitor fled, like one who has drawn the bolts of a flood-gate, and expects to be overwhelmed by the rushing inundation. The monks, with one consent, had withdrawn themselves behind the Abbot, who alone kept his station, about three yards from the entrance, showing no signs of fear or perturbation. His brethren--partly encouraged by his devotion, partly ashamed to desert him, and partly animated by a sense of duty.--remained huddled close together, at the back of their Superior. There was a loud laugh and huzza when the doors were opened; but, contrary to what might have been expected, no crowd of enraged assailants rushed into the church. On the contrary, there was a cry of A halt!-a halt--to order, my masters! and let the two reverend fathers greet each other, as beseems them. The appearance of the crowd who were thus called to order, was grotesque in the extreme. It was composed of men, women, and children, ludicrously disguised in various habits, and presenting groups equally diversified and grotesque. Here one fellow with a horse's head painted before him, and a tail behind, and the whole covered with a long foot-cloth, which was supposed to hide the body of the animal, ambled, caracoled, pranced, and plunged, as he performed the celebrated part of the hobby-horse, [Footnote: This exhibition, the play-mare of Scotland, stood high among holyday gambols. It must be carefully separated from the wooden chargers which furnish out our nurseries. It gives rise to Hamlet's ejaculation,-- But oh, but oh, the hobby-horse is forgot! There is a very comic scene in Beaumont and Fletcher's play of Woman Pleased, where Hope-on-high Bombye, a puritan cobbler, refuses to dance with the hobby-horse. There was much difficulty and great variety in the motions which the hobby-horse was expected to exhibit. The learned Mr. Douce, who has contributed so much to the illustration of our theatrical antiquities, has given us a full account of this pageant, and the burlesque horsemanship which it practised. The hobby-horse, says Mr. Douce, was represented by a man equipped with as much pasteboard as was sufficient to form the head and hinder parts of a horse, the quadrupedal defects being concealed by a long mantle or footcloth that nearly touched the ground. The former, on this occasion, exerted all his skill in burlesque horsemanship. In Sympson's play of the Law-breakers, 1636, a miller personates the hobby-horse, and being angry that the Mayor of the city is put in competition with him, exclaims, 'Let the mayor play the hobby-horse among his brethren, an he will; I hope our town-lads cannot want a hobby-horse. Have I practised my reins, my careers, my prankers, my ambles, my false trots, my smooth ambles, and Canterbury paces, and shall master mayor put me beside the hobby-horse? Have I borrowed the fore-horse bells, his plumes, his braveries; nay, had his mane new shorn and frizzled, and shall the mayor put me beside the hobby-horse? --_Douce's Illustrations_, vol. II. p. 468] so often alluded to in our ancient drama; and which still flourishes on the stage in the battle that concludes Bayes's tragedy. To rival the address and agility displayed by this character, another personage advanced in the more formidable character of a huge dragon, with gilded wings, open jaws, and a scarlet tongue, cloven at the end, which made various efforts to overtake and devour a lad, dressed as the lovely Sabaea, daughter of the King of Egypt, who fled before him; while a martial Saint George, grotesquely armed with a goblet for a helmet, and a spit for a lance, ever and anon interfered, and compelled the monster to relinquish his prey. A bear, a wolf, and one or two other wild animals, played their parts with the discretion of Snug the joiner; for the decided preference which they gave to the use of their hind legs, was sufficient, without any formal annunciation, to assure the most timorous spectators that they had to do with habitual bipeds. There was a group of outlaws with Robin Hood and Little John at their head [Footnote: The representation of Robin Hood was the darling Maygame both in England and Scotland, and doubtless the favourite personification was often revived, when the Abbot of Unreason, or other pretences of frolic, gave an unusual decree of license. The Protestant clergy, who had formerly reaped advantage from the opportunities which these sports afforded them of directing their own satire and the ridicule of the lower orders against the Catholic church, began to find that, when these purposes were served, their favourite pastimes deprived them of the wish to attend divine worship, and disturbed the frame of mind in which it can be attended to advantage. The celebrated Bishop Latimer gives a very _naive_ account of the manner in which, bishop as he was, he found himself compelled to give place to Robin Hood and his followers. I came once myselfe riding on a journey homeward from London, and I sent word over night into the towne that I would preach there in the morning, because it was holiday, and me thought it was a holidayes worke. The church stood in my way, and I took my horse and my company, and went thither, (I thought I should have found a great company in the church,) and when I came there the church doore was fast locked. I tarryed there halfe an houre and more. At last the key was found, and one of the parish comes to me and said,--'Sir, this is a busie day with us, we cannot hear you; it is Robin Hood's day. The parish are gone abroad to gather for Robin Hood. I pray you let them not.' I was faine there to give place to Robin Hood. I thought my rochet should have been regarded, though I were not: but it would not serve, it was faine to give place to Robin Hood's men. It is no laughing matter, my friends, it is a weeping matter, a heavie matter, a heavie matter. Under the pretence for gathering for Robin Hood, a traytour, and a theif, to put out a preacher; to have his office lesse esteemed; to preferre Robin Hood before the ministration of God's word; and all this hath come of unpreaching prelates. This realme hath been ill provided for, that it hath had such corrupt judgments in it, to prefer Robin Hood to God's word. --_Bishop Latimer's sixth Sermon before King Edward_. While the English Protestants thus preferred the outlaw's pageant to the preaching of their excellent Bishop, the Scottish calvinistic clergy, with the celebrated John Knox at their head, and backed by the authority of the magistrates of Edinburgh, who had of late been chosen exclusively from this party, found it impossible to control the rage of the populace, when they attempted to deprive them of the privilege of presenting their pageant of Robin Hood. [Note on old Scottish spelling: leading y = modern 'th'; leading v = modern 'u'] (561) Vpon the xxi day of Junij. Archibalde Dowglas of Kilspindie, Provest of Edr., David Symmer and Adame Fullartoun, baillies of the samyne, causit ane cordinare servant, callit James Gillion takin of befoir, for playing in Edr. with Robene Hude, to wnderly the law, and put him to the knawlege of ane assyize qlk yaij haid electit of yair favoraris, quha with schort deliberatioun condemnit him to be hangit for ye said cryme. And the deaconis of ye craftismen fearing vproare, maid great solistatuis at ye handis of ye said provost and baillies, and als requirit John Knox, minister, for eschewing of tumult, to superceid ye execution of him, vnto ye tyme yai suld adverteis my Lord Duke yairof. And yan, if it wes his mynd and will yat he should be disponit vpoun, ye said deaconis and craftismen sould convey him yaire; quha answerit, yat yai culd na way stope ye executioun of justice. Quhan ye time of ye said pouer mans hanging approchit, and yat ye hangman wes cum to ye jibbat with ye ledder, vpoune ye qlk ye said cordinare should have bene hangit, ane certaine and remanent craftischilder, quha wes put to ye horne with ye said Gillione, ffor ye said Robene Huide's _playes_, and vyris yair assistaris and favoraris, past to wappinis, and yai brak down ye said jibbat, and yan chacit ye said provest, baillies, and Alexr. Guthrie, in ye said Alexander's writing buith, and held yame yairin; and yairefter past to ye tolbuyt, and becaus the samyne was steiket, and onnawayes culd get the keyes thairof, thai brak the said tolbuith dore with foure harberis, per force, (the said provest and baillies luckand thairon.) and not onlie put thar the said Gillione to fredome and libertie, and brocht him furth of the said tolbuit, bot alsua the remanent presonaris being thairintill; and this done, the said craftismen's servands, with the said condempnit cordonar, past doun to the Netherbow, to have past furth thairat; bot becaus the samyne on thair coming thairto wes closet, thai past vp agane the Hie streit of the said bourghe to the Castellhill, and in this menetymne the saidis provest and baillies, and thair assistaris being in the writing buith of the said Alexr. Guthrie, past and enterit in the said tolbuyt, and in the said servandes passage vp the Hie streit, then schote furth thairof at thame ane dog, and hurt ane servand of the said childer. This being done, thair wes nathing vthir but the one partie schuteand out and castand stanes furth of the said tolbuyt, and the vther pairtie schuteand hagbuttis in the same agane. Aund sua the craftismen's servandis, aboue written, held and inclosit the said provest and baillies continewallie in the said tolbuyth, frae three houris efternone, quhill aught houris at even, and na man of the said town prensit to relieve their said provest and baillies. And than thai send to the maisters of the Castell, to caus tham if thai mycht stay the said servandis, quha maid ane maner to do the same, bot thai could not bring the same to ane finall end, ffor the said servands wold on noways stay fra, quhill thai had revengit the hurting of ane of them; and thairefter the constable of the castell come down thairfra, and he with the said maisters treatet betwix the said pties in this maner:--That the said provost and baillies sall remit to the said craftischilder, all actioun, cryme, and offens that thai had committit aganes thame in any tyme bygane; and band and oblast thame never to pursew them thairfor; and als commandit thair maisters to resaue them agane in thair services, as thai did befoir. And this being proclainit at the mercat cross, thai scalit, and the said provest and bailies come furth of the same tolbouyth. &c. &c. &c. John Knox, who writes at large upon this tumult, informs us it was inflamed by the deacons of craftes, who, resenting; the superiority assumed over them by the magistrates, would yield no assistance to put down the tumult. They will be magistrates alone, said the recusant deacons, e'en let them rule the populace alone; and accordingly they passed quietly to take _their four-hours penny_, and left the magistrates to help themselves as they could. Many persons were excommunicated for this outrage, and not admitted to church ordinances till they had made satisfaction.] --the best representation exhibited at the time; and no great wonder, since most of the actors were, by profession, the banished men and thieves whom they presented. Other masqueraders there were, of a less marked description. Men were disguised as women, and women as men--children wore the dress of aged people, and tottered with crutch-sticks in their hands, furred gowns on their little backs, and caps on their round heads--while grandsires assumed the infantine tone as well as the dress of children. Besides these, many had their faces painted, and wore their shirts over the rest of their dress; while coloured pasteboard and ribbons furnished out decorations for others. Those who wanted all these properties, blacked their faces, and turned their jackets inside out; and thus the transmutation of the whole assembly into a set of mad grotesque mummers, was at once completed. The pause which the masqueraders made, waiting apparently for some person of the highest authority amongst them, gave those within the Abbey Church full time to observe all these absurdities. They were at no loss to comprehend their purpose and meaning. Few readers can be ignorant, that at an early period, and during the plenitude of her power, the Church of Rome not only connived at, but even encouraged, such Saturnalian licenses as the inhabitants of Kennaquhair and the neighbourhood had now in hand, and that the vulgar, on such occasions, were not only permitted but encouraged by a number of gambols, sometimes puerile and ludicrous, sometimes immoral and profane, to indemnify themselves for the privations and penances imposed on them at other seasons. But, of all other topics for burlesque and ridicule, the rites and ceremonial of the church itself were most frequently resorted to; and, strange to say, with the approbation of the clergy themselves. While the hierarchy flourished in full glory, they do not appear to have dreaded the consequences of suffering the people to become so irreverently familiar with things sacred; they then imagined the laity to be much in the condition of the labourer's horse, which does not submit to the bridle and the whip with greater reluctance, because, at rare intervals, he is allowed to frolic at large in his pasture, and fling out his heels in clumsy gambols at the master who usually drives him. But, when times changed--when doubt of the Roman Catholic doctrine, and hatred of their priesthood, had possessed the reformed party, the clergy discovered, too late, that no small inconvenience arose from the established practice of games and merry-makings, in which they themselves, and all they held most sacred, were made the subject of ridicule. It then became obvious to duller politicians than the Romish churchmen, that the same actions have a very different tendency when done in the spirit of sarcastic insolence and hatred, than when acted merely in exuberance of rude and uncontrollable spirits. They, therefore, though of the latest, endeavoured, where they had any remaining influence, to discourage the renewal of these indecorous festivities. In this particular, the Catholic clergy were joined by most of the reformed preachers, who were more shocked at the profanity and immorality of many of these exhibitions, than disposed to profit by the ridiculous light in which they placed the Church of Rome and her observances. But it was long ere these scandalous and immoral sports could be abrogated;--the rude multitude continued attached to their favourite pastimes, and, both in England and Scotland, the mitre of the Catholic--the rochet of the reformed bishop--and the cloak and band of the Calvinistic divine--were, in turn, compelled to give place to those jocular personages, the Pope of Fools, the Boy-Bishop, and the Abbot of Unreason. [Footnote: From the interesting novel entitled Anastasius, it seems the same burlesque ceremonies were practised in the Greek Church. ] It was the latter personage who now, in full costume, made his approach to the great door of the church of St. Mary's, accoutred in such a manner as to form a caricature, or practical parody, on the costume and attendants of the real Superior, whom he came to beard on the very day of his installation, in the presence of his clergy, and in the chancel of his church. The mock dignitary was a stout-made under-sized fellow, whose thick squab form had been rendered grotesque by a supplemental paunch, well stuffed. He wore a mitre of leather, with the front like a grenadier's cap, adorned with mock embroidery, and trinkets of tin. This surmounted a visage, the nose of which was the most prominent feature, being of unusual size, and at least as richly gemmed as his head-gear. His robe was of buckram, and his cope of canvass, curiously painted, and cut into open work. On one shoulder was fixed the painted figure of an owl; and he bore in the right hand his pastoral staff, and in the left a small mirror having a handle to it, thus resembling a celebrated jester, whose adventures, translated into English, were whilom extremely popular, and which may still be procured in black letter, for about one sterling pound per leaf. The attendants of this mock dignitary had their proper dresses and equipage, bearing the same burlesque resemblance to the officers of the Convent which their leader did to the Superior. They followed their leader in regular procession, and the motley characters, which had waited his arrival, now crowded into the church in his train, shouting as they came,-- A hall, a hall! for the venerable Father Howleglas, the learned Monk of Misrule, and the Right Reverend Abbot of Unreason! The discordant minstrelsy of every kind renewed its din; the boys shrieked and howled, and the men laughed and hallooed, and the women giggled and screamed, and the beasts roared, and the dragon wallopped and hissed, and the hobby-horse neighed, pranced, and capered, and the rest frisked and frolicked, clashing their hobnailed shoes against the pavement, till it sparkled with the marks of their energetic caprioles. It was, in fine, a scene of ridiculous confusion, that deafened the ear, made the eyes giddy, and must have altogether stunned any indifferent spectator; the monks, whom personal apprehension and a consciousness that much of the popular enjoyment arose from the ridicule being directed against them, were, moreover, little comforted by

tumult;--

How many times the word 'tumult;--' appears in the text?

with the deeper clamour of men, formed a Babel of sounds, which first drowned, and then awed into utter silence, the official hymns of the Convent. The cause and result of this extraordinary interruption will be explained in the next chapter. Chapter the Fourteenth. Not the wild billow, when it breaks its barrier-- Not the wild wind, escaping from its cavern-- Not the wild fiend, that mingles both together, And pours their rage upon the ripening harvest, Can match the wild freaks of this mirthful meeting-- Comic, yet fearful--droll, and yet destructive. THE CONSPIRACY. The monks ceased their song, which, like that of the choristers in the legend of the Witch of Berkley, died away in a quaver of consternation; and, like a flock of chickens disturbed by the presence of the kite, they at first made a movement to disperse and fly in different directions, and then, with despair, rather than hope, huddled themselves around their new Abbot; who, retaining the lofty and undismayed look which had dignified him through the whole ceremony, stood on the higher step of the altar, as if desirous to be the most conspicuous mark on which danger might discharge itself, and to save his companions by his self-devotion, since he could afford them no other protection. Involuntarily, as it were, Magdalen Graeme and the page stepped from the station which hitherto they had occupied unnoticed, and approached to the altar, as desirous of sharing the fate which approached the monks, whatever that might be. Both bowed reverently low to the Abbot; and while Magdalen seemed about to speak, the youth, looking towards the main entrance, at which the noise now roared most loudly, and which was at the same time assailed with much knocking, laid his hand upon his dagger. The Abbot motioned to both to forbear: Peace, my sister, he said, in a low tone, but which, being in a different key from the tumultuary sounds without, could be distinctly heard, even amidst the tumult;-- Peace, he said, my sister; let the new Superior of Saint Mary's himself receive and reply to the grateful acclamations of the vassals, who come to celebrate his installation.--And thou, my son, forbear, I charge thee, to touch thy earthly weapon;--if it is the pleasure of our protectress, that her shrine be this day desecrated by deeds of violence, and polluted by blood-shedding, let it not, I charge thee, happen through the deed of a Catholic son of the church. The noise and knocking at the outer gate became now every moment louder; and voices were heard impatiently demanding admittance. The Abbot, with dignity, and with a step which even the emergency of danger rendered neither faltering nor precipitate, moved towards the portal, and demanded to know, in a tone of authority, who it was that disturbed their worship, and what they desired? There was a moment's silence, and then a loud laugh from without. At length a voice replied, We desire entrance into the church; and when the door is opened you will soon see who we are. By whose authority do you require entrance? said the Father. By authority of the right reverend Lord Abbot of Unreason. [Footnote: We learn from no less authority than that of Napoleon Bonaparte, that there is but a single step between the sublime and ridiculous; and it is a transition from one extreme to another; so very easy, that the vulgar of every degree are peculiarly captivated with it. Thus the inclination to laugh becomes uncontrollable, when the solemnity and gravity of time, place, and circumstances, render it peculiarly improper. Some species of general license, like that which inspired the ancient Saturnalia, or the modern Carnival, has been commonly indulged to the people at all times and in almost all countries. But it was, I think, peculiar to the Roman Catholic Church, that while they studied how to render their church rites imposing and magnificent, by all that pomp, music, architecture, and external display could add to them, they nevertheless connived, upon special occasions, at the frolics of the rude vulgar, who, in almost all Catholic countries, enjoyed, or at least assumed, the privilege of making: some Lord of the revels, who, under the name of the Abbot of Unreason, the Boy Bishop, or the President of Fools, occupied the churches, profaned the holy places by a mock imitation of the sacred rites, and sung indecent parodies on hymns of the church. The indifference of the clergy, even when their power was greatest, to the indecent exhibitions which they always tolerated, and sometimes encouraged, forms a strong contrast to the sensitiveness with which they regarded any serious attempt, by preaching or writing, to impeach any of the doctrines of the church. It could only be compared to the singular apathy with which they endured, and often admired the gross novels which Chaucer, Dunbar, Boccacio, Bandello, and others, composed upon the bad morals of the clergy. It seems as if the churchmen in both instances had endeavoured to compromise with the laity, and allowed them occasionally to gratify their coarse humour by indecent satire, provided they would abstain from any grave question concerning the foundation of the doctrines on which was erected such an immense fabric of ecclesiastical power. But the sports thus licensed assumed a very different appearance, so soon as the Protestant doctrines began to prevail; and the license which their forefathers had exercised in mere gaiety of heart, and without the least intention of dishonouring religion by their frolics, were now persevered in by the common people as a mode of testifying their utter disregard for the Roman priesthood and its ceremonies. I may observe, for example, the case of an apparitor sent to Borthwick from the Primate of Saint Andrews, to cite the lord of that castle, who was opposed by an Abbot of Unreason, at whose command the officer of the spiritual court was appointed to be ducked in a mill-dam, and obliged to eat up his parchment citation. The reader may be amused with the following whimsical details of this incident, which took place in the castle of Borthwick, in the year 1517. It appears, that in consequence of a process betwixt Master George Hay de Minzeane and the Lord Borthwick, letters of excommunication had passed against the latter, on account of the contumacy of certain witnesses. William Langlands, an apparitor or macer (_bacularius_) of the See of St Andrews, presented these letters to the curate of the church of Borthwick, requiring him to publish the same at the service of high mass. It seems that the inhabitants of the castle were at this time engaged in the favourite sport of enacting the Abbot of Unreason, a species of high jinks, in which a mimic prelate was elected, who, like the Lord of Misrule in England, turned all sort of lawful authority, and particularly the church ritual, into ridicule. This frolicsome person with his retinue, notwithstanding of the apparitor's character, entered the church, seized upon the primate's officer without hesitation, and, dragging him to the mill-dam on the south side of the castle, compelled him to leap into the water. Not contented with this partial immersion, the Abbot of Unreason pronounced, that Mr. William Langlands was not yet sufficiently bathed, and therefore caused his assistants to lay him on his back in the stream, and duck him in the most satisfactory and perfect manner. The unfortunate apparitor was then conducted back to the church, where, for his refreshment after his bath, the letters of excommunication were torn to pieces, and steeped in a bowl of wine; the mock abbot being probably of opinion that a tough parchment was but dry eating, Langlands was compelled to eat the letters, and swallow the wine, and dismissed by the Abbot of Unreason, with the comfortable assurance, that if any more such letters should arrive during the continuance of his office, they should a' gang the same gate, _i. e._ go the same road. A similar scene occurs betwixt a sumner of the Bishop of Rochester, and Harpool, the servant of Lord Cobham, in the old play of Sir John Oldcastle, when the former compels the church-officer to eat his citation. The dialogue, which may be found in the note, contains most of the jests which may be supposed, appropriate to such an extraordinary occasion: _Harpool_ Marry, sir, is, this process parchment? _Sumner._ Yes, marry is it. _Harpool._ And this seal wax? _Sumner._ It is so. _Harpool._ If this be parchment, and this be wax, eat you this parchment and wax, or I will make parchment of your skin, and beat your brains into wax. Sirrah Sumner, despatch--devour, sirrah, devour. _Sumner._ I am my Lord of Rochester's sumner; I came to do my office, and thou shall answer it. _Harpool._ Sirrah, no railing, but, betake thyself to thy teeth. Thou shalt, eat no worse than thou bringest with thee. Thou bringest it for my lord; and wilt thou bring my lord worse than thou wilt eat thyself? _Sumner._ Sir. I brought it not my lord to eat. _Harpool._ O, do you Sir me now? All's one for that; I'll make you eat it for bringing it. _Sumner._ I cannot eat it. _Harpool._ Can you not? 'Sblood, I'll beat you till you have a stomach! (_Beats him._) _Sumner._ Oh, hold, hold, good Mr. Servingman; I will eat it. _Harpool._ Be champing, be chewing, sir, or I will chew you, you rogue. Tough wax is the purest of the honey. _Sumner._ The purest of the honey?--O Lord, sir, oh! oh! _Harpool._ Feed, feed; 'tis wholesome, rogue, wholesome. Cannot you, like an honest sumner, walk with the devil your brother, to fetch in your bailiff's rents, but you must come to a nobleman's house with process! If the seal were broad as the lead which covers Rochester Church, thou shouldst eat it. _Sumner._ Oh, I am almost choked--I am almost choked! _Harpool._ Who's within there? Will you shame my lord? Is there no beer in the house? Butler, I say. _Enter_ BUTLER. _Butler._ Here, here. _Harpool._ Give him beer. Tough old sheep skin's but dry meat. _First Part of Sir John Oldcastle_, Act II. Scene I.] replied the voice from without; and, from the laugh--which followed, it seemed as if there was something highly ludicrous couched under this reply. I know not, and seek not to know, your meaning, replied the Abbot, since it is probably a rude one. But begone, in the name of God, and leave his servants in peace. I speak this, as having lawful authority to command here. Open the door, said another rude voice, and we will try titles with you, Sir Monk, and show you a superior we must all obey. Break open the doors if he dallies any longer, said a third, and down with the carrion monks who would bar us of our privilege! A general shout followed. Ay, ay, our privilege! our privilege! down with the doors, and with the lurdane monks, if they make opposition! The knocking was now exchanged for blows with great, hammers, to which the doors, strong as they were, must soon have given way. But the Abbot, who saw resistance would be in vain, and who did not wish to incense the assailants by an attempt at offering it, besought silence earnestly, and with difficulty obtained a hearing. My children, said he, I will save you from committing a great sin. The porter will presently undo the gate--he is gone to fetch the keys--meantime I pray you to consider with yourselves, if you are in a state of mind to cross the holy threshold. Tillyvally for your papistry! was answered from without; we are in the mood of the monks when they are merriest, and that is when they sup beef-brewis for lanten-kail. So, if your porter hath not the gout, let him come speedily, or we heave away readily.--Said I well, comrades? Bravely said, and it shall be as bravely done, said the multitude; and had not the keys arrived at that moment, and the porter in hasty terror performed his office, throwing open the great door, the populace would have saved him the trouble. The instant he had done so, the affrighted janitor fled, like one who has drawn the bolts of a flood-gate, and expects to be overwhelmed by the rushing inundation. The monks, with one consent, had withdrawn themselves behind the Abbot, who alone kept his station, about three yards from the entrance, showing no signs of fear or perturbation. His brethren--partly encouraged by his devotion, partly ashamed to desert him, and partly animated by a sense of duty.--remained huddled close together, at the back of their Superior. There was a loud laugh and huzza when the doors were opened; but, contrary to what might have been expected, no crowd of enraged assailants rushed into the church. On the contrary, there was a cry of A halt!-a halt--to order, my masters! and let the two reverend fathers greet each other, as beseems them. The appearance of the crowd who were thus called to order, was grotesque in the extreme. It was composed of men, women, and children, ludicrously disguised in various habits, and presenting groups equally diversified and grotesque. Here one fellow with a horse's head painted before him, and a tail behind, and the whole covered with a long foot-cloth, which was supposed to hide the body of the animal, ambled, caracoled, pranced, and plunged, as he performed the celebrated part of the hobby-horse, [Footnote: This exhibition, the play-mare of Scotland, stood high among holyday gambols. It must be carefully separated from the wooden chargers which furnish out our nurseries. It gives rise to Hamlet's ejaculation,-- But oh, but oh, the hobby-horse is forgot! There is a very comic scene in Beaumont and Fletcher's play of Woman Pleased, where Hope-on-high Bombye, a puritan cobbler, refuses to dance with the hobby-horse. There was much difficulty and great variety in the motions which the hobby-horse was expected to exhibit. The learned Mr. Douce, who has contributed so much to the illustration of our theatrical antiquities, has given us a full account of this pageant, and the burlesque horsemanship which it practised. The hobby-horse, says Mr. Douce, was represented by a man equipped with as much pasteboard as was sufficient to form the head and hinder parts of a horse, the quadrupedal defects being concealed by a long mantle or footcloth that nearly touched the ground. The former, on this occasion, exerted all his skill in burlesque horsemanship. In Sympson's play of the Law-breakers, 1636, a miller personates the hobby-horse, and being angry that the Mayor of the city is put in competition with him, exclaims, 'Let the mayor play the hobby-horse among his brethren, an he will; I hope our town-lads cannot want a hobby-horse. Have I practised my reins, my careers, my prankers, my ambles, my false trots, my smooth ambles, and Canterbury paces, and shall master mayor put me beside the hobby-horse? Have I borrowed the fore-horse bells, his plumes, his braveries; nay, had his mane new shorn and frizzled, and shall the mayor put me beside the hobby-horse? --_Douce's Illustrations_, vol. II. p. 468] so often alluded to in our ancient drama; and which still flourishes on the stage in the battle that concludes Bayes's tragedy. To rival the address and agility displayed by this character, another personage advanced in the more formidable character of a huge dragon, with gilded wings, open jaws, and a scarlet tongue, cloven at the end, which made various efforts to overtake and devour a lad, dressed as the lovely Sabaea, daughter of the King of Egypt, who fled before him; while a martial Saint George, grotesquely armed with a goblet for a helmet, and a spit for a lance, ever and anon interfered, and compelled the monster to relinquish his prey. A bear, a wolf, and one or two other wild animals, played their parts with the discretion of Snug the joiner; for the decided preference which they gave to the use of their hind legs, was sufficient, without any formal annunciation, to assure the most timorous spectators that they had to do with habitual bipeds. There was a group of outlaws with Robin Hood and Little John at their head [Footnote: The representation of Robin Hood was the darling Maygame both in England and Scotland, and doubtless the favourite personification was often revived, when the Abbot of Unreason, or other pretences of frolic, gave an unusual decree of license. The Protestant clergy, who had formerly reaped advantage from the opportunities which these sports afforded them of directing their own satire and the ridicule of the lower orders against the Catholic church, began to find that, when these purposes were served, their favourite pastimes deprived them of the wish to attend divine worship, and disturbed the frame of mind in which it can be attended to advantage. The celebrated Bishop Latimer gives a very _naive_ account of the manner in which, bishop as he was, he found himself compelled to give place to Robin Hood and his followers. I came once myselfe riding on a journey homeward from London, and I sent word over night into the towne that I would preach there in the morning, because it was holiday, and me thought it was a holidayes worke. The church stood in my way, and I took my horse and my company, and went thither, (I thought I should have found a great company in the church,) and when I came there the church doore was fast locked. I tarryed there halfe an houre and more. At last the key was found, and one of the parish comes to me and said,--'Sir, this is a busie day with us, we cannot hear you; it is Robin Hood's day. The parish are gone abroad to gather for Robin Hood. I pray you let them not.' I was faine there to give place to Robin Hood. I thought my rochet should have been regarded, though I were not: but it would not serve, it was faine to give place to Robin Hood's men. It is no laughing matter, my friends, it is a weeping matter, a heavie matter, a heavie matter. Under the pretence for gathering for Robin Hood, a traytour, and a theif, to put out a preacher; to have his office lesse esteemed; to preferre Robin Hood before the ministration of God's word; and all this hath come of unpreaching prelates. This realme hath been ill provided for, that it hath had such corrupt judgments in it, to prefer Robin Hood to God's word. --_Bishop Latimer's sixth Sermon before King Edward_. While the English Protestants thus preferred the outlaw's pageant to the preaching of their excellent Bishop, the Scottish calvinistic clergy, with the celebrated John Knox at their head, and backed by the authority of the magistrates of Edinburgh, who had of late been chosen exclusively from this party, found it impossible to control the rage of the populace, when they attempted to deprive them of the privilege of presenting their pageant of Robin Hood. [Note on old Scottish spelling: leading y = modern 'th'; leading v = modern 'u'] (561) Vpon the xxi day of Junij. Archibalde Dowglas of Kilspindie, Provest of Edr., David Symmer and Adame Fullartoun, baillies of the samyne, causit ane cordinare servant, callit James Gillion takin of befoir, for playing in Edr. with Robene Hude, to wnderly the law, and put him to the knawlege of ane assyize qlk yaij haid electit of yair favoraris, quha with schort deliberatioun condemnit him to be hangit for ye said cryme. And the deaconis of ye craftismen fearing vproare, maid great solistatuis at ye handis of ye said provost and baillies, and als requirit John Knox, minister, for eschewing of tumult, to superceid ye execution of him, vnto ye tyme yai suld adverteis my Lord Duke yairof. And yan, if it wes his mynd and will yat he should be disponit vpoun, ye said deaconis and craftismen sould convey him yaire; quha answerit, yat yai culd na way stope ye executioun of justice. Quhan ye time of ye said pouer mans hanging approchit, and yat ye hangman wes cum to ye jibbat with ye ledder, vpoune ye qlk ye said cordinare should have bene hangit, ane certaine and remanent craftischilder, quha wes put to ye horne with ye said Gillione, ffor ye said Robene Huide's _playes_, and vyris yair assistaris and favoraris, past to wappinis, and yai brak down ye said jibbat, and yan chacit ye said provest, baillies, and Alexr. Guthrie, in ye said Alexander's writing buith, and held yame yairin; and yairefter past to ye tolbuyt, and becaus the samyne was steiket, and onnawayes culd get the keyes thairof, thai brak the said tolbuith dore with foure harberis, per force, (the said provest and baillies luckand thairon.) and not onlie put thar the said Gillione to fredome and libertie, and brocht him furth of the said tolbuit, bot alsua the remanent presonaris being thairintill; and this done, the said craftismen's servands, with the said condempnit cordonar, past doun to the Netherbow, to have past furth thairat; bot becaus the samyne on thair coming thairto wes closet, thai past vp agane the Hie streit of the said bourghe to the Castellhill, and in this menetymne the saidis provest and baillies, and thair assistaris being in the writing buith of the said Alexr. Guthrie, past and enterit in the said tolbuyt, and in the said servandes passage vp the Hie streit, then schote furth thairof at thame ane dog, and hurt ane servand of the said childer. This being done, thair wes nathing vthir but the one partie schuteand out and castand stanes furth of the said tolbuyt, and the vther pairtie schuteand hagbuttis in the same agane. Aund sua the craftismen's servandis, aboue written, held and inclosit the said provest and baillies continewallie in the said tolbuyth, frae three houris efternone, quhill aught houris at even, and na man of the said town prensit to relieve their said provest and baillies. And than thai send to the maisters of the Castell, to caus tham if thai mycht stay the said servandis, quha maid ane maner to do the same, bot thai could not bring the same to ane finall end, ffor the said servands wold on noways stay fra, quhill thai had revengit the hurting of ane of them; and thairefter the constable of the castell come down thairfra, and he with the said maisters treatet betwix the said pties in this maner:--That the said provost and baillies sall remit to the said craftischilder, all actioun, cryme, and offens that thai had committit aganes thame in any tyme bygane; and band and oblast thame never to pursew them thairfor; and als commandit thair maisters to resaue them agane in thair services, as thai did befoir. And this being proclainit at the mercat cross, thai scalit, and the said provest and bailies come furth of the same tolbouyth. &c. &c. &c. John Knox, who writes at large upon this tumult, informs us it was inflamed by the deacons of craftes, who, resenting; the superiority assumed over them by the magistrates, would yield no assistance to put down the tumult. They will be magistrates alone, said the recusant deacons, e'en let them rule the populace alone; and accordingly they passed quietly to take _their four-hours penny_, and left the magistrates to help themselves as they could. Many persons were excommunicated for this outrage, and not admitted to church ordinances till they had made satisfaction.] --the best representation exhibited at the time; and no great wonder, since most of the actors were, by profession, the banished men and thieves whom they presented. Other masqueraders there were, of a less marked description. Men were disguised as women, and women as men--children wore the dress of aged people, and tottered with crutch-sticks in their hands, furred gowns on their little backs, and caps on their round heads--while grandsires assumed the infantine tone as well as the dress of children. Besides these, many had their faces painted, and wore their shirts over the rest of their dress; while coloured pasteboard and ribbons furnished out decorations for others. Those who wanted all these properties, blacked their faces, and turned their jackets inside out; and thus the transmutation of the whole assembly into a set of mad grotesque mummers, was at once completed. The pause which the masqueraders made, waiting apparently for some person of the highest authority amongst them, gave those within the Abbey Church full time to observe all these absurdities. They were at no loss to comprehend their purpose and meaning. Few readers can be ignorant, that at an early period, and during the plenitude of her power, the Church of Rome not only connived at, but even encouraged, such Saturnalian licenses as the inhabitants of Kennaquhair and the neighbourhood had now in hand, and that the vulgar, on such occasions, were not only permitted but encouraged by a number of gambols, sometimes puerile and ludicrous, sometimes immoral and profane, to indemnify themselves for the privations and penances imposed on them at other seasons. But, of all other topics for burlesque and ridicule, the rites and ceremonial of the church itself were most frequently resorted to; and, strange to say, with the approbation of the clergy themselves. While the hierarchy flourished in full glory, they do not appear to have dreaded the consequences of suffering the people to become so irreverently familiar with things sacred; they then imagined the laity to be much in the condition of the labourer's horse, which does not submit to the bridle and the whip with greater reluctance, because, at rare intervals, he is allowed to frolic at large in his pasture, and fling out his heels in clumsy gambols at the master who usually drives him. But, when times changed--when doubt of the Roman Catholic doctrine, and hatred of their priesthood, had possessed the reformed party, the clergy discovered, too late, that no small inconvenience arose from the established practice of games and merry-makings, in which they themselves, and all they held most sacred, were made the subject of ridicule. It then became obvious to duller politicians than the Romish churchmen, that the same actions have a very different tendency when done in the spirit of sarcastic insolence and hatred, than when acted merely in exuberance of rude and uncontrollable spirits. They, therefore, though of the latest, endeavoured, where they had any remaining influence, to discourage the renewal of these indecorous festivities. In this particular, the Catholic clergy were joined by most of the reformed preachers, who were more shocked at the profanity and immorality of many of these exhibitions, than disposed to profit by the ridiculous light in which they placed the Church of Rome and her observances. But it was long ere these scandalous and immoral sports could be abrogated;--the rude multitude continued attached to their favourite pastimes, and, both in England and Scotland, the mitre of the Catholic--the rochet of the reformed bishop--and the cloak and band of the Calvinistic divine--were, in turn, compelled to give place to those jocular personages, the Pope of Fools, the Boy-Bishop, and the Abbot of Unreason. [Footnote: From the interesting novel entitled Anastasius, it seems the same burlesque ceremonies were practised in the Greek Church. ] It was the latter personage who now, in full costume, made his approach to the great door of the church of St. Mary's, accoutred in such a manner as to form a caricature, or practical parody, on the costume and attendants of the real Superior, whom he came to beard on the very day of his installation, in the presence of his clergy, and in the chancel of his church. The mock dignitary was a stout-made under-sized fellow, whose thick squab form had been rendered grotesque by a supplemental paunch, well stuffed. He wore a mitre of leather, with the front like a grenadier's cap, adorned with mock embroidery, and trinkets of tin. This surmounted a visage, the nose of which was the most prominent feature, being of unusual size, and at least as richly gemmed as his head-gear. His robe was of buckram, and his cope of canvass, curiously painted, and cut into open work. On one shoulder was fixed the painted figure of an owl; and he bore in the right hand his pastoral staff, and in the left a small mirror having a handle to it, thus resembling a celebrated jester, whose adventures, translated into English, were whilom extremely popular, and which may still be procured in black letter, for about one sterling pound per leaf. The attendants of this mock dignitary had their proper dresses and equipage, bearing the same burlesque resemblance to the officers of the Convent which their leader did to the Superior. They followed their leader in regular procession, and the motley characters, which had waited his arrival, now crowded into the church in his train, shouting as they came,-- A hall, a hall! for the venerable Father Howleglas, the learned Monk of Misrule, and the Right Reverend Abbot of Unreason! The discordant minstrelsy of every kind renewed its din; the boys shrieked and howled, and the men laughed and hallooed, and the women giggled and screamed, and the beasts roared, and the dragon wallopped and hissed, and the hobby-horse neighed, pranced, and capered, and the rest frisked and frolicked, clashing their hobnailed shoes against the pavement, till it sparkled with the marks of their energetic caprioles. It was, in fine, a scene of ridiculous confusion, that deafened the ear, made the eyes giddy, and must have altogether stunned any indifferent spectator; the monks, whom personal apprehension and a consciousness that much of the popular enjoyment arose from the ridicule being directed against them, were, moreover, little comforted by

desirous

How many times the word 'desirous' appears in the text?

with the tortuousness and weakness of his own character. Every day he perceived that the difficulty of telling Lady Ella of the change in his faith became more mountainous. And every day he procrastinated. If he had told her naturally and simply on the evening of his return from London--before anything material intervened--everything would have been different, everything would have been simpler.... He groaned and rolled over in his bed. There came upon him the acutest remorse and misery. For he saw that amidst these petty immediacies he had lost touch with God. The last month became incredible. He had seen God. He had touched God's hand. God had been given to him, and he had neglected the gift. He was still lost amidst the darkness and loneliness, the chaotic ends and mean shifts, of an Erastian world. For a month now and more, after a vision of God so vivid and real and reassuring that surely no saint nor prophet had ever had a better, he had made no more than vague responsive movements; he had allowed himself to be persuaded into an unreasonable and cowardly delay, and the fetters of association and usage and minor interests were as unbroken as they had been before ever the vision shone. Was it credible that there had ever been such a vision in a life so entirely dictated by immediacy and instinct as his? We are all creatures of the dark stream, we swim in needs and bodily impulses and small vanities; if ever and again a bubble of spiritual imaginativeness glows out of us, it breaks and leaves us where we were. "Louse that I am!" he cried. He still believed in God, without a shadow of doubt; he believed in the God that he had seen, the high courage, the golden intention, the light that had for a moment touched him. But what had he to do with God, he, the loiterer, the little thing? He was little, he was funny. His prevarications with his wife, for example, were comic. There was no other word for him but "funny." He rolled back again and lay staring. "Who will deliver me from the body of this death?" What right has a little bishop in a purple stock and doeskin breeches, who hangs back in his palace from the very call of God, to a phrase so fine and tragic as "the body of this death?" He was the most unreal thing in the universe. He was a base insect giving himself airs. What advantage has a bishop over the Praying Mantis, that cricket which apes the attitude of piety? Does he matter more--to God? "To the God of the Universe, who can tell? To the God of man,--yes." He sat up in bed struck by his own answer, and full of an indescribable hunger for God and an indescribable sense of his complete want of courage to make the one simple appeal that would satisfy that hunger. He tried to pray. "O God!" he cried, "forgive me! Take me!" It seemed to him that he was not really praying but only making believe to pray. It seemed to him that he was not really existing but only seeming to exist. He seemed to himself to be one with figures on a china plate, with figures painted on walls, with the flimsy imagined lives of men in stories of forgotten times. "O God!" he said, "O God," acting a gesture, mimicking appeal. "Anaemic," he said, and was given an idea. He got out of bed, he took his keys from the night-table at the bed head and went to his bureau. He stood with Dale's tonic in his hand. He remained for some time holding it, and feeling a curious indisposition to go on with the thing in his mind. He turned at last with an effort. He carried the little phial to his bedside, and into the tumbler of his water-bottle he let the drops fall, drop by drop, until he had counted twenty. Then holding it to the bulb of his reading lamp he added the water and stood watching the slow pearly eddies in the mixture mingle into an opalescent uniformity. He replaced the water-bottle and stood with the glass in his hand. But he did not drink. He was afraid. He knew that he had only to drink and this world of confusion would grow transparent, would roll back and reveal the great simplicities behind. And he was afraid. He was afraid of that greatness. He was afraid of the great imperatives that he knew would at once take hold of his life. He wanted to muddle on for just a little longer. He wanted to stay just where he was, in his familiar prison-house, with the key of escape in his hand. Before he took the last step into the very presence of truth, he would--think. He put down the glass and lay down upon his bed.... (3) He awoke in a mood of great depression out of a dream of wandering interminably in an endless building of innumerable pillars, pillars so vast and high that the ceiling was lost in darkness. By the scale of these pillars he felt himself scarcely larger than an ant. He was always alone in these wanderings, and always missing something that passed along distant passages, something desirable, something in the nature of a procession or of a ceremony, something of which he was in futile pursuit, of which he heard faint echoes, something luminous of which he seemed at times to see the last fading reflection, across vast halls and wildernesses of shining pavement and through Cyclopaean archways. At last there was neither sound nor gleam, but the utmost solitude, and a darkness and silence and the uttermost profundity of sorrow.... It was bright day. Dunk had just come into the room with his tea, and the tumbler of Dr. Dale's tonic stood untouched upon the night-table. The bishop sat up in bed. He had missed his opportunity. To-day was a busy day, he knew. "No," he said, as Dunk hesitated whether to remove or leave the tumbler. "Leave that." Dunk found room for it upon the tea-tray, and vanished softly with the bishop's evening clothes. The bishop remained motionless facing the day. There stood the draught of decision that he had lacked the decision even to touch. From his bed he could just read the larger items that figured upon the engagement tablet which it was Whippham's business to fill over-night and place upon his table. He had two confirmation services, first the big one in the cathedral and then a second one in the evening at Pringle, various committees and an interview with Chasters. He had not yet finished his addresses for these confirmation services.... The task seemed mountainous--overwhelming. With a gesture of desperation he seized the tumblerful of tonic and drank it off at a gulp. (4) For some moments nothing seemed to happen. Then he began to feel stronger and less wretched, and then came a throbbing and tingling of artery and nerve. He had a sense of adventure, a pleasant fear in the thing that he had done. He got out of bed, leaving his cup of tea untasted, and began to dress. He had the sensation of relief a prisoner may feel who suddenly tries his cell door and finds it open upon sunshine, the outside world and freedom. He went on dressing although he was certain that in a few minutes the world of delusion about him would dissolve, and that he would find himself again in the great freedom of the place of God. This time the transition came much sooner and much more rapidly. This time the phases and quality of the experience were different. He felt once again that luminous confusion between the world in which a human life is imprisoned and a circumambient and interpenetrating world, but this phase passed very rapidly; it did not spread out over nearly half an hour as it had done before, and almost immediately he seemed to plunge away from everything in this life altogether into that outer freedom he sought. And this time there was not even the elemental scenery of the former vision. He stood on nothing; there was nothing below and nothing above him. There was no sense of falling, no terror, but a feeling as though he floated released. There was no light, but as it were a clear darkness about him. Then it was manifest to him that he was not alone, but that with him was that same being that in his former vision had called himself the Angel of God. He knew this without knowing why he knew this, and either he spoke and was answered, or he thought and his thought answered him back. His state of mind on this occasion was altogether different from the first vision of God; before it had been spectacular, but now his perception was altogether super-sensuous. (And nevertheless and all the time it seemed that very faintly he was still in his room.) It was he who was the first to speak. The great Angel whom he felt rather than saw seemed to be waiting for him to speak. "I have come," he said, "because once more I desire to see God." "But you have seen God." "I saw God. God was light, God was truth. And I went back to my life, and God was hidden. God seemed to call me. He called. I heard him, I sought him and I touched his hand. When I went back to my life I was presently lost in perplexity. I could not tell why God had called me nor what I had to do." "And why did you not come here before?" "Doubt and fear. Brother, will you not lay your hand on mine?" The figure in the darkness became distincter. But nothing touched the bishop's seeking hands. "I want to see God and to understand him. I want reassurance. I want conviction. I want to understand all that God asks me to do. The world is full of conflict and confusion and the spirit of war. It is dark and dreadful now with suffering and bloodshed. I want to serve God who could save it, and I do not know how." It seemed to the bishop that now he could distinguish dimly but surely the form and features of the great Angel to whom he talked. For a little while there was silence, and then the Angel spoke. "It was necessary first," said the Angel, "that you should apprehend God and desire him. That was the purport of your first vision. Now, since you require it, I will tell you and show you certain things about him, things that it seems you need to know, things that all men need to know. Know then first that the time is at hand when God will come into the world and rule it, and when men will know what is required of them. This time is close at hand. In a little while God will be made manifest throughout the earth. Men will know him and know that he is King. To you this truth is to be shown--that you may tell it to others." "This is no vision?" said the bishop, "no dream that will pass away?" "Am I not here beside you?" (5) The bishop was anxious to be very clear. Things that had been shapelessly present in his mind now took form and found words for themselves. "The God I saw in my vision--He is not yet manifest in the world?" "He comes. He is in the world, but he is not yet manifested. He whom you saw in your vision will speedily be manifest in the world. To you this vision is given of the things that come. The world is already glowing with God. Mankind is like a smouldering fire that will presently, in quite a little time, burst out into flame. "In your former vision I showed you God," said the Angel. "This time I will show you certain signs of the coming of God. And then you will understand the place you hold in the world and the task that is required of you." (6) And as the Angel spoke he lifted up his hands with the palms upward, and there appeared above them a little round cloud, that grew denser until it had the likeness of a silver sphere. It was a mirror in the form of a ball, but a mirror not shining uniformly; it was discoloured with greyish patches that had a familiar shape. It circled slowly upon the Angel's hands. It seemed no greater than the compass of a human skull, and yet it was as great as the earth. Indeed it showed the whole earth. It was the earth. The hands of the Angel vanished out of sight, dissolved and vanished, and the spinning world hung free. All about the bishop the velvet darkness broke into glittering points that shaped out the constellations, and nearest to them, so near as to seem only a few million miles away in the great emptiness into which everything had resolved itself, shone the sun, a ball of red-tongued fires. The Angel was but a voice now; the bishop and the Angel were somewhere aloof from and yet accessible to the circling silver sphere. At the time all that happened seemed to happen quite naturally, as things happen in a dream. It was only later, when all this was a matter of memory, that the bishop realized how strange and incomprehensible his vision had been. The sphere was the earth with all its continents and seas, its ships and cities, its country-sides and mountain ranges. It was so small that he could see it all at once, and so great and full that he could see everything in it. He could see great countries like little patches upon it, and at the same time he could see the faces of the men upon the highways, he could see the feelings in men's hearts and the thoughts in their minds. But it did not seem in any way wonderful to the bishop that so he should see those things, or that it was to him that these things were shown. "This is the whole world," he said. "This is the vision of the world," the Angel answered. "It is very wonderful," said the bishop, and stood for a moment marvelling at the compass of his vision. For here was India, here was Samarkand, in the light of the late afternoon; and China and the swarming cities upon her silvery rivers sinking through twilight to the night and throwing a spray and tracery of lantern spots upon the dark; here was Russia under the noontide, and so great a battle of artillery raging on the Dunajec as no man had ever seen before; whole lines of trenches dissolved into clouds of dust and heaps of blood-streaked earth; here close to the waiting streets of Constantinople were the hills of Gallipoli, the grave of British Imperialism, streaming to heaven with the dust and smoke of bursting shells and rifle fire and the smoke and flame of burning brushwood. In the sea of Marmora a big ship crowded with Turkish troops was sinking; and, purple under the clear water, he could see the shape of the British submarine which had torpedoed her and had submerged and was going away. Berlin prepared its frugal meals, still far from famine. He saw the war in Europe as if he saw it on a map, yet every human detail showed. Over hundreds of miles of trenches east and west of Germany he could see shells bursting and the men below dropping, and the stretcher-bearers going back with the wounded. The roads to every front were crowded with reserves and munitions. For a moment a little group of men indifferent to all this struggle, who were landing amidst the Antarctic wilderness, held his attention; and then his eyes went westward to the dark rolling Atlantic across which, as the edge of the night was drawn like a curtain, more and still more ships became visible beating upon their courses eastward or westward under the overtaking day. The wonder increased; the wonder of the single and infinitely multitudinous adventure of mankind. "So God perhaps sees it," he whispered. (7) "Look at this man," said the Angel, and the black shadow of a hand seemed to point. It was a Chinaman sitting with two others in a little low room separated by translucent paper windows from a noisy street of shrill-voiced people. The three had been talking of the ultimatum that Japan had sent that day to China, claiming a priority in many matters over European influences they were by no means sure whether it was a wrong or a benefit that had been done to their country. From that topic they had passed to the discussion of the war, and then of wars and national aggressions and the perpetual thrusting and quarrelling of mankind. The older man had said that so life would always be; it was the will of Heaven. The little, very yellow-faced, emaciated man had agreed with him. But now this younger man, to whose thoughts the Angel had so particularly directed the bishop's attention, was speaking. He did not agree with his companion. "War is not the will of Heaven," he said; "it is the blindness of men." "Man changes," he said, "from day to day and from age to age. The science of the West has taught us that. Man changes and war changes and all things change. China has been the land of flowery peace, and she may yet give peace to all the world. She has put aside that puppet Emperor at Peking, she turns her face to the new learning of the West as a man lays aside his heavy robes, in order that her task may be achieved." The older man spoke, his manner was more than a little incredulous, and yet not altogether contemptuous. "You believe that someday there will be no more war in the world, that a time will come when men will no longer plot and plan against the welfare of men?" "Even that last," said the younger man. "Did any of us dream twenty-five years ago that here in China we should live to see a republic? The age of the republics draws near, when men in every country of the world will look straight up to the rule of Right and the empire of Heaven." ("And God will be King of the World," said the Angel. "Is not that faith exactly the faith that is coming to you?") The two other Chinamen questioned their companion, but without hostility. "This war," said the Chinaman, "will end in a great harvesting of kings." "But Japan--" the older man began. The bishop would have liked to hear more of that conversation, but the dark hand of the Angel motioned him to another part of the world. "Listen to this," said the Angel. He pointed the bishop to where the armies of Britain and Turkey lay in the heat of Mesopotamia. Along the sandy bank of a wide, slow-flowing river rode two horsemen, an Englishman and a Turk. They were returning from the Turkish lines, whither the Englishman had been with a flag of truce. When Englishmen and Turks are thrown together they soon become friends, and in this case matters had been facilitated by the Englishman's command of the Turkish language. He was quite an exceptional Englishman. The Turk had just been remarking cheerfully that it wouldn't please the Germans if they were to discover how amiably he and his charge had got on. "It's a pity we ever ceased to be friends," he said. "You Englishmen aren't like our Christians," he went on. The Englishmen wanted to know why. "You haven't priests in robes. You don't chant and worship crosses and pictures, and quarrel among yourselves." "We worship the same God as you do," said the Englishman. "Then why do we fight?" "That's what we want to know." "Why do you call yourselves Christians? And take part against us? All who worship the One God are brothers." "They ought to be," said the Englishman, and thought. He was struck by what seemed to him an amazingly novel idea. "If it weren't for religions all men would serve God together," he said. "And then there would be no wars--only now and then perhaps just a little honest fighting...." "And see here," said the Angel. "Here close behind this frightful battle, where the German phalanx of guns pounds its way through the Russian hosts. Here is a young German talking to two wounded Russian prisoners, who have stopped to rest by the roadside. He is a German of East Prussia; he knows and thinks a little Russian. And they too are saying, all three of them, that the war is not God's will, but the confusion of mankind. "Here," he said, and the shadow of his hand hovered over the burning-ghats of Benares, where a Brahmin of the new persuasion watched the straight spires of funereal smoke ascend into the glow of the late afternoon, while he talked to an English painter, his friend, of the blind intolerance of race and caste and custom in India. "Or here." The Angel pointed to a group of people who had gathered upon a little beach at the head of a Norwegian fiord. There were three lads, an old man and two women, and they stood about the body of a drowned German sailor which had been washed up that day. For a time they had talked in whispers, but now suddenly the old man spoke aloud. "This is the fourth that has come ashore," he said. "Poor drowned souls! Because men will not serve God." "But folks go to church and pray enough," said one of the women. "They do not serve God," said the old man. "They just pray to him as one nods to a beggar. They do not serve God who is their King. They set up their false kings and emperors, and so all Europe is covered with dead, and the seas wash up these dead to us. Why does the world suffer these things? Why did we Norwegians, who are a free-spirited people, permit the Germans and the Swedes and the English to set up a king over us? Because we lack faith. Kings mean secret counsels, and secret counsels bring war. Sooner or later war will come to us also if we give the soul of our nation in trust to a king.... But things will not always be thus with men. God will not suffer them for ever. A day comes, and it is no distant day, when God himself will rule the earth, and when men will do, not what the king wishes nor what is expedient nor what is customary, but what is manifestly right.".... "But men are saying that now in a thousand places," said the Angel. "Here is something that goes a little beyond that." His pointing hand went southward until they saw the Africanders riding down to Windhuk. Two men, Boer farmers both, rode side by side and talked of the German officer they brought prisoner with them. He had put sheep-dip in the wells of drinking-water; his life was fairly forfeit, and he was not to be killed. "We want no more hate in South Africa," they agreed. "Dutch and English and German must live here now side by side. Men cannot always be killing." "And see his thoughts," said the Angel. The German's mind was one amazement. He had been sure of being shot, he had meant to make a good end, fierce and scornful, a relentless fighter to the last; and these men who might have shot him like a man were going to spare him like a dog. His mind was a tumbled muddle of old and new ideas. He had been brought up in an atmosphere of the foulest and fiercest militarism; he had been trained to relentlessness, ruthlessness and so forth; war was war and the bitterer the better, frightfulness was your way to victory over every enemy. But these people had found a better way. Here were Dutch and English side by side; sixteen years ago they had been at war together and now they wore the same uniform and rode together, and laughed at him for a queer fellow because he was for spitting at them and defying them, and folding his arms and looking level at the executioners' rifles. There were to be no executioners' rifles.... If it was so with Dutch and English, why shouldn't it be so presently with French and Germans? Why someday shouldn't French, German, Dutch and English, Russian and Pole, ride together under this new star of mankind, the Southern Cross, to catch whatever last mischief-maker was left to poison the wells of goodwill? His mind resisted and struggled against these ideas. "Austere," he whispered. "The ennobling tests of war." A trooner rode up alongside, and offered him a drink of water "Just a mouthful," he said apologetically. "We've had to go rather short."... "There's another brain busy here with the same idea," the Angel interrupted. And the bishop found himself looking into the bedroom of a young German attache in Washington, sleepless in the small hours. "Ach!" cried the young man, and sat up in bed and ran his hands through his fair hair. He had been working late upon this detestable business of the Lusitania; the news of her sinking had come to hand two days before, and all America was aflame with it. It might mean war. His task had been to pour out explanations and justifications to the press; to show that it was an act of necessity, to pretend a conviction that the great ship was loaded with munitions, to fight down the hostility and anger that blazed across a continent. He had worked to his limit. He had taken cup after cup of coffee, and had come to bed worked out not two hours ago. Now here he was awake after a nightmare of drowning women and children, trying to comfort his soul by recalling his own arguments. Never once since the war began had he doubted the rightness of the German cause. It seemed only a proof of his nervous exhaustion that he could doubt it now. Germany was the best organized, most cultivated, scientific and liberal nation the earth had ever seen, it was for the good of mankind that she should be the dominant power in the world; his patriotism had had the passion of a mission. The English were indolent, the French decadent, the Russians barbaric, the Americans basely democratic; the rest of the world was the "White man's Burthen"; the clear destiny of mankind was subservience to the good Prussian eagle. Nevertheless--those wet draggled bodies that swirled down in the eddies of the sinking Titan--Ach! He wished it could have been otherwise. He nursed his knees and prayed that there need not be much more of these things before the spirit of the enemy was broken and the great Peace of Germany came upon the world. And suddenly he stopped short in his prayer. Suddenly out of the nothingness and darkness about him came the conviction that God did not listen to his prayers.... Was there any other way? It was the most awful doubt he had ever had, for it smote at the training of all his life. "Could it be possible that after all our old German God is not the proper style and title of the true God? Is our old German God perhaps only the last of a long succession of bloodstained tribal effigies--and not God at all?" For a long time it seemed that the bishop watched the thoughts that gathered in the young attache's mind. Until suddenly he broke into a quotation, into that last cry of the dying Goethe, for "Light. More Light!"... "Leave him at that," said the Angel. "I want you to hear these two young women." The hand came back to England and pointed to where Southend at the mouth of the Thames was all agog with the excitement of an overnight Zeppelin raid. People had got up hours before their usual time in order to look at the wrecked houses before they went up to their work in town. Everybody seemed abroad. Two nurses, not very well trained as nurses go nor very well-educated women, were snatching a little sea air upon the front after an eventful night. They were too excited still to sleep. They were talking of the horror of the moment when they saw the nasty thing "up there," and felt helpless as it dropped its bombs. They had both hated it. "There didn't ought to be such things," said one. "They don't seem needed," said her companion. "Men won't always go on like this--making wars and all such wickedness." "It's 'ow to stop them?" "Science is going to stop them." "Science?" "Yes, science. My young brother--oh, he's a clever one--he says such things! He says that it's science that they won't always go on like this. There's more sense coming into the world and more--my young brother says so. Says it stands to reason; it's Evolution. It's science that men are all brothers; you can prove it. It's science that there oughtn't to be war. Science is ending war now by making it horrible like this, and making it so that no one is safe. Showing it up. Only when nobody is safe will everybody want to set up peace,

uttermost

How many times the word 'uttermost' appears in the text?

with the tortuousness and weakness of his own character. Every day he perceived that the difficulty of telling Lady Ella of the change in his faith became more mountainous. And every day he procrastinated. If he had told her naturally and simply on the evening of his return from London--before anything material intervened--everything would have been different, everything would have been simpler.... He groaned and rolled over in his bed. There came upon him the acutest remorse and misery. For he saw that amidst these petty immediacies he had lost touch with God. The last month became incredible. He had seen God. He had touched God's hand. God had been given to him, and he had neglected the gift. He was still lost amidst the darkness and loneliness, the chaotic ends and mean shifts, of an Erastian world. For a month now and more, after a vision of God so vivid and real and reassuring that surely no saint nor prophet had ever had a better, he had made no more than vague responsive movements; he had allowed himself to be persuaded into an unreasonable and cowardly delay, and the fetters of association and usage and minor interests were as unbroken as they had been before ever the vision shone. Was it credible that there had ever been such a vision in a life so entirely dictated by immediacy and instinct as his? We are all creatures of the dark stream, we swim in needs and bodily impulses and small vanities; if ever and again a bubble of spiritual imaginativeness glows out of us, it breaks and leaves us where we were. "Louse that I am!" he cried. He still believed in God, without a shadow of doubt; he believed in the God that he had seen, the high courage, the golden intention, the light that had for a moment touched him. But what had he to do with God, he, the loiterer, the little thing? He was little, he was funny. His prevarications with his wife, for example, were comic. There was no other word for him but "funny." He rolled back again and lay staring. "Who will deliver me from the body of this death?" What right has a little bishop in a purple stock and doeskin breeches, who hangs back in his palace from the very call of God, to a phrase so fine and tragic as "the body of this death?" He was the most unreal thing in the universe. He was a base insect giving himself airs. What advantage has a bishop over the Praying Mantis, that cricket which apes the attitude of piety? Does he matter more--to God? "To the God of the Universe, who can tell? To the God of man,--yes." He sat up in bed struck by his own answer, and full of an indescribable hunger for God and an indescribable sense of his complete want of courage to make the one simple appeal that would satisfy that hunger. He tried to pray. "O God!" he cried, "forgive me! Take me!" It seemed to him that he was not really praying but only making believe to pray. It seemed to him that he was not really existing but only seeming to exist. He seemed to himself to be one with figures on a china plate, with figures painted on walls, with the flimsy imagined lives of men in stories of forgotten times. "O God!" he said, "O God," acting a gesture, mimicking appeal. "Anaemic," he said, and was given an idea. He got out of bed, he took his keys from the night-table at the bed head and went to his bureau. He stood with Dale's tonic in his hand. He remained for some time holding it, and feeling a curious indisposition to go on with the thing in his mind. He turned at last with an effort. He carried the little phial to his bedside, and into the tumbler of his water-bottle he let the drops fall, drop by drop, until he had counted twenty. Then holding it to the bulb of his reading lamp he added the water and stood watching the slow pearly eddies in the mixture mingle into an opalescent uniformity. He replaced the water-bottle and stood with the glass in his hand. But he did not drink. He was afraid. He knew that he had only to drink and this world of confusion would grow transparent, would roll back and reveal the great simplicities behind. And he was afraid. He was afraid of that greatness. He was afraid of the great imperatives that he knew would at once take hold of his life. He wanted to muddle on for just a little longer. He wanted to stay just where he was, in his familiar prison-house, with the key of escape in his hand. Before he took the last step into the very presence of truth, he would--think. He put down the glass and lay down upon his bed.... (3) He awoke in a mood of great depression out of a dream of wandering interminably in an endless building of innumerable pillars, pillars so vast and high that the ceiling was lost in darkness. By the scale of these pillars he felt himself scarcely larger than an ant. He was always alone in these wanderings, and always missing something that passed along distant passages, something desirable, something in the nature of a procession or of a ceremony, something of which he was in futile pursuit, of which he heard faint echoes, something luminous of which he seemed at times to see the last fading reflection, across vast halls and wildernesses of shining pavement and through Cyclopaean archways. At last there was neither sound nor gleam, but the utmost solitude, and a darkness and silence and the uttermost profundity of sorrow.... It was bright day. Dunk had just come into the room with his tea, and the tumbler of Dr. Dale's tonic stood untouched upon the night-table. The bishop sat up in bed. He had missed his opportunity. To-day was a busy day, he knew. "No," he said, as Dunk hesitated whether to remove or leave the tumbler. "Leave that." Dunk found room for it upon the tea-tray, and vanished softly with the bishop's evening clothes. The bishop remained motionless facing the day. There stood the draught of decision that he had lacked the decision even to touch. From his bed he could just read the larger items that figured upon the engagement tablet which it was Whippham's business to fill over-night and place upon his table. He had two confirmation services, first the big one in the cathedral and then a second one in the evening at Pringle, various committees and an interview with Chasters. He had not yet finished his addresses for these confirmation services.... The task seemed mountainous--overwhelming. With a gesture of desperation he seized the tumblerful of tonic and drank it off at a gulp. (4) For some moments nothing seemed to happen. Then he began to feel stronger and less wretched, and then came a throbbing and tingling of artery and nerve. He had a sense of adventure, a pleasant fear in the thing that he had done. He got out of bed, leaving his cup of tea untasted, and began to dress. He had the sensation of relief a prisoner may feel who suddenly tries his cell door and finds it open upon sunshine, the outside world and freedom. He went on dressing although he was certain that in a few minutes the world of delusion about him would dissolve, and that he would find himself again in the great freedom of the place of God. This time the transition came much sooner and much more rapidly. This time the phases and quality of the experience were different. He felt once again that luminous confusion between the world in which a human life is imprisoned and a circumambient and interpenetrating world, but this phase passed very rapidly; it did not spread out over nearly half an hour as it had done before, and almost immediately he seemed to plunge away from everything in this life altogether into that outer freedom he sought. And this time there was not even the elemental scenery of the former vision. He stood on nothing; there was nothing below and nothing above him. There was no sense of falling, no terror, but a feeling as though he floated released. There was no light, but as it were a clear darkness about him. Then it was manifest to him that he was not alone, but that with him was that same being that in his former vision had called himself the Angel of God. He knew this without knowing why he knew this, and either he spoke and was answered, or he thought and his thought answered him back. His state of mind on this occasion was altogether different from the first vision of God; before it had been spectacular, but now his perception was altogether super-sensuous. (And nevertheless and all the time it seemed that very faintly he was still in his room.) It was he who was the first to speak. The great Angel whom he felt rather than saw seemed to be waiting for him to speak. "I have come," he said, "because once more I desire to see God." "But you have seen God." "I saw God. God was light, God was truth. And I went back to my life, and God was hidden. God seemed to call me. He called. I heard him, I sought him and I touched his hand. When I went back to my life I was presently lost in perplexity. I could not tell why God had called me nor what I had to do." "And why did you not come here before?" "Doubt and fear. Brother, will you not lay your hand on mine?" The figure in the darkness became distincter. But nothing touched the bishop's seeking hands. "I want to see God and to understand him. I want reassurance. I want conviction. I want to understand all that God asks me to do. The world is full of conflict and confusion and the spirit of war. It is dark and dreadful now with suffering and bloodshed. I want to serve God who could save it, and I do not know how." It seemed to the bishop that now he could distinguish dimly but surely the form and features of the great Angel to whom he talked. For a little while there was silence, and then the Angel spoke. "It was necessary first," said the Angel, "that you should apprehend God and desire him. That was the purport of your first vision. Now, since you require it, I will tell you and show you certain things about him, things that it seems you need to know, things that all men need to know. Know then first that the time is at hand when God will come into the world and rule it, and when men will know what is required of them. This time is close at hand. In a little while God will be made manifest throughout the earth. Men will know him and know that he is King. To you this truth is to be shown--that you may tell it to others." "This is no vision?" said the bishop, "no dream that will pass away?" "Am I not here beside you?" (5) The bishop was anxious to be very clear. Things that had been shapelessly present in his mind now took form and found words for themselves. "The God I saw in my vision--He is not yet manifest in the world?" "He comes. He is in the world, but he is not yet manifested. He whom you saw in your vision will speedily be manifest in the world. To you this vision is given of the things that come. The world is already glowing with God. Mankind is like a smouldering fire that will presently, in quite a little time, burst out into flame. "In your former vision I showed you God," said the Angel. "This time I will show you certain signs of the coming of God. And then you will understand the place you hold in the world and the task that is required of you." (6) And as the Angel spoke he lifted up his hands with the palms upward, and there appeared above them a little round cloud, that grew denser until it had the likeness of a silver sphere. It was a mirror in the form of a ball, but a mirror not shining uniformly; it was discoloured with greyish patches that had a familiar shape. It circled slowly upon the Angel's hands. It seemed no greater than the compass of a human skull, and yet it was as great as the earth. Indeed it showed the whole earth. It was the earth. The hands of the Angel vanished out of sight, dissolved and vanished, and the spinning world hung free. All about the bishop the velvet darkness broke into glittering points that shaped out the constellations, and nearest to them, so near as to seem only a few million miles away in the great emptiness into which everything had resolved itself, shone the sun, a ball of red-tongued fires. The Angel was but a voice now; the bishop and the Angel were somewhere aloof from and yet accessible to the circling silver sphere. At the time all that happened seemed to happen quite naturally, as things happen in a dream. It was only later, when all this was a matter of memory, that the bishop realized how strange and incomprehensible his vision had been. The sphere was the earth with all its continents and seas, its ships and cities, its country-sides and mountain ranges. It was so small that he could see it all at once, and so great and full that he could see everything in it. He could see great countries like little patches upon it, and at the same time he could see the faces of the men upon the highways, he could see the feelings in men's hearts and the thoughts in their minds. But it did not seem in any way wonderful to the bishop that so he should see those things, or that it was to him that these things were shown. "This is the whole world," he said. "This is the vision of the world," the Angel answered. "It is very wonderful," said the bishop, and stood for a moment marvelling at the compass of his vision. For here was India, here was Samarkand, in the light of the late afternoon; and China and the swarming cities upon her silvery rivers sinking through twilight to the night and throwing a spray and tracery of lantern spots upon the dark; here was Russia under the noontide, and so great a battle of artillery raging on the Dunajec as no man had ever seen before; whole lines of trenches dissolved into clouds of dust and heaps of blood-streaked earth; here close to the waiting streets of Constantinople were the hills of Gallipoli, the grave of British Imperialism, streaming to heaven with the dust and smoke of bursting shells and rifle fire and the smoke and flame of burning brushwood. In the sea of Marmora a big ship crowded with Turkish troops was sinking; and, purple under the clear water, he could see the shape of the British submarine which had torpedoed her and had submerged and was going away. Berlin prepared its frugal meals, still far from famine. He saw the war in Europe as if he saw it on a map, yet every human detail showed. Over hundreds of miles of trenches east and west of Germany he could see shells bursting and the men below dropping, and the stretcher-bearers going back with the wounded. The roads to every front were crowded with reserves and munitions. For a moment a little group of men indifferent to all this struggle, who were landing amidst the Antarctic wilderness, held his attention; and then his eyes went westward to the dark rolling Atlantic across which, as the edge of the night was drawn like a curtain, more and still more ships became visible beating upon their courses eastward or westward under the overtaking day. The wonder increased; the wonder of the single and infinitely multitudinous adventure of mankind. "So God perhaps sees it," he whispered. (7) "Look at this man," said the Angel, and the black shadow of a hand seemed to point. It was a Chinaman sitting with two others in a little low room separated by translucent paper windows from a noisy street of shrill-voiced people. The three had been talking of the ultimatum that Japan had sent that day to China, claiming a priority in many matters over European influences they were by no means sure whether it was a wrong or a benefit that had been done to their country. From that topic they had passed to the discussion of the war, and then of wars and national aggressions and the perpetual thrusting and quarrelling of mankind. The older man had said that so life would always be; it was the will of Heaven. The little, very yellow-faced, emaciated man had agreed with him. But now this younger man, to whose thoughts the Angel had so particularly directed the bishop's attention, was speaking. He did not agree with his companion. "War is not the will of Heaven," he said; "it is the blindness of men." "Man changes," he said, "from day to day and from age to age. The science of the West has taught us that. Man changes and war changes and all things change. China has been the land of flowery peace, and she may yet give peace to all the world. She has put aside that puppet Emperor at Peking, she turns her face to the new learning of the West as a man lays aside his heavy robes, in order that her task may be achieved." The older man spoke, his manner was more than a little incredulous, and yet not altogether contemptuous. "You believe that someday there will be no more war in the world, that a time will come when men will no longer plot and plan against the welfare of men?" "Even that last," said the younger man. "Did any of us dream twenty-five years ago that here in China we should live to see a republic? The age of the republics draws near, when men in every country of the world will look straight up to the rule of Right and the empire of Heaven." ("And God will be King of the World," said the Angel. "Is not that faith exactly the faith that is coming to you?") The two other Chinamen questioned their companion, but without hostility. "This war," said the Chinaman, "will end in a great harvesting of kings." "But Japan--" the older man began. The bishop would have liked to hear more of that conversation, but the dark hand of the Angel motioned him to another part of the world. "Listen to this," said the Angel. He pointed the bishop to where the armies of Britain and Turkey lay in the heat of Mesopotamia. Along the sandy bank of a wide, slow-flowing river rode two horsemen, an Englishman and a Turk. They were returning from the Turkish lines, whither the Englishman had been with a flag of truce. When Englishmen and Turks are thrown together they soon become friends, and in this case matters had been facilitated by the Englishman's command of the Turkish language. He was quite an exceptional Englishman. The Turk had just been remarking cheerfully that it wouldn't please the Germans if they were to discover how amiably he and his charge had got on. "It's a pity we ever ceased to be friends," he said. "You Englishmen aren't like our Christians," he went on. The Englishmen wanted to know why. "You haven't priests in robes. You don't chant and worship crosses and pictures, and quarrel among yourselves." "We worship the same God as you do," said the Englishman. "Then why do we fight?" "That's what we want to know." "Why do you call yourselves Christians? And take part against us? All who worship the One God are brothers." "They ought to be," said the Englishman, and thought. He was struck by what seemed to him an amazingly novel idea. "If it weren't for religions all men would serve God together," he said. "And then there would be no wars--only now and then perhaps just a little honest fighting...." "And see here," said the Angel. "Here close behind this frightful battle, where the German phalanx of guns pounds its way through the Russian hosts. Here is a young German talking to two wounded Russian prisoners, who have stopped to rest by the roadside. He is a German of East Prussia; he knows and thinks a little Russian. And they too are saying, all three of them, that the war is not God's will, but the confusion of mankind. "Here," he said, and the shadow of his hand hovered over the burning-ghats of Benares, where a Brahmin of the new persuasion watched the straight spires of funereal smoke ascend into the glow of the late afternoon, while he talked to an English painter, his friend, of the blind intolerance of race and caste and custom in India. "Or here." The Angel pointed to a group of people who had gathered upon a little beach at the head of a Norwegian fiord. There were three lads, an old man and two women, and they stood about the body of a drowned German sailor which had been washed up that day. For a time they had talked in whispers, but now suddenly the old man spoke aloud. "This is the fourth that has come ashore," he said. "Poor drowned souls! Because men will not serve God." "But folks go to church and pray enough," said one of the women. "They do not serve God," said the old man. "They just pray to him as one nods to a beggar. They do not serve God who is their King. They set up their false kings and emperors, and so all Europe is covered with dead, and the seas wash up these dead to us. Why does the world suffer these things? Why did we Norwegians, who are a free-spirited people, permit the Germans and the Swedes and the English to set up a king over us? Because we lack faith. Kings mean secret counsels, and secret counsels bring war. Sooner or later war will come to us also if we give the soul of our nation in trust to a king.... But things will not always be thus with men. God will not suffer them for ever. A day comes, and it is no distant day, when God himself will rule the earth, and when men will do, not what the king wishes nor what is expedient nor what is customary, but what is manifestly right.".... "But men are saying that now in a thousand places," said the Angel. "Here is something that goes a little beyond that." His pointing hand went southward until they saw the Africanders riding down to Windhuk. Two men, Boer farmers both, rode side by side and talked of the German officer they brought prisoner with them. He had put sheep-dip in the wells of drinking-water; his life was fairly forfeit, and he was not to be killed. "We want no more hate in South Africa," they agreed. "Dutch and English and German must live here now side by side. Men cannot always be killing." "And see his thoughts," said the Angel. The German's mind was one amazement. He had been sure of being shot, he had meant to make a good end, fierce and scornful, a relentless fighter to the last; and these men who might have shot him like a man were going to spare him like a dog. His mind was a tumbled muddle of old and new ideas. He had been brought up in an atmosphere of the foulest and fiercest militarism; he had been trained to relentlessness, ruthlessness and so forth; war was war and the bitterer the better, frightfulness was your way to victory over every enemy. But these people had found a better way. Here were Dutch and English side by side; sixteen years ago they had been at war together and now they wore the same uniform and rode together, and laughed at him for a queer fellow because he was for spitting at them and defying them, and folding his arms and looking level at the executioners' rifles. There were to be no executioners' rifles.... If it was so with Dutch and English, why shouldn't it be so presently with French and Germans? Why someday shouldn't French, German, Dutch and English, Russian and Pole, ride together under this new star of mankind, the Southern Cross, to catch whatever last mischief-maker was left to poison the wells of goodwill? His mind resisted and struggled against these ideas. "Austere," he whispered. "The ennobling tests of war." A trooner rode up alongside, and offered him a drink of water "Just a mouthful," he said apologetically. "We've had to go rather short."... "There's another brain busy here with the same idea," the Angel interrupted. And the bishop found himself looking into the bedroom of a young German attache in Washington, sleepless in the small hours. "Ach!" cried the young man, and sat up in bed and ran his hands through his fair hair. He had been working late upon this detestable business of the Lusitania; the news of her sinking had come to hand two days before, and all America was aflame with it. It might mean war. His task had been to pour out explanations and justifications to the press; to show that it was an act of necessity, to pretend a conviction that the great ship was loaded with munitions, to fight down the hostility and anger that blazed across a continent. He had worked to his limit. He had taken cup after cup of coffee, and had come to bed worked out not two hours ago. Now here he was awake after a nightmare of drowning women and children, trying to comfort his soul by recalling his own arguments. Never once since the war began had he doubted the rightness of the German cause. It seemed only a proof of his nervous exhaustion that he could doubt it now. Germany was the best organized, most cultivated, scientific and liberal nation the earth had ever seen, it was for the good of mankind that she should be the dominant power in the world; his patriotism had had the passion of a mission. The English were indolent, the French decadent, the Russians barbaric, the Americans basely democratic; the rest of the world was the "White man's Burthen"; the clear destiny of mankind was subservience to the good Prussian eagle. Nevertheless--those wet draggled bodies that swirled down in the eddies of the sinking Titan--Ach! He wished it could have been otherwise. He nursed his knees and prayed that there need not be much more of these things before the spirit of the enemy was broken and the great Peace of Germany came upon the world. And suddenly he stopped short in his prayer. Suddenly out of the nothingness and darkness about him came the conviction that God did not listen to his prayers.... Was there any other way? It was the most awful doubt he had ever had, for it smote at the training of all his life. "Could it be possible that after all our old German God is not the proper style and title of the true God? Is our old German God perhaps only the last of a long succession of bloodstained tribal effigies--and not God at all?" For a long time it seemed that the bishop watched the thoughts that gathered in the young attache's mind. Until suddenly he broke into a quotation, into that last cry of the dying Goethe, for "Light. More Light!"... "Leave him at that," said the Angel. "I want you to hear these two young women." The hand came back to England and pointed to where Southend at the mouth of the Thames was all agog with the excitement of an overnight Zeppelin raid. People had got up hours before their usual time in order to look at the wrecked houses before they went up to their work in town. Everybody seemed abroad. Two nurses, not very well trained as nurses go nor very well-educated women, were snatching a little sea air upon the front after an eventful night. They were too excited still to sleep. They were talking of the horror of the moment when they saw the nasty thing "up there," and felt helpless as it dropped its bombs. They had both hated it. "There didn't ought to be such things," said one. "They don't seem needed," said her companion. "Men won't always go on like this--making wars and all such wickedness." "It's 'ow to stop them?" "Science is going to stop them." "Science?" "Yes, science. My young brother--oh, he's a clever one--he says such things! He says that it's science that they won't always go on like this. There's more sense coming into the world and more--my young brother says so. Says it stands to reason; it's Evolution. It's science that men are all brothers; you can prove it. It's science that there oughtn't to be war. Science is ending war now by making it horrible like this, and making it so that no one is safe. Showing it up. Only when nobody is safe will everybody want to set up peace,

praying

How many times the word 'praying' appears in the text?

with the tortuousness and weakness of his own character. Every day he perceived that the difficulty of telling Lady Ella of the change in his faith became more mountainous. And every day he procrastinated. If he had told her naturally and simply on the evening of his return from London--before anything material intervened--everything would have been different, everything would have been simpler.... He groaned and rolled over in his bed. There came upon him the acutest remorse and misery. For he saw that amidst these petty immediacies he had lost touch with God. The last month became incredible. He had seen God. He had touched God's hand. God had been given to him, and he had neglected the gift. He was still lost amidst the darkness and loneliness, the chaotic ends and mean shifts, of an Erastian world. For a month now and more, after a vision of God so vivid and real and reassuring that surely no saint nor prophet had ever had a better, he had made no more than vague responsive movements; he had allowed himself to be persuaded into an unreasonable and cowardly delay, and the fetters of association and usage and minor interests were as unbroken as they had been before ever the vision shone. Was it credible that there had ever been such a vision in a life so entirely dictated by immediacy and instinct as his? We are all creatures of the dark stream, we swim in needs and bodily impulses and small vanities; if ever and again a bubble of spiritual imaginativeness glows out of us, it breaks and leaves us where we were. "Louse that I am!" he cried. He still believed in God, without a shadow of doubt; he believed in the God that he had seen, the high courage, the golden intention, the light that had for a moment touched him. But what had he to do with God, he, the loiterer, the little thing? He was little, he was funny. His prevarications with his wife, for example, were comic. There was no other word for him but "funny." He rolled back again and lay staring. "Who will deliver me from the body of this death?" What right has a little bishop in a purple stock and doeskin breeches, who hangs back in his palace from the very call of God, to a phrase so fine and tragic as "the body of this death?" He was the most unreal thing in the universe. He was a base insect giving himself airs. What advantage has a bishop over the Praying Mantis, that cricket which apes the attitude of piety? Does he matter more--to God? "To the God of the Universe, who can tell? To the God of man,--yes." He sat up in bed struck by his own answer, and full of an indescribable hunger for God and an indescribable sense of his complete want of courage to make the one simple appeal that would satisfy that hunger. He tried to pray. "O God!" he cried, "forgive me! Take me!" It seemed to him that he was not really praying but only making believe to pray. It seemed to him that he was not really existing but only seeming to exist. He seemed to himself to be one with figures on a china plate, with figures painted on walls, with the flimsy imagined lives of men in stories of forgotten times. "O God!" he said, "O God," acting a gesture, mimicking appeal. "Anaemic," he said, and was given an idea. He got out of bed, he took his keys from the night-table at the bed head and went to his bureau. He stood with Dale's tonic in his hand. He remained for some time holding it, and feeling a curious indisposition to go on with the thing in his mind. He turned at last with an effort. He carried the little phial to his bedside, and into the tumbler of his water-bottle he let the drops fall, drop by drop, until he had counted twenty. Then holding it to the bulb of his reading lamp he added the water and stood watching the slow pearly eddies in the mixture mingle into an opalescent uniformity. He replaced the water-bottle and stood with the glass in his hand. But he did not drink. He was afraid. He knew that he had only to drink and this world of confusion would grow transparent, would roll back and reveal the great simplicities behind. And he was afraid. He was afraid of that greatness. He was afraid of the great imperatives that he knew would at once take hold of his life. He wanted to muddle on for just a little longer. He wanted to stay just where he was, in his familiar prison-house, with the key of escape in his hand. Before he took the last step into the very presence of truth, he would--think. He put down the glass and lay down upon his bed.... (3) He awoke in a mood of great depression out of a dream of wandering interminably in an endless building of innumerable pillars, pillars so vast and high that the ceiling was lost in darkness. By the scale of these pillars he felt himself scarcely larger than an ant. He was always alone in these wanderings, and always missing something that passed along distant passages, something desirable, something in the nature of a procession or of a ceremony, something of which he was in futile pursuit, of which he heard faint echoes, something luminous of which he seemed at times to see the last fading reflection, across vast halls and wildernesses of shining pavement and through Cyclopaean archways. At last there was neither sound nor gleam, but the utmost solitude, and a darkness and silence and the uttermost profundity of sorrow.... It was bright day. Dunk had just come into the room with his tea, and the tumbler of Dr. Dale's tonic stood untouched upon the night-table. The bishop sat up in bed. He had missed his opportunity. To-day was a busy day, he knew. "No," he said, as Dunk hesitated whether to remove or leave the tumbler. "Leave that." Dunk found room for it upon the tea-tray, and vanished softly with the bishop's evening clothes. The bishop remained motionless facing the day. There stood the draught of decision that he had lacked the decision even to touch. From his bed he could just read the larger items that figured upon the engagement tablet which it was Whippham's business to fill over-night and place upon his table. He had two confirmation services, first the big one in the cathedral and then a second one in the evening at Pringle, various committees and an interview with Chasters. He had not yet finished his addresses for these confirmation services.... The task seemed mountainous--overwhelming. With a gesture of desperation he seized the tumblerful of tonic and drank it off at a gulp. (4) For some moments nothing seemed to happen. Then he began to feel stronger and less wretched, and then came a throbbing and tingling of artery and nerve. He had a sense of adventure, a pleasant fear in the thing that he had done. He got out of bed, leaving his cup of tea untasted, and began to dress. He had the sensation of relief a prisoner may feel who suddenly tries his cell door and finds it open upon sunshine, the outside world and freedom. He went on dressing although he was certain that in a few minutes the world of delusion about him would dissolve, and that he would find himself again in the great freedom of the place of God. This time the transition came much sooner and much more rapidly. This time the phases and quality of the experience were different. He felt once again that luminous confusion between the world in which a human life is imprisoned and a circumambient and interpenetrating world, but this phase passed very rapidly; it did not spread out over nearly half an hour as it had done before, and almost immediately he seemed to plunge away from everything in this life altogether into that outer freedom he sought. And this time there was not even the elemental scenery of the former vision. He stood on nothing; there was nothing below and nothing above him. There was no sense of falling, no terror, but a feeling as though he floated released. There was no light, but as it were a clear darkness about him. Then it was manifest to him that he was not alone, but that with him was that same being that in his former vision had called himself the Angel of God. He knew this without knowing why he knew this, and either he spoke and was answered, or he thought and his thought answered him back. His state of mind on this occasion was altogether different from the first vision of God; before it had been spectacular, but now his perception was altogether super-sensuous. (And nevertheless and all the time it seemed that very faintly he was still in his room.) It was he who was the first to speak. The great Angel whom he felt rather than saw seemed to be waiting for him to speak. "I have come," he said, "because once more I desire to see God." "But you have seen God." "I saw God. God was light, God was truth. And I went back to my life, and God was hidden. God seemed to call me. He called. I heard him, I sought him and I touched his hand. When I went back to my life I was presently lost in perplexity. I could not tell why God had called me nor what I had to do." "And why did you not come here before?" "Doubt and fear. Brother, will you not lay your hand on mine?" The figure in the darkness became distincter. But nothing touched the bishop's seeking hands. "I want to see God and to understand him. I want reassurance. I want conviction. I want to understand all that God asks me to do. The world is full of conflict and confusion and the spirit of war. It is dark and dreadful now with suffering and bloodshed. I want to serve God who could save it, and I do not know how." It seemed to the bishop that now he could distinguish dimly but surely the form and features of the great Angel to whom he talked. For a little while there was silence, and then the Angel spoke. "It was necessary first," said the Angel, "that you should apprehend God and desire him. That was the purport of your first vision. Now, since you require it, I will tell you and show you certain things about him, things that it seems you need to know, things that all men need to know. Know then first that the time is at hand when God will come into the world and rule it, and when men will know what is required of them. This time is close at hand. In a little while God will be made manifest throughout the earth. Men will know him and know that he is King. To you this truth is to be shown--that you may tell it to others." "This is no vision?" said the bishop, "no dream that will pass away?" "Am I not here beside you?" (5) The bishop was anxious to be very clear. Things that had been shapelessly present in his mind now took form and found words for themselves. "The God I saw in my vision--He is not yet manifest in the world?" "He comes. He is in the world, but he is not yet manifested. He whom you saw in your vision will speedily be manifest in the world. To you this vision is given of the things that come. The world is already glowing with God. Mankind is like a smouldering fire that will presently, in quite a little time, burst out into flame. "In your former vision I showed you God," said the Angel. "This time I will show you certain signs of the coming of God. And then you will understand the place you hold in the world and the task that is required of you." (6) And as the Angel spoke he lifted up his hands with the palms upward, and there appeared above them a little round cloud, that grew denser until it had the likeness of a silver sphere. It was a mirror in the form of a ball, but a mirror not shining uniformly; it was discoloured with greyish patches that had a familiar shape. It circled slowly upon the Angel's hands. It seemed no greater than the compass of a human skull, and yet it was as great as the earth. Indeed it showed the whole earth. It was the earth. The hands of the Angel vanished out of sight, dissolved and vanished, and the spinning world hung free. All about the bishop the velvet darkness broke into glittering points that shaped out the constellations, and nearest to them, so near as to seem only a few million miles away in the great emptiness into which everything had resolved itself, shone the sun, a ball of red-tongued fires. The Angel was but a voice now; the bishop and the Angel were somewhere aloof from and yet accessible to the circling silver sphere. At the time all that happened seemed to happen quite naturally, as things happen in a dream. It was only later, when all this was a matter of memory, that the bishop realized how strange and incomprehensible his vision had been. The sphere was the earth with all its continents and seas, its ships and cities, its country-sides and mountain ranges. It was so small that he could see it all at once, and so great and full that he could see everything in it. He could see great countries like little patches upon it, and at the same time he could see the faces of the men upon the highways, he could see the feelings in men's hearts and the thoughts in their minds. But it did not seem in any way wonderful to the bishop that so he should see those things, or that it was to him that these things were shown. "This is the whole world," he said. "This is the vision of the world," the Angel answered. "It is very wonderful," said the bishop, and stood for a moment marvelling at the compass of his vision. For here was India, here was Samarkand, in the light of the late afternoon; and China and the swarming cities upon her silvery rivers sinking through twilight to the night and throwing a spray and tracery of lantern spots upon the dark; here was Russia under the noontide, and so great a battle of artillery raging on the Dunajec as no man had ever seen before; whole lines of trenches dissolved into clouds of dust and heaps of blood-streaked earth; here close to the waiting streets of Constantinople were the hills of Gallipoli, the grave of British Imperialism, streaming to heaven with the dust and smoke of bursting shells and rifle fire and the smoke and flame of burning brushwood. In the sea of Marmora a big ship crowded with Turkish troops was sinking; and, purple under the clear water, he could see the shape of the British submarine which had torpedoed her and had submerged and was going away. Berlin prepared its frugal meals, still far from famine. He saw the war in Europe as if he saw it on a map, yet every human detail showed. Over hundreds of miles of trenches east and west of Germany he could see shells bursting and the men below dropping, and the stretcher-bearers going back with the wounded. The roads to every front were crowded with reserves and munitions. For a moment a little group of men indifferent to all this struggle, who were landing amidst the Antarctic wilderness, held his attention; and then his eyes went westward to the dark rolling Atlantic across which, as the edge of the night was drawn like a curtain, more and still more ships became visible beating upon their courses eastward or westward under the overtaking day. The wonder increased; the wonder of the single and infinitely multitudinous adventure of mankind. "So God perhaps sees it," he whispered. (7) "Look at this man," said the Angel, and the black shadow of a hand seemed to point. It was a Chinaman sitting with two others in a little low room separated by translucent paper windows from a noisy street of shrill-voiced people. The three had been talking of the ultimatum that Japan had sent that day to China, claiming a priority in many matters over European influences they were by no means sure whether it was a wrong or a benefit that had been done to their country. From that topic they had passed to the discussion of the war, and then of wars and national aggressions and the perpetual thrusting and quarrelling of mankind. The older man had said that so life would always be; it was the will of Heaven. The little, very yellow-faced, emaciated man had agreed with him. But now this younger man, to whose thoughts the Angel had so particularly directed the bishop's attention, was speaking. He did not agree with his companion. "War is not the will of Heaven," he said; "it is the blindness of men." "Man changes," he said, "from day to day and from age to age. The science of the West has taught us that. Man changes and war changes and all things change. China has been the land of flowery peace, and she may yet give peace to all the world. She has put aside that puppet Emperor at Peking, she turns her face to the new learning of the West as a man lays aside his heavy robes, in order that her task may be achieved." The older man spoke, his manner was more than a little incredulous, and yet not altogether contemptuous. "You believe that someday there will be no more war in the world, that a time will come when men will no longer plot and plan against the welfare of men?" "Even that last," said the younger man. "Did any of us dream twenty-five years ago that here in China we should live to see a republic? The age of the republics draws near, when men in every country of the world will look straight up to the rule of Right and the empire of Heaven." ("And God will be King of the World," said the Angel. "Is not that faith exactly the faith that is coming to you?") The two other Chinamen questioned their companion, but without hostility. "This war," said the Chinaman, "will end in a great harvesting of kings." "But Japan--" the older man began. The bishop would have liked to hear more of that conversation, but the dark hand of the Angel motioned him to another part of the world. "Listen to this," said the Angel. He pointed the bishop to where the armies of Britain and Turkey lay in the heat of Mesopotamia. Along the sandy bank of a wide, slow-flowing river rode two horsemen, an Englishman and a Turk. They were returning from the Turkish lines, whither the Englishman had been with a flag of truce. When Englishmen and Turks are thrown together they soon become friends, and in this case matters had been facilitated by the Englishman's command of the Turkish language. He was quite an exceptional Englishman. The Turk had just been remarking cheerfully that it wouldn't please the Germans if they were to discover how amiably he and his charge had got on. "It's a pity we ever ceased to be friends," he said. "You Englishmen aren't like our Christians," he went on. The Englishmen wanted to know why. "You haven't priests in robes. You don't chant and worship crosses and pictures, and quarrel among yourselves." "We worship the same God as you do," said the Englishman. "Then why do we fight?" "That's what we want to know." "Why do you call yourselves Christians? And take part against us? All who worship the One God are brothers." "They ought to be," said the Englishman, and thought. He was struck by what seemed to him an amazingly novel idea. "If it weren't for religions all men would serve God together," he said. "And then there would be no wars--only now and then perhaps just a little honest fighting...." "And see here," said the Angel. "Here close behind this frightful battle, where the German phalanx of guns pounds its way through the Russian hosts. Here is a young German talking to two wounded Russian prisoners, who have stopped to rest by the roadside. He is a German of East Prussia; he knows and thinks a little Russian. And they too are saying, all three of them, that the war is not God's will, but the confusion of mankind. "Here," he said, and the shadow of his hand hovered over the burning-ghats of Benares, where a Brahmin of the new persuasion watched the straight spires of funereal smoke ascend into the glow of the late afternoon, while he talked to an English painter, his friend, of the blind intolerance of race and caste and custom in India. "Or here." The Angel pointed to a group of people who had gathered upon a little beach at the head of a Norwegian fiord. There were three lads, an old man and two women, and they stood about the body of a drowned German sailor which had been washed up that day. For a time they had talked in whispers, but now suddenly the old man spoke aloud. "This is the fourth that has come ashore," he said. "Poor drowned souls! Because men will not serve God." "But folks go to church and pray enough," said one of the women. "They do not serve God," said the old man. "They just pray to him as one nods to a beggar. They do not serve God who is their King. They set up their false kings and emperors, and so all Europe is covered with dead, and the seas wash up these dead to us. Why does the world suffer these things? Why did we Norwegians, who are a free-spirited people, permit the Germans and the Swedes and the English to set up a king over us? Because we lack faith. Kings mean secret counsels, and secret counsels bring war. Sooner or later war will come to us also if we give the soul of our nation in trust to a king.... But things will not always be thus with men. God will not suffer them for ever. A day comes, and it is no distant day, when God himself will rule the earth, and when men will do, not what the king wishes nor what is expedient nor what is customary, but what is manifestly right.".... "But men are saying that now in a thousand places," said the Angel. "Here is something that goes a little beyond that." His pointing hand went southward until they saw the Africanders riding down to Windhuk. Two men, Boer farmers both, rode side by side and talked of the German officer they brought prisoner with them. He had put sheep-dip in the wells of drinking-water; his life was fairly forfeit, and he was not to be killed. "We want no more hate in South Africa," they agreed. "Dutch and English and German must live here now side by side. Men cannot always be killing." "And see his thoughts," said the Angel. The German's mind was one amazement. He had been sure of being shot, he had meant to make a good end, fierce and scornful, a relentless fighter to the last; and these men who might have shot him like a man were going to spare him like a dog. His mind was a tumbled muddle of old and new ideas. He had been brought up in an atmosphere of the foulest and fiercest militarism; he had been trained to relentlessness, ruthlessness and so forth; war was war and the bitterer the better, frightfulness was your way to victory over every enemy. But these people had found a better way. Here were Dutch and English side by side; sixteen years ago they had been at war together and now they wore the same uniform and rode together, and laughed at him for a queer fellow because he was for spitting at them and defying them, and folding his arms and looking level at the executioners' rifles. There were to be no executioners' rifles.... If it was so with Dutch and English, why shouldn't it be so presently with French and Germans? Why someday shouldn't French, German, Dutch and English, Russian and Pole, ride together under this new star of mankind, the Southern Cross, to catch whatever last mischief-maker was left to poison the wells of goodwill? His mind resisted and struggled against these ideas. "Austere," he whispered. "The ennobling tests of war." A trooner rode up alongside, and offered him a drink of water "Just a mouthful," he said apologetically. "We've had to go rather short."... "There's another brain busy here with the same idea," the Angel interrupted. And the bishop found himself looking into the bedroom of a young German attache in Washington, sleepless in the small hours. "Ach!" cried the young man, and sat up in bed and ran his hands through his fair hair. He had been working late upon this detestable business of the Lusitania; the news of her sinking had come to hand two days before, and all America was aflame with it. It might mean war. His task had been to pour out explanations and justifications to the press; to show that it was an act of necessity, to pretend a conviction that the great ship was loaded with munitions, to fight down the hostility and anger that blazed across a continent. He had worked to his limit. He had taken cup after cup of coffee, and had come to bed worked out not two hours ago. Now here he was awake after a nightmare of drowning women and children, trying to comfort his soul by recalling his own arguments. Never once since the war began had he doubted the rightness of the German cause. It seemed only a proof of his nervous exhaustion that he could doubt it now. Germany was the best organized, most cultivated, scientific and liberal nation the earth had ever seen, it was for the good of mankind that she should be the dominant power in the world; his patriotism had had the passion of a mission. The English were indolent, the French decadent, the Russians barbaric, the Americans basely democratic; the rest of the world was the "White man's Burthen"; the clear destiny of mankind was subservience to the good Prussian eagle. Nevertheless--those wet draggled bodies that swirled down in the eddies of the sinking Titan--Ach! He wished it could have been otherwise. He nursed his knees and prayed that there need not be much more of these things before the spirit of the enemy was broken and the great Peace of Germany came upon the world. And suddenly he stopped short in his prayer. Suddenly out of the nothingness and darkness about him came the conviction that God did not listen to his prayers.... Was there any other way? It was the most awful doubt he had ever had, for it smote at the training of all his life. "Could it be possible that after all our old German God is not the proper style and title of the true God? Is our old German God perhaps only the last of a long succession of bloodstained tribal effigies--and not God at all?" For a long time it seemed that the bishop watched the thoughts that gathered in the young attache's mind. Until suddenly he broke into a quotation, into that last cry of the dying Goethe, for "Light. More Light!"... "Leave him at that," said the Angel. "I want you to hear these two young women." The hand came back to England and pointed to where Southend at the mouth of the Thames was all agog with the excitement of an overnight Zeppelin raid. People had got up hours before their usual time in order to look at the wrecked houses before they went up to their work in town. Everybody seemed abroad. Two nurses, not very well trained as nurses go nor very well-educated women, were snatching a little sea air upon the front after an eventful night. They were too excited still to sleep. They were talking of the horror of the moment when they saw the nasty thing "up there," and felt helpless as it dropped its bombs. They had both hated it. "There didn't ought to be such things," said one. "They don't seem needed," said her companion. "Men won't always go on like this--making wars and all such wickedness." "It's 'ow to stop them?" "Science is going to stop them." "Science?" "Yes, science. My young brother--oh, he's a clever one--he says such things! He says that it's science that they won't always go on like this. There's more sense coming into the world and more--my young brother says so. Says it stands to reason; it's Evolution. It's science that men are all brothers; you can prove it. It's science that there oughtn't to be war. Science is ending war now by making it horrible like this, and making it so that no one is safe. Showing it up. Only when nobody is safe will everybody want to set up peace,

fun

How many times the word 'fun' appears in the text?

with the tortuousness and weakness of his own character. Every day he perceived that the difficulty of telling Lady Ella of the change in his faith became more mountainous. And every day he procrastinated. If he had told her naturally and simply on the evening of his return from London--before anything material intervened--everything would have been different, everything would have been simpler.... He groaned and rolled over in his bed. There came upon him the acutest remorse and misery. For he saw that amidst these petty immediacies he had lost touch with God. The last month became incredible. He had seen God. He had touched God's hand. God had been given to him, and he had neglected the gift. He was still lost amidst the darkness and loneliness, the chaotic ends and mean shifts, of an Erastian world. For a month now and more, after a vision of God so vivid and real and reassuring that surely no saint nor prophet had ever had a better, he had made no more than vague responsive movements; he had allowed himself to be persuaded into an unreasonable and cowardly delay, and the fetters of association and usage and minor interests were as unbroken as they had been before ever the vision shone. Was it credible that there had ever been such a vision in a life so entirely dictated by immediacy and instinct as his? We are all creatures of the dark stream, we swim in needs and bodily impulses and small vanities; if ever and again a bubble of spiritual imaginativeness glows out of us, it breaks and leaves us where we were. "Louse that I am!" he cried. He still believed in God, without a shadow of doubt; he believed in the God that he had seen, the high courage, the golden intention, the light that had for a moment touched him. But what had he to do with God, he, the loiterer, the little thing? He was little, he was funny. His prevarications with his wife, for example, were comic. There was no other word for him but "funny." He rolled back again and lay staring. "Who will deliver me from the body of this death?" What right has a little bishop in a purple stock and doeskin breeches, who hangs back in his palace from the very call of God, to a phrase so fine and tragic as "the body of this death?" He was the most unreal thing in the universe. He was a base insect giving himself airs. What advantage has a bishop over the Praying Mantis, that cricket which apes the attitude of piety? Does he matter more--to God? "To the God of the Universe, who can tell? To the God of man,--yes." He sat up in bed struck by his own answer, and full of an indescribable hunger for God and an indescribable sense of his complete want of courage to make the one simple appeal that would satisfy that hunger. He tried to pray. "O God!" he cried, "forgive me! Take me!" It seemed to him that he was not really praying but only making believe to pray. It seemed to him that he was not really existing but only seeming to exist. He seemed to himself to be one with figures on a china plate, with figures painted on walls, with the flimsy imagined lives of men in stories of forgotten times. "O God!" he said, "O God," acting a gesture, mimicking appeal. "Anaemic," he said, and was given an idea. He got out of bed, he took his keys from the night-table at the bed head and went to his bureau. He stood with Dale's tonic in his hand. He remained for some time holding it, and feeling a curious indisposition to go on with the thing in his mind. He turned at last with an effort. He carried the little phial to his bedside, and into the tumbler of his water-bottle he let the drops fall, drop by drop, until he had counted twenty. Then holding it to the bulb of his reading lamp he added the water and stood watching the slow pearly eddies in the mixture mingle into an opalescent uniformity. He replaced the water-bottle and stood with the glass in his hand. But he did not drink. He was afraid. He knew that he had only to drink and this world of confusion would grow transparent, would roll back and reveal the great simplicities behind. And he was afraid. He was afraid of that greatness. He was afraid of the great imperatives that he knew would at once take hold of his life. He wanted to muddle on for just a little longer. He wanted to stay just where he was, in his familiar prison-house, with the key of escape in his hand. Before he took the last step into the very presence of truth, he would--think. He put down the glass and lay down upon his bed.... (3) He awoke in a mood of great depression out of a dream of wandering interminably in an endless building of innumerable pillars, pillars so vast and high that the ceiling was lost in darkness. By the scale of these pillars he felt himself scarcely larger than an ant. He was always alone in these wanderings, and always missing something that passed along distant passages, something desirable, something in the nature of a procession or of a ceremony, something of which he was in futile pursuit, of which he heard faint echoes, something luminous of which he seemed at times to see the last fading reflection, across vast halls and wildernesses of shining pavement and through Cyclopaean archways. At last there was neither sound nor gleam, but the utmost solitude, and a darkness and silence and the uttermost profundity of sorrow.... It was bright day. Dunk had just come into the room with his tea, and the tumbler of Dr. Dale's tonic stood untouched upon the night-table. The bishop sat up in bed. He had missed his opportunity. To-day was a busy day, he knew. "No," he said, as Dunk hesitated whether to remove or leave the tumbler. "Leave that." Dunk found room for it upon the tea-tray, and vanished softly with the bishop's evening clothes. The bishop remained motionless facing the day. There stood the draught of decision that he had lacked the decision even to touch. From his bed he could just read the larger items that figured upon the engagement tablet which it was Whippham's business to fill over-night and place upon his table. He had two confirmation services, first the big one in the cathedral and then a second one in the evening at Pringle, various committees and an interview with Chasters. He had not yet finished his addresses for these confirmation services.... The task seemed mountainous--overwhelming. With a gesture of desperation he seized the tumblerful of tonic and drank it off at a gulp. (4) For some moments nothing seemed to happen. Then he began to feel stronger and less wretched, and then came a throbbing and tingling of artery and nerve. He had a sense of adventure, a pleasant fear in the thing that he had done. He got out of bed, leaving his cup of tea untasted, and began to dress. He had the sensation of relief a prisoner may feel who suddenly tries his cell door and finds it open upon sunshine, the outside world and freedom. He went on dressing although he was certain that in a few minutes the world of delusion about him would dissolve, and that he would find himself again in the great freedom of the place of God. This time the transition came much sooner and much more rapidly. This time the phases and quality of the experience were different. He felt once again that luminous confusion between the world in which a human life is imprisoned and a circumambient and interpenetrating world, but this phase passed very rapidly; it did not spread out over nearly half an hour as it had done before, and almost immediately he seemed to plunge away from everything in this life altogether into that outer freedom he sought. And this time there was not even the elemental scenery of the former vision. He stood on nothing; there was nothing below and nothing above him. There was no sense of falling, no terror, but a feeling as though he floated released. There was no light, but as it were a clear darkness about him. Then it was manifest to him that he was not alone, but that with him was that same being that in his former vision had called himself the Angel of God. He knew this without knowing why he knew this, and either he spoke and was answered, or he thought and his thought answered him back. His state of mind on this occasion was altogether different from the first vision of God; before it had been spectacular, but now his perception was altogether super-sensuous. (And nevertheless and all the time it seemed that very faintly he was still in his room.) It was he who was the first to speak. The great Angel whom he felt rather than saw seemed to be waiting for him to speak. "I have come," he said, "because once more I desire to see God." "But you have seen God." "I saw God. God was light, God was truth. And I went back to my life, and God was hidden. God seemed to call me. He called. I heard him, I sought him and I touched his hand. When I went back to my life I was presently lost in perplexity. I could not tell why God had called me nor what I had to do." "And why did you not come here before?" "Doubt and fear. Brother, will you not lay your hand on mine?" The figure in the darkness became distincter. But nothing touched the bishop's seeking hands. "I want to see God and to understand him. I want reassurance. I want conviction. I want to understand all that God asks me to do. The world is full of conflict and confusion and the spirit of war. It is dark and dreadful now with suffering and bloodshed. I want to serve God who could save it, and I do not know how." It seemed to the bishop that now he could distinguish dimly but surely the form and features of the great Angel to whom he talked. For a little while there was silence, and then the Angel spoke. "It was necessary first," said the Angel, "that you should apprehend God and desire him. That was the purport of your first vision. Now, since you require it, I will tell you and show you certain things about him, things that it seems you need to know, things that all men need to know. Know then first that the time is at hand when God will come into the world and rule it, and when men will know what is required of them. This time is close at hand. In a little while God will be made manifest throughout the earth. Men will know him and know that he is King. To you this truth is to be shown--that you may tell it to others." "This is no vision?" said the bishop, "no dream that will pass away?" "Am I not here beside you?" (5) The bishop was anxious to be very clear. Things that had been shapelessly present in his mind now took form and found words for themselves. "The God I saw in my vision--He is not yet manifest in the world?" "He comes. He is in the world, but he is not yet manifested. He whom you saw in your vision will speedily be manifest in the world. To you this vision is given of the things that come. The world is already glowing with God. Mankind is like a smouldering fire that will presently, in quite a little time, burst out into flame. "In your former vision I showed you God," said the Angel. "This time I will show you certain signs of the coming of God. And then you will understand the place you hold in the world and the task that is required of you." (6) And as the Angel spoke he lifted up his hands with the palms upward, and there appeared above them a little round cloud, that grew denser until it had the likeness of a silver sphere. It was a mirror in the form of a ball, but a mirror not shining uniformly; it was discoloured with greyish patches that had a familiar shape. It circled slowly upon the Angel's hands. It seemed no greater than the compass of a human skull, and yet it was as great as the earth. Indeed it showed the whole earth. It was the earth. The hands of the Angel vanished out of sight, dissolved and vanished, and the spinning world hung free. All about the bishop the velvet darkness broke into glittering points that shaped out the constellations, and nearest to them, so near as to seem only a few million miles away in the great emptiness into which everything had resolved itself, shone the sun, a ball of red-tongued fires. The Angel was but a voice now; the bishop and the Angel were somewhere aloof from and yet accessible to the circling silver sphere. At the time all that happened seemed to happen quite naturally, as things happen in a dream. It was only later, when all this was a matter of memory, that the bishop realized how strange and incomprehensible his vision had been. The sphere was the earth with all its continents and seas, its ships and cities, its country-sides and mountain ranges. It was so small that he could see it all at once, and so great and full that he could see everything in it. He could see great countries like little patches upon it, and at the same time he could see the faces of the men upon the highways, he could see the feelings in men's hearts and the thoughts in their minds. But it did not seem in any way wonderful to the bishop that so he should see those things, or that it was to him that these things were shown. "This is the whole world," he said. "This is the vision of the world," the Angel answered. "It is very wonderful," said the bishop, and stood for a moment marvelling at the compass of his vision. For here was India, here was Samarkand, in the light of the late afternoon; and China and the swarming cities upon her silvery rivers sinking through twilight to the night and throwing a spray and tracery of lantern spots upon the dark; here was Russia under the noontide, and so great a battle of artillery raging on the Dunajec as no man had ever seen before; whole lines of trenches dissolved into clouds of dust and heaps of blood-streaked earth; here close to the waiting streets of Constantinople were the hills of Gallipoli, the grave of British Imperialism, streaming to heaven with the dust and smoke of bursting shells and rifle fire and the smoke and flame of burning brushwood. In the sea of Marmora a big ship crowded with Turkish troops was sinking; and, purple under the clear water, he could see the shape of the British submarine which had torpedoed her and had submerged and was going away. Berlin prepared its frugal meals, still far from famine. He saw the war in Europe as if he saw it on a map, yet every human detail showed. Over hundreds of miles of trenches east and west of Germany he could see shells bursting and the men below dropping, and the stretcher-bearers going back with the wounded. The roads to every front were crowded with reserves and munitions. For a moment a little group of men indifferent to all this struggle, who were landing amidst the Antarctic wilderness, held his attention; and then his eyes went westward to the dark rolling Atlantic across which, as the edge of the night was drawn like a curtain, more and still more ships became visible beating upon their courses eastward or westward under the overtaking day. The wonder increased; the wonder of the single and infinitely multitudinous adventure of mankind. "So God perhaps sees it," he whispered. (7) "Look at this man," said the Angel, and the black shadow of a hand seemed to point. It was a Chinaman sitting with two others in a little low room separated by translucent paper windows from a noisy street of shrill-voiced people. The three had been talking of the ultimatum that Japan had sent that day to China, claiming a priority in many matters over European influences they were by no means sure whether it was a wrong or a benefit that had been done to their country. From that topic they had passed to the discussion of the war, and then of wars and national aggressions and the perpetual thrusting and quarrelling of mankind. The older man had said that so life would always be; it was the will of Heaven. The little, very yellow-faced, emaciated man had agreed with him. But now this younger man, to whose thoughts the Angel had so particularly directed the bishop's attention, was speaking. He did not agree with his companion. "War is not the will of Heaven," he said; "it is the blindness of men." "Man changes," he said, "from day to day and from age to age. The science of the West has taught us that. Man changes and war changes and all things change. China has been the land of flowery peace, and she may yet give peace to all the world. She has put aside that puppet Emperor at Peking, she turns her face to the new learning of the West as a man lays aside his heavy robes, in order that her task may be achieved." The older man spoke, his manner was more than a little incredulous, and yet not altogether contemptuous. "You believe that someday there will be no more war in the world, that a time will come when men will no longer plot and plan against the welfare of men?" "Even that last," said the younger man. "Did any of us dream twenty-five years ago that here in China we should live to see a republic? The age of the republics draws near, when men in every country of the world will look straight up to the rule of Right and the empire of Heaven." ("And God will be King of the World," said the Angel. "Is not that faith exactly the faith that is coming to you?") The two other Chinamen questioned their companion, but without hostility. "This war," said the Chinaman, "will end in a great harvesting of kings." "But Japan--" the older man began. The bishop would have liked to hear more of that conversation, but the dark hand of the Angel motioned him to another part of the world. "Listen to this," said the Angel. He pointed the bishop to where the armies of Britain and Turkey lay in the heat of Mesopotamia. Along the sandy bank of a wide, slow-flowing river rode two horsemen, an Englishman and a Turk. They were returning from the Turkish lines, whither the Englishman had been with a flag of truce. When Englishmen and Turks are thrown together they soon become friends, and in this case matters had been facilitated by the Englishman's command of the Turkish language. He was quite an exceptional Englishman. The Turk had just been remarking cheerfully that it wouldn't please the Germans if they were to discover how amiably he and his charge had got on. "It's a pity we ever ceased to be friends," he said. "You Englishmen aren't like our Christians," he went on. The Englishmen wanted to know why. "You haven't priests in robes. You don't chant and worship crosses and pictures, and quarrel among yourselves." "We worship the same God as you do," said the Englishman. "Then why do we fight?" "That's what we want to know." "Why do you call yourselves Christians? And take part against us? All who worship the One God are brothers." "They ought to be," said the Englishman, and thought. He was struck by what seemed to him an amazingly novel idea. "If it weren't for religions all men would serve God together," he said. "And then there would be no wars--only now and then perhaps just a little honest fighting...." "And see here," said the Angel. "Here close behind this frightful battle, where the German phalanx of guns pounds its way through the Russian hosts. Here is a young German talking to two wounded Russian prisoners, who have stopped to rest by the roadside. He is a German of East Prussia; he knows and thinks a little Russian. And they too are saying, all three of them, that the war is not God's will, but the confusion of mankind. "Here," he said, and the shadow of his hand hovered over the burning-ghats of Benares, where a Brahmin of the new persuasion watched the straight spires of funereal smoke ascend into the glow of the late afternoon, while he talked to an English painter, his friend, of the blind intolerance of race and caste and custom in India. "Or here." The Angel pointed to a group of people who had gathered upon a little beach at the head of a Norwegian fiord. There were three lads, an old man and two women, and they stood about the body of a drowned German sailor which had been washed up that day. For a time they had talked in whispers, but now suddenly the old man spoke aloud. "This is the fourth that has come ashore," he said. "Poor drowned souls! Because men will not serve God." "But folks go to church and pray enough," said one of the women. "They do not serve God," said the old man. "They just pray to him as one nods to a beggar. They do not serve God who is their King. They set up their false kings and emperors, and so all Europe is covered with dead, and the seas wash up these dead to us. Why does the world suffer these things? Why did we Norwegians, who are a free-spirited people, permit the Germans and the Swedes and the English to set up a king over us? Because we lack faith. Kings mean secret counsels, and secret counsels bring war. Sooner or later war will come to us also if we give the soul of our nation in trust to a king.... But things will not always be thus with men. God will not suffer them for ever. A day comes, and it is no distant day, when God himself will rule the earth, and when men will do, not what the king wishes nor what is expedient nor what is customary, but what is manifestly right.".... "But men are saying that now in a thousand places," said the Angel. "Here is something that goes a little beyond that." His pointing hand went southward until they saw the Africanders riding down to Windhuk. Two men, Boer farmers both, rode side by side and talked of the German officer they brought prisoner with them. He had put sheep-dip in the wells of drinking-water; his life was fairly forfeit, and he was not to be killed. "We want no more hate in South Africa," they agreed. "Dutch and English and German must live here now side by side. Men cannot always be killing." "And see his thoughts," said the Angel. The German's mind was one amazement. He had been sure of being shot, he had meant to make a good end, fierce and scornful, a relentless fighter to the last; and these men who might have shot him like a man were going to spare him like a dog. His mind was a tumbled muddle of old and new ideas. He had been brought up in an atmosphere of the foulest and fiercest militarism; he had been trained to relentlessness, ruthlessness and so forth; war was war and the bitterer the better, frightfulness was your way to victory over every enemy. But these people had found a better way. Here were Dutch and English side by side; sixteen years ago they had been at war together and now they wore the same uniform and rode together, and laughed at him for a queer fellow because he was for spitting at them and defying them, and folding his arms and looking level at the executioners' rifles. There were to be no executioners' rifles.... If it was so with Dutch and English, why shouldn't it be so presently with French and Germans? Why someday shouldn't French, German, Dutch and English, Russian and Pole, ride together under this new star of mankind, the Southern Cross, to catch whatever last mischief-maker was left to poison the wells of goodwill? His mind resisted and struggled against these ideas. "Austere," he whispered. "The ennobling tests of war." A trooner rode up alongside, and offered him a drink of water "Just a mouthful," he said apologetically. "We've had to go rather short."... "There's another brain busy here with the same idea," the Angel interrupted. And the bishop found himself looking into the bedroom of a young German attache in Washington, sleepless in the small hours. "Ach!" cried the young man, and sat up in bed and ran his hands through his fair hair. He had been working late upon this detestable business of the Lusitania; the news of her sinking had come to hand two days before, and all America was aflame with it. It might mean war. His task had been to pour out explanations and justifications to the press; to show that it was an act of necessity, to pretend a conviction that the great ship was loaded with munitions, to fight down the hostility and anger that blazed across a continent. He had worked to his limit. He had taken cup after cup of coffee, and had come to bed worked out not two hours ago. Now here he was awake after a nightmare of drowning women and children, trying to comfort his soul by recalling his own arguments. Never once since the war began had he doubted the rightness of the German cause. It seemed only a proof of his nervous exhaustion that he could doubt it now. Germany was the best organized, most cultivated, scientific and liberal nation the earth had ever seen, it was for the good of mankind that she should be the dominant power in the world; his patriotism had had the passion of a mission. The English were indolent, the French decadent, the Russians barbaric, the Americans basely democratic; the rest of the world was the "White man's Burthen"; the clear destiny of mankind was subservience to the good Prussian eagle. Nevertheless--those wet draggled bodies that swirled down in the eddies of the sinking Titan--Ach! He wished it could have been otherwise. He nursed his knees and prayed that there need not be much more of these things before the spirit of the enemy was broken and the great Peace of Germany came upon the world. And suddenly he stopped short in his prayer. Suddenly out of the nothingness and darkness about him came the conviction that God did not listen to his prayers.... Was there any other way? It was the most awful doubt he had ever had, for it smote at the training of all his life. "Could it be possible that after all our old German God is not the proper style and title of the true God? Is our old German God perhaps only the last of a long succession of bloodstained tribal effigies--and not God at all?" For a long time it seemed that the bishop watched the thoughts that gathered in the young attache's mind. Until suddenly he broke into a quotation, into that last cry of the dying Goethe, for "Light. More Light!"... "Leave him at that," said the Angel. "I want you to hear these two young women." The hand came back to England and pointed to where Southend at the mouth of the Thames was all agog with the excitement of an overnight Zeppelin raid. People had got up hours before their usual time in order to look at the wrecked houses before they went up to their work in town. Everybody seemed abroad. Two nurses, not very well trained as nurses go nor very well-educated women, were snatching a little sea air upon the front after an eventful night. They were too excited still to sleep. They were talking of the horror of the moment when they saw the nasty thing "up there," and felt helpless as it dropped its bombs. They had both hated it. "There didn't ought to be such things," said one. "They don't seem needed," said her companion. "Men won't always go on like this--making wars and all such wickedness." "It's 'ow to stop them?" "Science is going to stop them." "Science?" "Yes, science. My young brother--oh, he's a clever one--he says such things! He says that it's science that they won't always go on like this. There's more sense coming into the world and more--my young brother says so. Says it stands to reason; it's Evolution. It's science that men are all brothers; you can prove it. It's science that there oughtn't to be war. Science is ending war now by making it horrible like this, and making it so that no one is safe. Showing it up. Only when nobody is safe will everybody want to set up peace,

tonic

How many times the word 'tonic' appears in the text?

with the tortuousness and weakness of his own character. Every day he perceived that the difficulty of telling Lady Ella of the change in his faith became more mountainous. And every day he procrastinated. If he had told her naturally and simply on the evening of his return from London--before anything material intervened--everything would have been different, everything would have been simpler.... He groaned and rolled over in his bed. There came upon him the acutest remorse and misery. For he saw that amidst these petty immediacies he had lost touch with God. The last month became incredible. He had seen God. He had touched God's hand. God had been given to him, and he had neglected the gift. He was still lost amidst the darkness and loneliness, the chaotic ends and mean shifts, of an Erastian world. For a month now and more, after a vision of God so vivid and real and reassuring that surely no saint nor prophet had ever had a better, he had made no more than vague responsive movements; he had allowed himself to be persuaded into an unreasonable and cowardly delay, and the fetters of association and usage and minor interests were as unbroken as they had been before ever the vision shone. Was it credible that there had ever been such a vision in a life so entirely dictated by immediacy and instinct as his? We are all creatures of the dark stream, we swim in needs and bodily impulses and small vanities; if ever and again a bubble of spiritual imaginativeness glows out of us, it breaks and leaves us where we were. "Louse that I am!" he cried. He still believed in God, without a shadow of doubt; he believed in the God that he had seen, the high courage, the golden intention, the light that had for a moment touched him. But what had he to do with God, he, the loiterer, the little thing? He was little, he was funny. His prevarications with his wife, for example, were comic. There was no other word for him but "funny." He rolled back again and lay staring. "Who will deliver me from the body of this death?" What right has a little bishop in a purple stock and doeskin breeches, who hangs back in his palace from the very call of God, to a phrase so fine and tragic as "the body of this death?" He was the most unreal thing in the universe. He was a base insect giving himself airs. What advantage has a bishop over the Praying Mantis, that cricket which apes the attitude of piety? Does he matter more--to God? "To the God of the Universe, who can tell? To the God of man,--yes." He sat up in bed struck by his own answer, and full of an indescribable hunger for God and an indescribable sense of his complete want of courage to make the one simple appeal that would satisfy that hunger. He tried to pray. "O God!" he cried, "forgive me! Take me!" It seemed to him that he was not really praying but only making believe to pray. It seemed to him that he was not really existing but only seeming to exist. He seemed to himself to be one with figures on a china plate, with figures painted on walls, with the flimsy imagined lives of men in stories of forgotten times. "O God!" he said, "O God," acting a gesture, mimicking appeal. "Anaemic," he said, and was given an idea. He got out of bed, he took his keys from the night-table at the bed head and went to his bureau. He stood with Dale's tonic in his hand. He remained for some time holding it, and feeling a curious indisposition to go on with the thing in his mind. He turned at last with an effort. He carried the little phial to his bedside, and into the tumbler of his water-bottle he let the drops fall, drop by drop, until he had counted twenty. Then holding it to the bulb of his reading lamp he added the water and stood watching the slow pearly eddies in the mixture mingle into an opalescent uniformity. He replaced the water-bottle and stood with the glass in his hand. But he did not drink. He was afraid. He knew that he had only to drink and this world of confusion would grow transparent, would roll back and reveal the great simplicities behind. And he was afraid. He was afraid of that greatness. He was afraid of the great imperatives that he knew would at once take hold of his life. He wanted to muddle on for just a little longer. He wanted to stay just where he was, in his familiar prison-house, with the key of escape in his hand. Before he took the last step into the very presence of truth, he would--think. He put down the glass and lay down upon his bed.... (3) He awoke in a mood of great depression out of a dream of wandering interminably in an endless building of innumerable pillars, pillars so vast and high that the ceiling was lost in darkness. By the scale of these pillars he felt himself scarcely larger than an ant. He was always alone in these wanderings, and always missing something that passed along distant passages, something desirable, something in the nature of a procession or of a ceremony, something of which he was in futile pursuit, of which he heard faint echoes, something luminous of which he seemed at times to see the last fading reflection, across vast halls and wildernesses of shining pavement and through Cyclopaean archways. At last there was neither sound nor gleam, but the utmost solitude, and a darkness and silence and the uttermost profundity of sorrow.... It was bright day. Dunk had just come into the room with his tea, and the tumbler of Dr. Dale's tonic stood untouched upon the night-table. The bishop sat up in bed. He had missed his opportunity. To-day was a busy day, he knew. "No," he said, as Dunk hesitated whether to remove or leave the tumbler. "Leave that." Dunk found room for it upon the tea-tray, and vanished softly with the bishop's evening clothes. The bishop remained motionless facing the day. There stood the draught of decision that he had lacked the decision even to touch. From his bed he could just read the larger items that figured upon the engagement tablet which it was Whippham's business to fill over-night and place upon his table. He had two confirmation services, first the big one in the cathedral and then a second one in the evening at Pringle, various committees and an interview with Chasters. He had not yet finished his addresses for these confirmation services.... The task seemed mountainous--overwhelming. With a gesture of desperation he seized the tumblerful of tonic and drank it off at a gulp. (4) For some moments nothing seemed to happen. Then he began to feel stronger and less wretched, and then came a throbbing and tingling of artery and nerve. He had a sense of adventure, a pleasant fear in the thing that he had done. He got out of bed, leaving his cup of tea untasted, and began to dress. He had the sensation of relief a prisoner may feel who suddenly tries his cell door and finds it open upon sunshine, the outside world and freedom. He went on dressing although he was certain that in a few minutes the world of delusion about him would dissolve, and that he would find himself again in the great freedom of the place of God. This time the transition came much sooner and much more rapidly. This time the phases and quality of the experience were different. He felt once again that luminous confusion between the world in which a human life is imprisoned and a circumambient and interpenetrating world, but this phase passed very rapidly; it did not spread out over nearly half an hour as it had done before, and almost immediately he seemed to plunge away from everything in this life altogether into that outer freedom he sought. And this time there was not even the elemental scenery of the former vision. He stood on nothing; there was nothing below and nothing above him. There was no sense of falling, no terror, but a feeling as though he floated released. There was no light, but as it were a clear darkness about him. Then it was manifest to him that he was not alone, but that with him was that same being that in his former vision had called himself the Angel of God. He knew this without knowing why he knew this, and either he spoke and was answered, or he thought and his thought answered him back. His state of mind on this occasion was altogether different from the first vision of God; before it had been spectacular, but now his perception was altogether super-sensuous. (And nevertheless and all the time it seemed that very faintly he was still in his room.) It was he who was the first to speak. The great Angel whom he felt rather than saw seemed to be waiting for him to speak. "I have come," he said, "because once more I desire to see God." "But you have seen God." "I saw God. God was light, God was truth. And I went back to my life, and God was hidden. God seemed to call me. He called. I heard him, I sought him and I touched his hand. When I went back to my life I was presently lost in perplexity. I could not tell why God had called me nor what I had to do." "And why did you not come here before?" "Doubt and fear. Brother, will you not lay your hand on mine?" The figure in the darkness became distincter. But nothing touched the bishop's seeking hands. "I want to see God and to understand him. I want reassurance. I want conviction. I want to understand all that God asks me to do. The world is full of conflict and confusion and the spirit of war. It is dark and dreadful now with suffering and bloodshed. I want to serve God who could save it, and I do not know how." It seemed to the bishop that now he could distinguish dimly but surely the form and features of the great Angel to whom he talked. For a little while there was silence, and then the Angel spoke. "It was necessary first," said the Angel, "that you should apprehend God and desire him. That was the purport of your first vision. Now, since you require it, I will tell you and show you certain things about him, things that it seems you need to know, things that all men need to know. Know then first that the time is at hand when God will come into the world and rule it, and when men will know what is required of them. This time is close at hand. In a little while God will be made manifest throughout the earth. Men will know him and know that he is King. To you this truth is to be shown--that you may tell it to others." "This is no vision?" said the bishop, "no dream that will pass away?" "Am I not here beside you?" (5) The bishop was anxious to be very clear. Things that had been shapelessly present in his mind now took form and found words for themselves. "The God I saw in my vision--He is not yet manifest in the world?" "He comes. He is in the world, but he is not yet manifested. He whom you saw in your vision will speedily be manifest in the world. To you this vision is given of the things that come. The world is already glowing with God. Mankind is like a smouldering fire that will presently, in quite a little time, burst out into flame. "In your former vision I showed you God," said the Angel. "This time I will show you certain signs of the coming of God. And then you will understand the place you hold in the world and the task that is required of you." (6) And as the Angel spoke he lifted up his hands with the palms upward, and there appeared above them a little round cloud, that grew denser until it had the likeness of a silver sphere. It was a mirror in the form of a ball, but a mirror not shining uniformly; it was discoloured with greyish patches that had a familiar shape. It circled slowly upon the Angel's hands. It seemed no greater than the compass of a human skull, and yet it was as great as the earth. Indeed it showed the whole earth. It was the earth. The hands of the Angel vanished out of sight, dissolved and vanished, and the spinning world hung free. All about the bishop the velvet darkness broke into glittering points that shaped out the constellations, and nearest to them, so near as to seem only a few million miles away in the great emptiness into which everything had resolved itself, shone the sun, a ball of red-tongued fires. The Angel was but a voice now; the bishop and the Angel were somewhere aloof from and yet accessible to the circling silver sphere. At the time all that happened seemed to happen quite naturally, as things happen in a dream. It was only later, when all this was a matter of memory, that the bishop realized how strange and incomprehensible his vision had been. The sphere was the earth with all its continents and seas, its ships and cities, its country-sides and mountain ranges. It was so small that he could see it all at once, and so great and full that he could see everything in it. He could see great countries like little patches upon it, and at the same time he could see the faces of the men upon the highways, he could see the feelings in men's hearts and the thoughts in their minds. But it did not seem in any way wonderful to the bishop that so he should see those things, or that it was to him that these things were shown. "This is the whole world," he said. "This is the vision of the world," the Angel answered. "It is very wonderful," said the bishop, and stood for a moment marvelling at the compass of his vision. For here was India, here was Samarkand, in the light of the late afternoon; and China and the swarming cities upon her silvery rivers sinking through twilight to the night and throwing a spray and tracery of lantern spots upon the dark; here was Russia under the noontide, and so great a battle of artillery raging on the Dunajec as no man had ever seen before; whole lines of trenches dissolved into clouds of dust and heaps of blood-streaked earth; here close to the waiting streets of Constantinople were the hills of Gallipoli, the grave of British Imperialism, streaming to heaven with the dust and smoke of bursting shells and rifle fire and the smoke and flame of burning brushwood. In the sea of Marmora a big ship crowded with Turkish troops was sinking; and, purple under the clear water, he could see the shape of the British submarine which had torpedoed her and had submerged and was going away. Berlin prepared its frugal meals, still far from famine. He saw the war in Europe as if he saw it on a map, yet every human detail showed. Over hundreds of miles of trenches east and west of Germany he could see shells bursting and the men below dropping, and the stretcher-bearers going back with the wounded. The roads to every front were crowded with reserves and munitions. For a moment a little group of men indifferent to all this struggle, who were landing amidst the Antarctic wilderness, held his attention; and then his eyes went westward to the dark rolling Atlantic across which, as the edge of the night was drawn like a curtain, more and still more ships became visible beating upon their courses eastward or westward under the overtaking day. The wonder increased; the wonder of the single and infinitely multitudinous adventure of mankind. "So God perhaps sees it," he whispered. (7) "Look at this man," said the Angel, and the black shadow of a hand seemed to point. It was a Chinaman sitting with two others in a little low room separated by translucent paper windows from a noisy street of shrill-voiced people. The three had been talking of the ultimatum that Japan had sent that day to China, claiming a priority in many matters over European influences they were by no means sure whether it was a wrong or a benefit that had been done to their country. From that topic they had passed to the discussion of the war, and then of wars and national aggressions and the perpetual thrusting and quarrelling of mankind. The older man had said that so life would always be; it was the will of Heaven. The little, very yellow-faced, emaciated man had agreed with him. But now this younger man, to whose thoughts the Angel had so particularly directed the bishop's attention, was speaking. He did not agree with his companion. "War is not the will of Heaven," he said; "it is the blindness of men." "Man changes," he said, "from day to day and from age to age. The science of the West has taught us that. Man changes and war changes and all things change. China has been the land of flowery peace, and she may yet give peace to all the world. She has put aside that puppet Emperor at Peking, she turns her face to the new learning of the West as a man lays aside his heavy robes, in order that her task may be achieved." The older man spoke, his manner was more than a little incredulous, and yet not altogether contemptuous. "You believe that someday there will be no more war in the world, that a time will come when men will no longer plot and plan against the welfare of men?" "Even that last," said the younger man. "Did any of us dream twenty-five years ago that here in China we should live to see a republic? The age of the republics draws near, when men in every country of the world will look straight up to the rule of Right and the empire of Heaven." ("And God will be King of the World," said the Angel. "Is not that faith exactly the faith that is coming to you?") The two other Chinamen questioned their companion, but without hostility. "This war," said the Chinaman, "will end in a great harvesting of kings." "But Japan--" the older man began. The bishop would have liked to hear more of that conversation, but the dark hand of the Angel motioned him to another part of the world. "Listen to this," said the Angel. He pointed the bishop to where the armies of Britain and Turkey lay in the heat of Mesopotamia. Along the sandy bank of a wide, slow-flowing river rode two horsemen, an Englishman and a Turk. They were returning from the Turkish lines, whither the Englishman had been with a flag of truce. When Englishmen and Turks are thrown together they soon become friends, and in this case matters had been facilitated by the Englishman's command of the Turkish language. He was quite an exceptional Englishman. The Turk had just been remarking cheerfully that it wouldn't please the Germans if they were to discover how amiably he and his charge had got on. "It's a pity we ever ceased to be friends," he said. "You Englishmen aren't like our Christians," he went on. The Englishmen wanted to know why. "You haven't priests in robes. You don't chant and worship crosses and pictures, and quarrel among yourselves." "We worship the same God as you do," said the Englishman. "Then why do we fight?" "That's what we want to know." "Why do you call yourselves Christians? And take part against us? All who worship the One God are brothers." "They ought to be," said the Englishman, and thought. He was struck by what seemed to him an amazingly novel idea. "If it weren't for religions all men would serve God together," he said. "And then there would be no wars--only now and then perhaps just a little honest fighting...." "And see here," said the Angel. "Here close behind this frightful battle, where the German phalanx of guns pounds its way through the Russian hosts. Here is a young German talking to two wounded Russian prisoners, who have stopped to rest by the roadside. He is a German of East Prussia; he knows and thinks a little Russian. And they too are saying, all three of them, that the war is not God's will, but the confusion of mankind. "Here," he said, and the shadow of his hand hovered over the burning-ghats of Benares, where a Brahmin of the new persuasion watched the straight spires of funereal smoke ascend into the glow of the late afternoon, while he talked to an English painter, his friend, of the blind intolerance of race and caste and custom in India. "Or here." The Angel pointed to a group of people who had gathered upon a little beach at the head of a Norwegian fiord. There were three lads, an old man and two women, and they stood about the body of a drowned German sailor which had been washed up that day. For a time they had talked in whispers, but now suddenly the old man spoke aloud. "This is the fourth that has come ashore," he said. "Poor drowned souls! Because men will not serve God." "But folks go to church and pray enough," said one of the women. "They do not serve God," said the old man. "They just pray to him as one nods to a beggar. They do not serve God who is their King. They set up their false kings and emperors, and so all Europe is covered with dead, and the seas wash up these dead to us. Why does the world suffer these things? Why did we Norwegians, who are a free-spirited people, permit the Germans and the Swedes and the English to set up a king over us? Because we lack faith. Kings mean secret counsels, and secret counsels bring war. Sooner or later war will come to us also if we give the soul of our nation in trust to a king.... But things will not always be thus with men. God will not suffer them for ever. A day comes, and it is no distant day, when God himself will rule the earth, and when men will do, not what the king wishes nor what is expedient nor what is customary, but what is manifestly right.".... "But men are saying that now in a thousand places," said the Angel. "Here is something that goes a little beyond that." His pointing hand went southward until they saw the Africanders riding down to Windhuk. Two men, Boer farmers both, rode side by side and talked of the German officer they brought prisoner with them. He had put sheep-dip in the wells of drinking-water; his life was fairly forfeit, and he was not to be killed. "We want no more hate in South Africa," they agreed. "Dutch and English and German must live here now side by side. Men cannot always be killing." "And see his thoughts," said the Angel. The German's mind was one amazement. He had been sure of being shot, he had meant to make a good end, fierce and scornful, a relentless fighter to the last; and these men who might have shot him like a man were going to spare him like a dog. His mind was a tumbled muddle of old and new ideas. He had been brought up in an atmosphere of the foulest and fiercest militarism; he had been trained to relentlessness, ruthlessness and so forth; war was war and the bitterer the better, frightfulness was your way to victory over every enemy. But these people had found a better way. Here were Dutch and English side by side; sixteen years ago they had been at war together and now they wore the same uniform and rode together, and laughed at him for a queer fellow because he was for spitting at them and defying them, and folding his arms and looking level at the executioners' rifles. There were to be no executioners' rifles.... If it was so with Dutch and English, why shouldn't it be so presently with French and Germans? Why someday shouldn't French, German, Dutch and English, Russian and Pole, ride together under this new star of mankind, the Southern Cross, to catch whatever last mischief-maker was left to poison the wells of goodwill? His mind resisted and struggled against these ideas. "Austere," he whispered. "The ennobling tests of war." A trooner rode up alongside, and offered him a drink of water "Just a mouthful," he said apologetically. "We've had to go rather short."... "There's another brain busy here with the same idea," the Angel interrupted. And the bishop found himself looking into the bedroom of a young German attache in Washington, sleepless in the small hours. "Ach!" cried the young man, and sat up in bed and ran his hands through his fair hair. He had been working late upon this detestable business of the Lusitania; the news of her sinking had come to hand two days before, and all America was aflame with it. It might mean war. His task had been to pour out explanations and justifications to the press; to show that it was an act of necessity, to pretend a conviction that the great ship was loaded with munitions, to fight down the hostility and anger that blazed across a continent. He had worked to his limit. He had taken cup after cup of coffee, and had come to bed worked out not two hours ago. Now here he was awake after a nightmare of drowning women and children, trying to comfort his soul by recalling his own arguments. Never once since the war began had he doubted the rightness of the German cause. It seemed only a proof of his nervous exhaustion that he could doubt it now. Germany was the best organized, most cultivated, scientific and liberal nation the earth had ever seen, it was for the good of mankind that she should be the dominant power in the world; his patriotism had had the passion of a mission. The English were indolent, the French decadent, the Russians barbaric, the Americans basely democratic; the rest of the world was the "White man's Burthen"; the clear destiny of mankind was subservience to the good Prussian eagle. Nevertheless--those wet draggled bodies that swirled down in the eddies of the sinking Titan--Ach! He wished it could have been otherwise. He nursed his knees and prayed that there need not be much more of these things before the spirit of the enemy was broken and the great Peace of Germany came upon the world. And suddenly he stopped short in his prayer. Suddenly out of the nothingness and darkness about him came the conviction that God did not listen to his prayers.... Was there any other way? It was the most awful doubt he had ever had, for it smote at the training of all his life. "Could it be possible that after all our old German God is not the proper style and title of the true God? Is our old German God perhaps only the last of a long succession of bloodstained tribal effigies--and not God at all?" For a long time it seemed that the bishop watched the thoughts that gathered in the young attache's mind. Until suddenly he broke into a quotation, into that last cry of the dying Goethe, for "Light. More Light!"... "Leave him at that," said the Angel. "I want you to hear these two young women." The hand came back to England and pointed to where Southend at the mouth of the Thames was all agog with the excitement of an overnight Zeppelin raid. People had got up hours before their usual time in order to look at the wrecked houses before they went up to their work in town. Everybody seemed abroad. Two nurses, not very well trained as nurses go nor very well-educated women, were snatching a little sea air upon the front after an eventful night. They were too excited still to sleep. They were talking of the horror of the moment when they saw the nasty thing "up there," and felt helpless as it dropped its bombs. They had both hated it. "There didn't ought to be such things," said one. "They don't seem needed," said her companion. "Men won't always go on like this--making wars and all such wickedness." "It's 'ow to stop them?" "Science is going to stop them." "Science?" "Yes, science. My young brother--oh, he's a clever one--he says such things! He says that it's science that they won't always go on like this. There's more sense coming into the world and more--my young brother says so. Says it stands to reason; it's Evolution. It's science that men are all brothers; you can prove it. It's science that there oughtn't to be war. Science is ending war now by making it horrible like this, and making it so that no one is safe. Showing it up. Only when nobody is safe will everybody want to set up peace,

piety

How many times the word 'piety' appears in the text?

with the tortuousness and weakness of his own character. Every day he perceived that the difficulty of telling Lady Ella of the change in his faith became more mountainous. And every day he procrastinated. If he had told her naturally and simply on the evening of his return from London--before anything material intervened--everything would have been different, everything would have been simpler.... He groaned and rolled over in his bed. There came upon him the acutest remorse and misery. For he saw that amidst these petty immediacies he had lost touch with God. The last month became incredible. He had seen God. He had touched God's hand. God had been given to him, and he had neglected the gift. He was still lost amidst the darkness and loneliness, the chaotic ends and mean shifts, of an Erastian world. For a month now and more, after a vision of God so vivid and real and reassuring that surely no saint nor prophet had ever had a better, he had made no more than vague responsive movements; he had allowed himself to be persuaded into an unreasonable and cowardly delay, and the fetters of association and usage and minor interests were as unbroken as they had been before ever the vision shone. Was it credible that there had ever been such a vision in a life so entirely dictated by immediacy and instinct as his? We are all creatures of the dark stream, we swim in needs and bodily impulses and small vanities; if ever and again a bubble of spiritual imaginativeness glows out of us, it breaks and leaves us where we were. "Louse that I am!" he cried. He still believed in God, without a shadow of doubt; he believed in the God that he had seen, the high courage, the golden intention, the light that had for a moment touched him. But what had he to do with God, he, the loiterer, the little thing? He was little, he was funny. His prevarications with his wife, for example, were comic. There was no other word for him but "funny." He rolled back again and lay staring. "Who will deliver me from the body of this death?" What right has a little bishop in a purple stock and doeskin breeches, who hangs back in his palace from the very call of God, to a phrase so fine and tragic as "the body of this death?" He was the most unreal thing in the universe. He was a base insect giving himself airs. What advantage has a bishop over the Praying Mantis, that cricket which apes the attitude of piety? Does he matter more--to God? "To the God of the Universe, who can tell? To the God of man,--yes." He sat up in bed struck by his own answer, and full of an indescribable hunger for God and an indescribable sense of his complete want of courage to make the one simple appeal that would satisfy that hunger. He tried to pray. "O God!" he cried, "forgive me! Take me!" It seemed to him that he was not really praying but only making believe to pray. It seemed to him that he was not really existing but only seeming to exist. He seemed to himself to be one with figures on a china plate, with figures painted on walls, with the flimsy imagined lives of men in stories of forgotten times. "O God!" he said, "O God," acting a gesture, mimicking appeal. "Anaemic," he said, and was given an idea. He got out of bed, he took his keys from the night-table at the bed head and went to his bureau. He stood with Dale's tonic in his hand. He remained for some time holding it, and feeling a curious indisposition to go on with the thing in his mind. He turned at last with an effort. He carried the little phial to his bedside, and into the tumbler of his water-bottle he let the drops fall, drop by drop, until he had counted twenty. Then holding it to the bulb of his reading lamp he added the water and stood watching the slow pearly eddies in the mixture mingle into an opalescent uniformity. He replaced the water-bottle and stood with the glass in his hand. But he did not drink. He was afraid. He knew that he had only to drink and this world of confusion would grow transparent, would roll back and reveal the great simplicities behind. And he was afraid. He was afraid of that greatness. He was afraid of the great imperatives that he knew would at once take hold of his life. He wanted to muddle on for just a little longer. He wanted to stay just where he was, in his familiar prison-house, with the key of escape in his hand. Before he took the last step into the very presence of truth, he would--think. He put down the glass and lay down upon his bed.... (3) He awoke in a mood of great depression out of a dream of wandering interminably in an endless building of innumerable pillars, pillars so vast and high that the ceiling was lost in darkness. By the scale of these pillars he felt himself scarcely larger than an ant. He was always alone in these wanderings, and always missing something that passed along distant passages, something desirable, something in the nature of a procession or of a ceremony, something of which he was in futile pursuit, of which he heard faint echoes, something luminous of which he seemed at times to see the last fading reflection, across vast halls and wildernesses of shining pavement and through Cyclopaean archways. At last there was neither sound nor gleam, but the utmost solitude, and a darkness and silence and the uttermost profundity of sorrow.... It was bright day. Dunk had just come into the room with his tea, and the tumbler of Dr. Dale's tonic stood untouched upon the night-table. The bishop sat up in bed. He had missed his opportunity. To-day was a busy day, he knew. "No," he said, as Dunk hesitated whether to remove or leave the tumbler. "Leave that." Dunk found room for it upon the tea-tray, and vanished softly with the bishop's evening clothes. The bishop remained motionless facing the day. There stood the draught of decision that he had lacked the decision even to touch. From his bed he could just read the larger items that figured upon the engagement tablet which it was Whippham's business to fill over-night and place upon his table. He had two confirmation services, first the big one in the cathedral and then a second one in the evening at Pringle, various committees and an interview with Chasters. He had not yet finished his addresses for these confirmation services.... The task seemed mountainous--overwhelming. With a gesture of desperation he seized the tumblerful of tonic and drank it off at a gulp. (4) For some moments nothing seemed to happen. Then he began to feel stronger and less wretched, and then came a throbbing and tingling of artery and nerve. He had a sense of adventure, a pleasant fear in the thing that he had done. He got out of bed, leaving his cup of tea untasted, and began to dress. He had the sensation of relief a prisoner may feel who suddenly tries his cell door and finds it open upon sunshine, the outside world and freedom. He went on dressing although he was certain that in a few minutes the world of delusion about him would dissolve, and that he would find himself again in the great freedom of the place of God. This time the transition came much sooner and much more rapidly. This time the phases and quality of the experience were different. He felt once again that luminous confusion between the world in which a human life is imprisoned and a circumambient and interpenetrating world, but this phase passed very rapidly; it did not spread out over nearly half an hour as it had done before, and almost immediately he seemed to plunge away from everything in this life altogether into that outer freedom he sought. And this time there was not even the elemental scenery of the former vision. He stood on nothing; there was nothing below and nothing above him. There was no sense of falling, no terror, but a feeling as though he floated released. There was no light, but as it were a clear darkness about him. Then it was manifest to him that he was not alone, but that with him was that same being that in his former vision had called himself the Angel of God. He knew this without knowing why he knew this, and either he spoke and was answered, or he thought and his thought answered him back. His state of mind on this occasion was altogether different from the first vision of God; before it had been spectacular, but now his perception was altogether super-sensuous. (And nevertheless and all the time it seemed that very faintly he was still in his room.) It was he who was the first to speak. The great Angel whom he felt rather than saw seemed to be waiting for him to speak. "I have come," he said, "because once more I desire to see God." "But you have seen God." "I saw God. God was light, God was truth. And I went back to my life, and God was hidden. God seemed to call me. He called. I heard him, I sought him and I touched his hand. When I went back to my life I was presently lost in perplexity. I could not tell why God had called me nor what I had to do." "And why did you not come here before?" "Doubt and fear. Brother, will you not lay your hand on mine?" The figure in the darkness became distincter. But nothing touched the bishop's seeking hands. "I want to see God and to understand him. I want reassurance. I want conviction. I want to understand all that God asks me to do. The world is full of conflict and confusion and the spirit of war. It is dark and dreadful now with suffering and bloodshed. I want to serve God who could save it, and I do not know how." It seemed to the bishop that now he could distinguish dimly but surely the form and features of the great Angel to whom he talked. For a little while there was silence, and then the Angel spoke. "It was necessary first," said the Angel, "that you should apprehend God and desire him. That was the purport of your first vision. Now, since you require it, I will tell you and show you certain things about him, things that it seems you need to know, things that all men need to know. Know then first that the time is at hand when God will come into the world and rule it, and when men will know what is required of them. This time is close at hand. In a little while God will be made manifest throughout the earth. Men will know him and know that he is King. To you this truth is to be shown--that you may tell it to others." "This is no vision?" said the bishop, "no dream that will pass away?" "Am I not here beside you?" (5) The bishop was anxious to be very clear. Things that had been shapelessly present in his mind now took form and found words for themselves. "The God I saw in my vision--He is not yet manifest in the world?" "He comes. He is in the world, but he is not yet manifested. He whom you saw in your vision will speedily be manifest in the world. To you this vision is given of the things that come. The world is already glowing with God. Mankind is like a smouldering fire that will presently, in quite a little time, burst out into flame. "In your former vision I showed you God," said the Angel. "This time I will show you certain signs of the coming of God. And then you will understand the place you hold in the world and the task that is required of you." (6) And as the Angel spoke he lifted up his hands with the palms upward, and there appeared above them a little round cloud, that grew denser until it had the likeness of a silver sphere. It was a mirror in the form of a ball, but a mirror not shining uniformly; it was discoloured with greyish patches that had a familiar shape. It circled slowly upon the Angel's hands. It seemed no greater than the compass of a human skull, and yet it was as great as the earth. Indeed it showed the whole earth. It was the earth. The hands of the Angel vanished out of sight, dissolved and vanished, and the spinning world hung free. All about the bishop the velvet darkness broke into glittering points that shaped out the constellations, and nearest to them, so near as to seem only a few million miles away in the great emptiness into which everything had resolved itself, shone the sun, a ball of red-tongued fires. The Angel was but a voice now; the bishop and the Angel were somewhere aloof from and yet accessible to the circling silver sphere. At the time all that happened seemed to happen quite naturally, as things happen in a dream. It was only later, when all this was a matter of memory, that the bishop realized how strange and incomprehensible his vision had been. The sphere was the earth with all its continents and seas, its ships and cities, its country-sides and mountain ranges. It was so small that he could see it all at once, and so great and full that he could see everything in it. He could see great countries like little patches upon it, and at the same time he could see the faces of the men upon the highways, he could see the feelings in men's hearts and the thoughts in their minds. But it did not seem in any way wonderful to the bishop that so he should see those things, or that it was to him that these things were shown. "This is the whole world," he said. "This is the vision of the world," the Angel answered. "It is very wonderful," said the bishop, and stood for a moment marvelling at the compass of his vision. For here was India, here was Samarkand, in the light of the late afternoon; and China and the swarming cities upon her silvery rivers sinking through twilight to the night and throwing a spray and tracery of lantern spots upon the dark; here was Russia under the noontide, and so great a battle of artillery raging on the Dunajec as no man had ever seen before; whole lines of trenches dissolved into clouds of dust and heaps of blood-streaked earth; here close to the waiting streets of Constantinople were the hills of Gallipoli, the grave of British Imperialism, streaming to heaven with the dust and smoke of bursting shells and rifle fire and the smoke and flame of burning brushwood. In the sea of Marmora a big ship crowded with Turkish troops was sinking; and, purple under the clear water, he could see the shape of the British submarine which had torpedoed her and had submerged and was going away. Berlin prepared its frugal meals, still far from famine. He saw the war in Europe as if he saw it on a map, yet every human detail showed. Over hundreds of miles of trenches east and west of Germany he could see shells bursting and the men below dropping, and the stretcher-bearers going back with the wounded. The roads to every front were crowded with reserves and munitions. For a moment a little group of men indifferent to all this struggle, who were landing amidst the Antarctic wilderness, held his attention; and then his eyes went westward to the dark rolling Atlantic across which, as the edge of the night was drawn like a curtain, more and still more ships became visible beating upon their courses eastward or westward under the overtaking day. The wonder increased; the wonder of the single and infinitely multitudinous adventure of mankind. "So God perhaps sees it," he whispered. (7) "Look at this man," said the Angel, and the black shadow of a hand seemed to point. It was a Chinaman sitting with two others in a little low room separated by translucent paper windows from a noisy street of shrill-voiced people. The three had been talking of the ultimatum that Japan had sent that day to China, claiming a priority in many matters over European influences they were by no means sure whether it was a wrong or a benefit that had been done to their country. From that topic they had passed to the discussion of the war, and then of wars and national aggressions and the perpetual thrusting and quarrelling of mankind. The older man had said that so life would always be; it was the will of Heaven. The little, very yellow-faced, emaciated man had agreed with him. But now this younger man, to whose thoughts the Angel had so particularly directed the bishop's attention, was speaking. He did not agree with his companion. "War is not the will of Heaven," he said; "it is the blindness of men." "Man changes," he said, "from day to day and from age to age. The science of the West has taught us that. Man changes and war changes and all things change. China has been the land of flowery peace, and she may yet give peace to all the world. She has put aside that puppet Emperor at Peking, she turns her face to the new learning of the West as a man lays aside his heavy robes, in order that her task may be achieved." The older man spoke, his manner was more than a little incredulous, and yet not altogether contemptuous. "You believe that someday there will be no more war in the world, that a time will come when men will no longer plot and plan against the welfare of men?" "Even that last," said the younger man. "Did any of us dream twenty-five years ago that here in China we should live to see a republic? The age of the republics draws near, when men in every country of the world will look straight up to the rule of Right and the empire of Heaven." ("And God will be King of the World," said the Angel. "Is not that faith exactly the faith that is coming to you?") The two other Chinamen questioned their companion, but without hostility. "This war," said the Chinaman, "will end in a great harvesting of kings." "But Japan--" the older man began. The bishop would have liked to hear more of that conversation, but the dark hand of the Angel motioned him to another part of the world. "Listen to this," said the Angel. He pointed the bishop to where the armies of Britain and Turkey lay in the heat of Mesopotamia. Along the sandy bank of a wide, slow-flowing river rode two horsemen, an Englishman and a Turk. They were returning from the Turkish lines, whither the Englishman had been with a flag of truce. When Englishmen and Turks are thrown together they soon become friends, and in this case matters had been facilitated by the Englishman's command of the Turkish language. He was quite an exceptional Englishman. The Turk had just been remarking cheerfully that it wouldn't please the Germans if they were to discover how amiably he and his charge had got on. "It's a pity we ever ceased to be friends," he said. "You Englishmen aren't like our Christians," he went on. The Englishmen wanted to know why. "You haven't priests in robes. You don't chant and worship crosses and pictures, and quarrel among yourselves." "We worship the same God as you do," said the Englishman. "Then why do we fight?" "That's what we want to know." "Why do you call yourselves Christians? And take part against us? All who worship the One God are brothers." "They ought to be," said the Englishman, and thought. He was struck by what seemed to him an amazingly novel idea. "If it weren't for religions all men would serve God together," he said. "And then there would be no wars--only now and then perhaps just a little honest fighting...." "And see here," said the Angel. "Here close behind this frightful battle, where the German phalanx of guns pounds its way through the Russian hosts. Here is a young German talking to two wounded Russian prisoners, who have stopped to rest by the roadside. He is a German of East Prussia; he knows and thinks a little Russian. And they too are saying, all three of them, that the war is not God's will, but the confusion of mankind. "Here," he said, and the shadow of his hand hovered over the burning-ghats of Benares, where a Brahmin of the new persuasion watched the straight spires of funereal smoke ascend into the glow of the late afternoon, while he talked to an English painter, his friend, of the blind intolerance of race and caste and custom in India. "Or here." The Angel pointed to a group of people who had gathered upon a little beach at the head of a Norwegian fiord. There were three lads, an old man and two women, and they stood about the body of a drowned German sailor which had been washed up that day. For a time they had talked in whispers, but now suddenly the old man spoke aloud. "This is the fourth that has come ashore," he said. "Poor drowned souls! Because men will not serve God." "But folks go to church and pray enough," said one of the women. "They do not serve God," said the old man. "They just pray to him as one nods to a beggar. They do not serve God who is their King. They set up their false kings and emperors, and so all Europe is covered with dead, and the seas wash up these dead to us. Why does the world suffer these things? Why did we Norwegians, who are a free-spirited people, permit the Germans and the Swedes and the English to set up a king over us? Because we lack faith. Kings mean secret counsels, and secret counsels bring war. Sooner or later war will come to us also if we give the soul of our nation in trust to a king.... But things will not always be thus with men. God will not suffer them for ever. A day comes, and it is no distant day, when God himself will rule the earth, and when men will do, not what the king wishes nor what is expedient nor what is customary, but what is manifestly right.".... "But men are saying that now in a thousand places," said the Angel. "Here is something that goes a little beyond that." His pointing hand went southward until they saw the Africanders riding down to Windhuk. Two men, Boer farmers both, rode side by side and talked of the German officer they brought prisoner with them. He had put sheep-dip in the wells of drinking-water; his life was fairly forfeit, and he was not to be killed. "We want no more hate in South Africa," they agreed. "Dutch and English and German must live here now side by side. Men cannot always be killing." "And see his thoughts," said the Angel. The German's mind was one amazement. He had been sure of being shot, he had meant to make a good end, fierce and scornful, a relentless fighter to the last; and these men who might have shot him like a man were going to spare him like a dog. His mind was a tumbled muddle of old and new ideas. He had been brought up in an atmosphere of the foulest and fiercest militarism; he had been trained to relentlessness, ruthlessness and so forth; war was war and the bitterer the better, frightfulness was your way to victory over every enemy. But these people had found a better way. Here were Dutch and English side by side; sixteen years ago they had been at war together and now they wore the same uniform and rode together, and laughed at him for a queer fellow because he was for spitting at them and defying them, and folding his arms and looking level at the executioners' rifles. There were to be no executioners' rifles.... If it was so with Dutch and English, why shouldn't it be so presently with French and Germans? Why someday shouldn't French, German, Dutch and English, Russian and Pole, ride together under this new star of mankind, the Southern Cross, to catch whatever last mischief-maker was left to poison the wells of goodwill? His mind resisted and struggled against these ideas. "Austere," he whispered. "The ennobling tests of war." A trooner rode up alongside, and offered him a drink of water "Just a mouthful," he said apologetically. "We've had to go rather short."... "There's another brain busy here with the same idea," the Angel interrupted. And the bishop found himself looking into the bedroom of a young German attache in Washington, sleepless in the small hours. "Ach!" cried the young man, and sat up in bed and ran his hands through his fair hair. He had been working late upon this detestable business of the Lusitania; the news of her sinking had come to hand two days before, and all America was aflame with it. It might mean war. His task had been to pour out explanations and justifications to the press; to show that it was an act of necessity, to pretend a conviction that the great ship was loaded with munitions, to fight down the hostility and anger that blazed across a continent. He had worked to his limit. He had taken cup after cup of coffee, and had come to bed worked out not two hours ago. Now here he was awake after a nightmare of drowning women and children, trying to comfort his soul by recalling his own arguments. Never once since the war began had he doubted the rightness of the German cause. It seemed only a proof of his nervous exhaustion that he could doubt it now. Germany was the best organized, most cultivated, scientific and liberal nation the earth had ever seen, it was for the good of mankind that she should be the dominant power in the world; his patriotism had had the passion of a mission. The English were indolent, the French decadent, the Russians barbaric, the Americans basely democratic; the rest of the world was the "White man's Burthen"; the clear destiny of mankind was subservience to the good Prussian eagle. Nevertheless--those wet draggled bodies that swirled down in the eddies of the sinking Titan--Ach! He wished it could have been otherwise. He nursed his knees and prayed that there need not be much more of these things before the spirit of the enemy was broken and the great Peace of Germany came upon the world. And suddenly he stopped short in his prayer. Suddenly out of the nothingness and darkness about him came the conviction that God did not listen to his prayers.... Was there any other way? It was the most awful doubt he had ever had, for it smote at the training of all his life. "Could it be possible that after all our old German God is not the proper style and title of the true God? Is our old German God perhaps only the last of a long succession of bloodstained tribal effigies--and not God at all?" For a long time it seemed that the bishop watched the thoughts that gathered in the young attache's mind. Until suddenly he broke into a quotation, into that last cry of the dying Goethe, for "Light. More Light!"... "Leave him at that," said the Angel. "I want you to hear these two young women." The hand came back to England and pointed to where Southend at the mouth of the Thames was all agog with the excitement of an overnight Zeppelin raid. People had got up hours before their usual time in order to look at the wrecked houses before they went up to their work in town. Everybody seemed abroad. Two nurses, not very well trained as nurses go nor very well-educated women, were snatching a little sea air upon the front after an eventful night. They were too excited still to sleep. They were talking of the horror of the moment when they saw the nasty thing "up there," and felt helpless as it dropped its bombs. They had both hated it. "There didn't ought to be such things," said one. "They don't seem needed," said her companion. "Men won't always go on like this--making wars and all such wickedness." "It's 'ow to stop them?" "Science is going to stop them." "Science?" "Yes, science. My young brother--oh, he's a clever one--he says such things! He says that it's science that they won't always go on like this. There's more sense coming into the world and more--my young brother says so. Says it stands to reason; it's Evolution. It's science that men are all brothers; you can prove it. It's science that there oughtn't to be war. Science is ending war now by making it horrible like this, and making it so that no one is safe. Showing it up. Only when nobody is safe will everybody want to set up peace,

table

How many times the word 'table' appears in the text?

with the tortuousness and weakness of his own character. Every day he perceived that the difficulty of telling Lady Ella of the change in his faith became more mountainous. And every day he procrastinated. If he had told her naturally and simply on the evening of his return from London--before anything material intervened--everything would have been different, everything would have been simpler.... He groaned and rolled over in his bed. There came upon him the acutest remorse and misery. For he saw that amidst these petty immediacies he had lost touch with God. The last month became incredible. He had seen God. He had touched God's hand. God had been given to him, and he had neglected the gift. He was still lost amidst the darkness and loneliness, the chaotic ends and mean shifts, of an Erastian world. For a month now and more, after a vision of God so vivid and real and reassuring that surely no saint nor prophet had ever had a better, he had made no more than vague responsive movements; he had allowed himself to be persuaded into an unreasonable and cowardly delay, and the fetters of association and usage and minor interests were as unbroken as they had been before ever the vision shone. Was it credible that there had ever been such a vision in a life so entirely dictated by immediacy and instinct as his? We are all creatures of the dark stream, we swim in needs and bodily impulses and small vanities; if ever and again a bubble of spiritual imaginativeness glows out of us, it breaks and leaves us where we were. "Louse that I am!" he cried. He still believed in God, without a shadow of doubt; he believed in the God that he had seen, the high courage, the golden intention, the light that had for a moment touched him. But what had he to do with God, he, the loiterer, the little thing? He was little, he was funny. His prevarications with his wife, for example, were comic. There was no other word for him but "funny." He rolled back again and lay staring. "Who will deliver me from the body of this death?" What right has a little bishop in a purple stock and doeskin breeches, who hangs back in his palace from the very call of God, to a phrase so fine and tragic as "the body of this death?" He was the most unreal thing in the universe. He was a base insect giving himself airs. What advantage has a bishop over the Praying Mantis, that cricket which apes the attitude of piety? Does he matter more--to God? "To the God of the Universe, who can tell? To the God of man,--yes." He sat up in bed struck by his own answer, and full of an indescribable hunger for God and an indescribable sense of his complete want of courage to make the one simple appeal that would satisfy that hunger. He tried to pray. "O God!" he cried, "forgive me! Take me!" It seemed to him that he was not really praying but only making believe to pray. It seemed to him that he was not really existing but only seeming to exist. He seemed to himself to be one with figures on a china plate, with figures painted on walls, with the flimsy imagined lives of men in stories of forgotten times. "O God!" he said, "O God," acting a gesture, mimicking appeal. "Anaemic," he said, and was given an idea. He got out of bed, he took his keys from the night-table at the bed head and went to his bureau. He stood with Dale's tonic in his hand. He remained for some time holding it, and feeling a curious indisposition to go on with the thing in his mind. He turned at last with an effort. He carried the little phial to his bedside, and into the tumbler of his water-bottle he let the drops fall, drop by drop, until he had counted twenty. Then holding it to the bulb of his reading lamp he added the water and stood watching the slow pearly eddies in the mixture mingle into an opalescent uniformity. He replaced the water-bottle and stood with the glass in his hand. But he did not drink. He was afraid. He knew that he had only to drink and this world of confusion would grow transparent, would roll back and reveal the great simplicities behind. And he was afraid. He was afraid of that greatness. He was afraid of the great imperatives that he knew would at once take hold of his life. He wanted to muddle on for just a little longer. He wanted to stay just where he was, in his familiar prison-house, with the key of escape in his hand. Before he took the last step into the very presence of truth, he would--think. He put down the glass and lay down upon his bed.... (3) He awoke in a mood of great depression out of a dream of wandering interminably in an endless building of innumerable pillars, pillars so vast and high that the ceiling was lost in darkness. By the scale of these pillars he felt himself scarcely larger than an ant. He was always alone in these wanderings, and always missing something that passed along distant passages, something desirable, something in the nature of a procession or of a ceremony, something of which he was in futile pursuit, of which he heard faint echoes, something luminous of which he seemed at times to see the last fading reflection, across vast halls and wildernesses of shining pavement and through Cyclopaean archways. At last there was neither sound nor gleam, but the utmost solitude, and a darkness and silence and the uttermost profundity of sorrow.... It was bright day. Dunk had just come into the room with his tea, and the tumbler of Dr. Dale's tonic stood untouched upon the night-table. The bishop sat up in bed. He had missed his opportunity. To-day was a busy day, he knew. "No," he said, as Dunk hesitated whether to remove or leave the tumbler. "Leave that." Dunk found room for it upon the tea-tray, and vanished softly with the bishop's evening clothes. The bishop remained motionless facing the day. There stood the draught of decision that he had lacked the decision even to touch. From his bed he could just read the larger items that figured upon the engagement tablet which it was Whippham's business to fill over-night and place upon his table. He had two confirmation services, first the big one in the cathedral and then a second one in the evening at Pringle, various committees and an interview with Chasters. He had not yet finished his addresses for these confirmation services.... The task seemed mountainous--overwhelming. With a gesture of desperation he seized the tumblerful of tonic and drank it off at a gulp. (4) For some moments nothing seemed to happen. Then he began to feel stronger and less wretched, and then came a throbbing and tingling of artery and nerve. He had a sense of adventure, a pleasant fear in the thing that he had done. He got out of bed, leaving his cup of tea untasted, and began to dress. He had the sensation of relief a prisoner may feel who suddenly tries his cell door and finds it open upon sunshine, the outside world and freedom. He went on dressing although he was certain that in a few minutes the world of delusion about him would dissolve, and that he would find himself again in the great freedom of the place of God. This time the transition came much sooner and much more rapidly. This time the phases and quality of the experience were different. He felt once again that luminous confusion between the world in which a human life is imprisoned and a circumambient and interpenetrating world, but this phase passed very rapidly; it did not spread out over nearly half an hour as it had done before, and almost immediately he seemed to plunge away from everything in this life altogether into that outer freedom he sought. And this time there was not even the elemental scenery of the former vision. He stood on nothing; there was nothing below and nothing above him. There was no sense of falling, no terror, but a feeling as though he floated released. There was no light, but as it were a clear darkness about him. Then it was manifest to him that he was not alone, but that with him was that same being that in his former vision had called himself the Angel of God. He knew this without knowing why he knew this, and either he spoke and was answered, or he thought and his thought answered him back. His state of mind on this occasion was altogether different from the first vision of God; before it had been spectacular, but now his perception was altogether super-sensuous. (And nevertheless and all the time it seemed that very faintly he was still in his room.) It was he who was the first to speak. The great Angel whom he felt rather than saw seemed to be waiting for him to speak. "I have come," he said, "because once more I desire to see God." "But you have seen God." "I saw God. God was light, God was truth. And I went back to my life, and God was hidden. God seemed to call me. He called. I heard him, I sought him and I touched his hand. When I went back to my life I was presently lost in perplexity. I could not tell why God had called me nor what I had to do." "And why did you not come here before?" "Doubt and fear. Brother, will you not lay your hand on mine?" The figure in the darkness became distincter. But nothing touched the bishop's seeking hands. "I want to see God and to understand him. I want reassurance. I want conviction. I want to understand all that God asks me to do. The world is full of conflict and confusion and the spirit of war. It is dark and dreadful now with suffering and bloodshed. I want to serve God who could save it, and I do not know how." It seemed to the bishop that now he could distinguish dimly but surely the form and features of the great Angel to whom he talked. For a little while there was silence, and then the Angel spoke. "It was necessary first," said the Angel, "that you should apprehend God and desire him. That was the purport of your first vision. Now, since you require it, I will tell you and show you certain things about him, things that it seems you need to know, things that all men need to know. Know then first that the time is at hand when God will come into the world and rule it, and when men will know what is required of them. This time is close at hand. In a little while God will be made manifest throughout the earth. Men will know him and know that he is King. To you this truth is to be shown--that you may tell it to others." "This is no vision?" said the bishop, "no dream that will pass away?" "Am I not here beside you?" (5) The bishop was anxious to be very clear. Things that had been shapelessly present in his mind now took form and found words for themselves. "The God I saw in my vision--He is not yet manifest in the world?" "He comes. He is in the world, but he is not yet manifested. He whom you saw in your vision will speedily be manifest in the world. To you this vision is given of the things that come. The world is already glowing with God. Mankind is like a smouldering fire that will presently, in quite a little time, burst out into flame. "In your former vision I showed you God," said the Angel. "This time I will show you certain signs of the coming of God. And then you will understand the place you hold in the world and the task that is required of you." (6) And as the Angel spoke he lifted up his hands with the palms upward, and there appeared above them a little round cloud, that grew denser until it had the likeness of a silver sphere. It was a mirror in the form of a ball, but a mirror not shining uniformly; it was discoloured with greyish patches that had a familiar shape. It circled slowly upon the Angel's hands. It seemed no greater than the compass of a human skull, and yet it was as great as the earth. Indeed it showed the whole earth. It was the earth. The hands of the Angel vanished out of sight, dissolved and vanished, and the spinning world hung free. All about the bishop the velvet darkness broke into glittering points that shaped out the constellations, and nearest to them, so near as to seem only a few million miles away in the great emptiness into which everything had resolved itself, shone the sun, a ball of red-tongued fires. The Angel was but a voice now; the bishop and the Angel were somewhere aloof from and yet accessible to the circling silver sphere. At the time all that happened seemed to happen quite naturally, as things happen in a dream. It was only later, when all this was a matter of memory, that the bishop realized how strange and incomprehensible his vision had been. The sphere was the earth with all its continents and seas, its ships and cities, its country-sides and mountain ranges. It was so small that he could see it all at once, and so great and full that he could see everything in it. He could see great countries like little patches upon it, and at the same time he could see the faces of the men upon the highways, he could see the feelings in men's hearts and the thoughts in their minds. But it did not seem in any way wonderful to the bishop that so he should see those things, or that it was to him that these things were shown. "This is the whole world," he said. "This is the vision of the world," the Angel answered. "It is very wonderful," said the bishop, and stood for a moment marvelling at the compass of his vision. For here was India, here was Samarkand, in the light of the late afternoon; and China and the swarming cities upon her silvery rivers sinking through twilight to the night and throwing a spray and tracery of lantern spots upon the dark; here was Russia under the noontide, and so great a battle of artillery raging on the Dunajec as no man had ever seen before; whole lines of trenches dissolved into clouds of dust and heaps of blood-streaked earth; here close to the waiting streets of Constantinople were the hills of Gallipoli, the grave of British Imperialism, streaming to heaven with the dust and smoke of bursting shells and rifle fire and the smoke and flame of burning brushwood. In the sea of Marmora a big ship crowded with Turkish troops was sinking; and, purple under the clear water, he could see the shape of the British submarine which had torpedoed her and had submerged and was going away. Berlin prepared its frugal meals, still far from famine. He saw the war in Europe as if he saw it on a map, yet every human detail showed. Over hundreds of miles of trenches east and west of Germany he could see shells bursting and the men below dropping, and the stretcher-bearers going back with the wounded. The roads to every front were crowded with reserves and munitions. For a moment a little group of men indifferent to all this struggle, who were landing amidst the Antarctic wilderness, held his attention; and then his eyes went westward to the dark rolling Atlantic across which, as the edge of the night was drawn like a curtain, more and still more ships became visible beating upon their courses eastward or westward under the overtaking day. The wonder increased; the wonder of the single and infinitely multitudinous adventure of mankind. "So God perhaps sees it," he whispered. (7) "Look at this man," said the Angel, and the black shadow of a hand seemed to point. It was a Chinaman sitting with two others in a little low room separated by translucent paper windows from a noisy street of shrill-voiced people. The three had been talking of the ultimatum that Japan had sent that day to China, claiming a priority in many matters over European influences they were by no means sure whether it was a wrong or a benefit that had been done to their country. From that topic they had passed to the discussion of the war, and then of wars and national aggressions and the perpetual thrusting and quarrelling of mankind. The older man had said that so life would always be; it was the will of Heaven. The little, very yellow-faced, emaciated man had agreed with him. But now this younger man, to whose thoughts the Angel had so particularly directed the bishop's attention, was speaking. He did not agree with his companion. "War is not the will of Heaven," he said; "it is the blindness of men." "Man changes," he said, "from day to day and from age to age. The science of the West has taught us that. Man changes and war changes and all things change. China has been the land of flowery peace, and she may yet give peace to all the world. She has put aside that puppet Emperor at Peking, she turns her face to the new learning of the West as a man lays aside his heavy robes, in order that her task may be achieved." The older man spoke, his manner was more than a little incredulous, and yet not altogether contemptuous. "You believe that someday there will be no more war in the world, that a time will come when men will no longer plot and plan against the welfare of men?" "Even that last," said the younger man. "Did any of us dream twenty-five years ago that here in China we should live to see a republic? The age of the republics draws near, when men in every country of the world will look straight up to the rule of Right and the empire of Heaven." ("And God will be King of the World," said the Angel. "Is not that faith exactly the faith that is coming to you?") The two other Chinamen questioned their companion, but without hostility. "This war," said the Chinaman, "will end in a great harvesting of kings." "But Japan--" the older man began. The bishop would have liked to hear more of that conversation, but the dark hand of the Angel motioned him to another part of the world. "Listen to this," said the Angel. He pointed the bishop to where the armies of Britain and Turkey lay in the heat of Mesopotamia. Along the sandy bank of a wide, slow-flowing river rode two horsemen, an Englishman and a Turk. They were returning from the Turkish lines, whither the Englishman had been with a flag of truce. When Englishmen and Turks are thrown together they soon become friends, and in this case matters had been facilitated by the Englishman's command of the Turkish language. He was quite an exceptional Englishman. The Turk had just been remarking cheerfully that it wouldn't please the Germans if they were to discover how amiably he and his charge had got on. "It's a pity we ever ceased to be friends," he said. "You Englishmen aren't like our Christians," he went on. The Englishmen wanted to know why. "You haven't priests in robes. You don't chant and worship crosses and pictures, and quarrel among yourselves." "We worship the same God as you do," said the Englishman. "Then why do we fight?" "That's what we want to know." "Why do you call yourselves Christians? And take part against us? All who worship the One God are brothers." "They ought to be," said the Englishman, and thought. He was struck by what seemed to him an amazingly novel idea. "If it weren't for religions all men would serve God together," he said. "And then there would be no wars--only now and then perhaps just a little honest fighting...." "And see here," said the Angel. "Here close behind this frightful battle, where the German phalanx of guns pounds its way through the Russian hosts. Here is a young German talking to two wounded Russian prisoners, who have stopped to rest by the roadside. He is a German of East Prussia; he knows and thinks a little Russian. And they too are saying, all three of them, that the war is not God's will, but the confusion of mankind. "Here," he said, and the shadow of his hand hovered over the burning-ghats of Benares, where a Brahmin of the new persuasion watched the straight spires of funereal smoke ascend into the glow of the late afternoon, while he talked to an English painter, his friend, of the blind intolerance of race and caste and custom in India. "Or here." The Angel pointed to a group of people who had gathered upon a little beach at the head of a Norwegian fiord. There were three lads, an old man and two women, and they stood about the body of a drowned German sailor which had been washed up that day. For a time they had talked in whispers, but now suddenly the old man spoke aloud. "This is the fourth that has come ashore," he said. "Poor drowned souls! Because men will not serve God." "But folks go to church and pray enough," said one of the women. "They do not serve God," said the old man. "They just pray to him as one nods to a beggar. They do not serve God who is their King. They set up their false kings and emperors, and so all Europe is covered with dead, and the seas wash up these dead to us. Why does the world suffer these things? Why did we Norwegians, who are a free-spirited people, permit the Germans and the Swedes and the English to set up a king over us? Because we lack faith. Kings mean secret counsels, and secret counsels bring war. Sooner or later war will come to us also if we give the soul of our nation in trust to a king.... But things will not always be thus with men. God will not suffer them for ever. A day comes, and it is no distant day, when God himself will rule the earth, and when men will do, not what the king wishes nor what is expedient nor what is customary, but what is manifestly right.".... "But men are saying that now in a thousand places," said the Angel. "Here is something that goes a little beyond that." His pointing hand went southward until they saw the Africanders riding down to Windhuk. Two men, Boer farmers both, rode side by side and talked of the German officer they brought prisoner with them. He had put sheep-dip in the wells of drinking-water; his life was fairly forfeit, and he was not to be killed. "We want no more hate in South Africa," they agreed. "Dutch and English and German must live here now side by side. Men cannot always be killing." "And see his thoughts," said the Angel. The German's mind was one amazement. He had been sure of being shot, he had meant to make a good end, fierce and scornful, a relentless fighter to the last; and these men who might have shot him like a man were going to spare him like a dog. His mind was a tumbled muddle of old and new ideas. He had been brought up in an atmosphere of the foulest and fiercest militarism; he had been trained to relentlessness, ruthlessness and so forth; war was war and the bitterer the better, frightfulness was your way to victory over every enemy. But these people had found a better way. Here were Dutch and English side by side; sixteen years ago they had been at war together and now they wore the same uniform and rode together, and laughed at him for a queer fellow because he was for spitting at them and defying them, and folding his arms and looking level at the executioners' rifles. There were to be no executioners' rifles.... If it was so with Dutch and English, why shouldn't it be so presently with French and Germans? Why someday shouldn't French, German, Dutch and English, Russian and Pole, ride together under this new star of mankind, the Southern Cross, to catch whatever last mischief-maker was left to poison the wells of goodwill? His mind resisted and struggled against these ideas. "Austere," he whispered. "The ennobling tests of war." A trooner rode up alongside, and offered him a drink of water "Just a mouthful," he said apologetically. "We've had to go rather short."... "There's another brain busy here with the same idea," the Angel interrupted. And the bishop found himself looking into the bedroom of a young German attache in Washington, sleepless in the small hours. "Ach!" cried the young man, and sat up in bed and ran his hands through his fair hair. He had been working late upon this detestable business of the Lusitania; the news of her sinking had come to hand two days before, and all America was aflame with it. It might mean war. His task had been to pour out explanations and justifications to the press; to show that it was an act of necessity, to pretend a conviction that the great ship was loaded with munitions, to fight down the hostility and anger that blazed across a continent. He had worked to his limit. He had taken cup after cup of coffee, and had come to bed worked out not two hours ago. Now here he was awake after a nightmare of drowning women and children, trying to comfort his soul by recalling his own arguments. Never once since the war began had he doubted the rightness of the German cause. It seemed only a proof of his nervous exhaustion that he could doubt it now. Germany was the best organized, most cultivated, scientific and liberal nation the earth had ever seen, it was for the good of mankind that she should be the dominant power in the world; his patriotism had had the passion of a mission. The English were indolent, the French decadent, the Russians barbaric, the Americans basely democratic; the rest of the world was the "White man's Burthen"; the clear destiny of mankind was subservience to the good Prussian eagle. Nevertheless--those wet draggled bodies that swirled down in the eddies of the sinking Titan--Ach! He wished it could have been otherwise. He nursed his knees and prayed that there need not be much more of these things before the spirit of the enemy was broken and the great Peace of Germany came upon the world. And suddenly he stopped short in his prayer. Suddenly out of the nothingness and darkness about him came the conviction that God did not listen to his prayers.... Was there any other way? It was the most awful doubt he had ever had, for it smote at the training of all his life. "Could it be possible that after all our old German God is not the proper style and title of the true God? Is our old German God perhaps only the last of a long succession of bloodstained tribal effigies--and not God at all?" For a long time it seemed that the bishop watched the thoughts that gathered in the young attache's mind. Until suddenly he broke into a quotation, into that last cry of the dying Goethe, for "Light. More Light!"... "Leave him at that," said the Angel. "I want you to hear these two young women." The hand came back to England and pointed to where Southend at the mouth of the Thames was all agog with the excitement of an overnight Zeppelin raid. People had got up hours before their usual time in order to look at the wrecked houses before they went up to their work in town. Everybody seemed abroad. Two nurses, not very well trained as nurses go nor very well-educated women, were snatching a little sea air upon the front after an eventful night. They were too excited still to sleep. They were talking of the horror of the moment when they saw the nasty thing "up there," and felt helpless as it dropped its bombs. They had both hated it. "There didn't ought to be such things," said one. "They don't seem needed," said her companion. "Men won't always go on like this--making wars and all such wickedness." "It's 'ow to stop them?" "Science is going to stop them." "Science?" "Yes, science. My young brother--oh, he's a clever one--he says such things! He says that it's science that they won't always go on like this. There's more sense coming into the world and more--my young brother says so. Says it stands to reason; it's Evolution. It's science that men are all brothers; you can prove it. It's science that there oughtn't to be war. Science is ending war now by making it horrible like this, and making it so that no one is safe. Showing it up. Only when nobody is safe will everybody want to set up peace,

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with the tortuousness and weakness of his own character. Every day he perceived that the difficulty of telling Lady Ella of the change in his faith became more mountainous. And every day he procrastinated. If he had told her naturally and simply on the evening of his return from London--before anything material intervened--everything would have been different, everything would have been simpler.... He groaned and rolled over in his bed. There came upon him the acutest remorse and misery. For he saw that amidst these petty immediacies he had lost touch with God. The last month became incredible. He had seen God. He had touched God's hand. God had been given to him, and he had neglected the gift. He was still lost amidst the darkness and loneliness, the chaotic ends and mean shifts, of an Erastian world. For a month now and more, after a vision of God so vivid and real and reassuring that surely no saint nor prophet had ever had a better, he had made no more than vague responsive movements; he had allowed himself to be persuaded into an unreasonable and cowardly delay, and the fetters of association and usage and minor interests were as unbroken as they had been before ever the vision shone. Was it credible that there had ever been such a vision in a life so entirely dictated by immediacy and instinct as his? We are all creatures of the dark stream, we swim in needs and bodily impulses and small vanities; if ever and again a bubble of spiritual imaginativeness glows out of us, it breaks and leaves us where we were. "Louse that I am!" he cried. He still believed in God, without a shadow of doubt; he believed in the God that he had seen, the high courage, the golden intention, the light that had for a moment touched him. But what had he to do with God, he, the loiterer, the little thing? He was little, he was funny. His prevarications with his wife, for example, were comic. There was no other word for him but "funny." He rolled back again and lay staring. "Who will deliver me from the body of this death?" What right has a little bishop in a purple stock and doeskin breeches, who hangs back in his palace from the very call of God, to a phrase so fine and tragic as "the body of this death?" He was the most unreal thing in the universe. He was a base insect giving himself airs. What advantage has a bishop over the Praying Mantis, that cricket which apes the attitude of piety? Does he matter more--to God? "To the God of the Universe, who can tell? To the God of man,--yes." He sat up in bed struck by his own answer, and full of an indescribable hunger for God and an indescribable sense of his complete want of courage to make the one simple appeal that would satisfy that hunger. He tried to pray. "O God!" he cried, "forgive me! Take me!" It seemed to him that he was not really praying but only making believe to pray. It seemed to him that he was not really existing but only seeming to exist. He seemed to himself to be one with figures on a china plate, with figures painted on walls, with the flimsy imagined lives of men in stories of forgotten times. "O God!" he said, "O God," acting a gesture, mimicking appeal. "Anaemic," he said, and was given an idea. He got out of bed, he took his keys from the night-table at the bed head and went to his bureau. He stood with Dale's tonic in his hand. He remained for some time holding it, and feeling a curious indisposition to go on with the thing in his mind. He turned at last with an effort. He carried the little phial to his bedside, and into the tumbler of his water-bottle he let the drops fall, drop by drop, until he had counted twenty. Then holding it to the bulb of his reading lamp he added the water and stood watching the slow pearly eddies in the mixture mingle into an opalescent uniformity. He replaced the water-bottle and stood with the glass in his hand. But he did not drink. He was afraid. He knew that he had only to drink and this world of confusion would grow transparent, would roll back and reveal the great simplicities behind. And he was afraid. He was afraid of that greatness. He was afraid of the great imperatives that he knew would at once take hold of his life. He wanted to muddle on for just a little longer. He wanted to stay just where he was, in his familiar prison-house, with the key of escape in his hand. Before he took the last step into the very presence of truth, he would--think. He put down the glass and lay down upon his bed.... (3) He awoke in a mood of great depression out of a dream of wandering interminably in an endless building of innumerable pillars, pillars so vast and high that the ceiling was lost in darkness. By the scale of these pillars he felt himself scarcely larger than an ant. He was always alone in these wanderings, and always missing something that passed along distant passages, something desirable, something in the nature of a procession or of a ceremony, something of which he was in futile pursuit, of which he heard faint echoes, something luminous of which he seemed at times to see the last fading reflection, across vast halls and wildernesses of shining pavement and through Cyclopaean archways. At last there was neither sound nor gleam, but the utmost solitude, and a darkness and silence and the uttermost profundity of sorrow.... It was bright day. Dunk had just come into the room with his tea, and the tumbler of Dr. Dale's tonic stood untouched upon the night-table. The bishop sat up in bed. He had missed his opportunity. To-day was a busy day, he knew. "No," he said, as Dunk hesitated whether to remove or leave the tumbler. "Leave that." Dunk found room for it upon the tea-tray, and vanished softly with the bishop's evening clothes. The bishop remained motionless facing the day. There stood the draught of decision that he had lacked the decision even to touch. From his bed he could just read the larger items that figured upon the engagement tablet which it was Whippham's business to fill over-night and place upon his table. He had two confirmation services, first the big one in the cathedral and then a second one in the evening at Pringle, various committees and an interview with Chasters. He had not yet finished his addresses for these confirmation services.... The task seemed mountainous--overwhelming. With a gesture of desperation he seized the tumblerful of tonic and drank it off at a gulp. (4) For some moments nothing seemed to happen. Then he began to feel stronger and less wretched, and then came a throbbing and tingling of artery and nerve. He had a sense of adventure, a pleasant fear in the thing that he had done. He got out of bed, leaving his cup of tea untasted, and began to dress. He had the sensation of relief a prisoner may feel who suddenly tries his cell door and finds it open upon sunshine, the outside world and freedom. He went on dressing although he was certain that in a few minutes the world of delusion about him would dissolve, and that he would find himself again in the great freedom of the place of God. This time the transition came much sooner and much more rapidly. This time the phases and quality of the experience were different. He felt once again that luminous confusion between the world in which a human life is imprisoned and a circumambient and interpenetrating world, but this phase passed very rapidly; it did not spread out over nearly half an hour as it had done before, and almost immediately he seemed to plunge away from everything in this life altogether into that outer freedom he sought. And this time there was not even the elemental scenery of the former vision. He stood on nothing; there was nothing below and nothing above him. There was no sense of falling, no terror, but a feeling as though he floated released. There was no light, but as it were a clear darkness about him. Then it was manifest to him that he was not alone, but that with him was that same being that in his former vision had called himself the Angel of God. He knew this without knowing why he knew this, and either he spoke and was answered, or he thought and his thought answered him back. His state of mind on this occasion was altogether different from the first vision of God; before it had been spectacular, but now his perception was altogether super-sensuous. (And nevertheless and all the time it seemed that very faintly he was still in his room.) It was he who was the first to speak. The great Angel whom he felt rather than saw seemed to be waiting for him to speak. "I have come," he said, "because once more I desire to see God." "But you have seen God." "I saw God. God was light, God was truth. And I went back to my life, and God was hidden. God seemed to call me. He called. I heard him, I sought him and I touched his hand. When I went back to my life I was presently lost in perplexity. I could not tell why God had called me nor what I had to do." "And why did you not come here before?" "Doubt and fear. Brother, will you not lay your hand on mine?" The figure in the darkness became distincter. But nothing touched the bishop's seeking hands. "I want to see God and to understand him. I want reassurance. I want conviction. I want to understand all that God asks me to do. The world is full of conflict and confusion and the spirit of war. It is dark and dreadful now with suffering and bloodshed. I want to serve God who could save it, and I do not know how." It seemed to the bishop that now he could distinguish dimly but surely the form and features of the great Angel to whom he talked. For a little while there was silence, and then the Angel spoke. "It was necessary first," said the Angel, "that you should apprehend God and desire him. That was the purport of your first vision. Now, since you require it, I will tell you and show you certain things about him, things that it seems you need to know, things that all men need to know. Know then first that the time is at hand when God will come into the world and rule it, and when men will know what is required of them. This time is close at hand. In a little while God will be made manifest throughout the earth. Men will know him and know that he is King. To you this truth is to be shown--that you may tell it to others." "This is no vision?" said the bishop, "no dream that will pass away?" "Am I not here beside you?" (5) The bishop was anxious to be very clear. Things that had been shapelessly present in his mind now took form and found words for themselves. "The God I saw in my vision--He is not yet manifest in the world?" "He comes. He is in the world, but he is not yet manifested. He whom you saw in your vision will speedily be manifest in the world. To you this vision is given of the things that come. The world is already glowing with God. Mankind is like a smouldering fire that will presently, in quite a little time, burst out into flame. "In your former vision I showed you God," said the Angel. "This time I will show you certain signs of the coming of God. And then you will understand the place you hold in the world and the task that is required of you." (6) And as the Angel spoke he lifted up his hands with the palms upward, and there appeared above them a little round cloud, that grew denser until it had the likeness of a silver sphere. It was a mirror in the form of a ball, but a mirror not shining uniformly; it was discoloured with greyish patches that had a familiar shape. It circled slowly upon the Angel's hands. It seemed no greater than the compass of a human skull, and yet it was as great as the earth. Indeed it showed the whole earth. It was the earth. The hands of the Angel vanished out of sight, dissolved and vanished, and the spinning world hung free. All about the bishop the velvet darkness broke into glittering points that shaped out the constellations, and nearest to them, so near as to seem only a few million miles away in the great emptiness into which everything had resolved itself, shone the sun, a ball of red-tongued fires. The Angel was but a voice now; the bishop and the Angel were somewhere aloof from and yet accessible to the circling silver sphere. At the time all that happened seemed to happen quite naturally, as things happen in a dream. It was only later, when all this was a matter of memory, that the bishop realized how strange and incomprehensible his vision had been. The sphere was the earth with all its continents and seas, its ships and cities, its country-sides and mountain ranges. It was so small that he could see it all at once, and so great and full that he could see everything in it. He could see great countries like little patches upon it, and at the same time he could see the faces of the men upon the highways, he could see the feelings in men's hearts and the thoughts in their minds. But it did not seem in any way wonderful to the bishop that so he should see those things, or that it was to him that these things were shown. "This is the whole world," he said. "This is the vision of the world," the Angel answered. "It is very wonderful," said the bishop, and stood for a moment marvelling at the compass of his vision. For here was India, here was Samarkand, in the light of the late afternoon; and China and the swarming cities upon her silvery rivers sinking through twilight to the night and throwing a spray and tracery of lantern spots upon the dark; here was Russia under the noontide, and so great a battle of artillery raging on the Dunajec as no man had ever seen before; whole lines of trenches dissolved into clouds of dust and heaps of blood-streaked earth; here close to the waiting streets of Constantinople were the hills of Gallipoli, the grave of British Imperialism, streaming to heaven with the dust and smoke of bursting shells and rifle fire and the smoke and flame of burning brushwood. In the sea of Marmora a big ship crowded with Turkish troops was sinking; and, purple under the clear water, he could see the shape of the British submarine which had torpedoed her and had submerged and was going away. Berlin prepared its frugal meals, still far from famine. He saw the war in Europe as if he saw it on a map, yet every human detail showed. Over hundreds of miles of trenches east and west of Germany he could see shells bursting and the men below dropping, and the stretcher-bearers going back with the wounded. The roads to every front were crowded with reserves and munitions. For a moment a little group of men indifferent to all this struggle, who were landing amidst the Antarctic wilderness, held his attention; and then his eyes went westward to the dark rolling Atlantic across which, as the edge of the night was drawn like a curtain, more and still more ships became visible beating upon their courses eastward or westward under the overtaking day. The wonder increased; the wonder of the single and infinitely multitudinous adventure of mankind. "So God perhaps sees it," he whispered. (7) "Look at this man," said the Angel, and the black shadow of a hand seemed to point. It was a Chinaman sitting with two others in a little low room separated by translucent paper windows from a noisy street of shrill-voiced people. The three had been talking of the ultimatum that Japan had sent that day to China, claiming a priority in many matters over European influences they were by no means sure whether it was a wrong or a benefit that had been done to their country. From that topic they had passed to the discussion of the war, and then of wars and national aggressions and the perpetual thrusting and quarrelling of mankind. The older man had said that so life would always be; it was the will of Heaven. The little, very yellow-faced, emaciated man had agreed with him. But now this younger man, to whose thoughts the Angel had so particularly directed the bishop's attention, was speaking. He did not agree with his companion. "War is not the will of Heaven," he said; "it is the blindness of men." "Man changes," he said, "from day to day and from age to age. The science of the West has taught us that. Man changes and war changes and all things change. China has been the land of flowery peace, and she may yet give peace to all the world. She has put aside that puppet Emperor at Peking, she turns her face to the new learning of the West as a man lays aside his heavy robes, in order that her task may be achieved." The older man spoke, his manner was more than a little incredulous, and yet not altogether contemptuous. "You believe that someday there will be no more war in the world, that a time will come when men will no longer plot and plan against the welfare of men?" "Even that last," said the younger man. "Did any of us dream twenty-five years ago that here in China we should live to see a republic? The age of the republics draws near, when men in every country of the world will look straight up to the rule of Right and the empire of Heaven." ("And God will be King of the World," said the Angel. "Is not that faith exactly the faith that is coming to you?") The two other Chinamen questioned their companion, but without hostility. "This war," said the Chinaman, "will end in a great harvesting of kings." "But Japan--" the older man began. The bishop would have liked to hear more of that conversation, but the dark hand of the Angel motioned him to another part of the world. "Listen to this," said the Angel. He pointed the bishop to where the armies of Britain and Turkey lay in the heat of Mesopotamia. Along the sandy bank of a wide, slow-flowing river rode two horsemen, an Englishman and a Turk. They were returning from the Turkish lines, whither the Englishman had been with a flag of truce. When Englishmen and Turks are thrown together they soon become friends, and in this case matters had been facilitated by the Englishman's command of the Turkish language. He was quite an exceptional Englishman. The Turk had just been remarking cheerfully that it wouldn't please the Germans if they were to discover how amiably he and his charge had got on. "It's a pity we ever ceased to be friends," he said. "You Englishmen aren't like our Christians," he went on. The Englishmen wanted to know why. "You haven't priests in robes. You don't chant and worship crosses and pictures, and quarrel among yourselves." "We worship the same God as you do," said the Englishman. "Then why do we fight?" "That's what we want to know." "Why do you call yourselves Christians? And take part against us? All who worship the One God are brothers." "They ought to be," said the Englishman, and thought. He was struck by what seemed to him an amazingly novel idea. "If it weren't for religions all men would serve God together," he said. "And then there would be no wars--only now and then perhaps just a little honest fighting...." "And see here," said the Angel. "Here close behind this frightful battle, where the German phalanx of guns pounds its way through the Russian hosts. Here is a young German talking to two wounded Russian prisoners, who have stopped to rest by the roadside. He is a German of East Prussia; he knows and thinks a little Russian. And they too are saying, all three of them, that the war is not God's will, but the confusion of mankind. "Here," he said, and the shadow of his hand hovered over the burning-ghats of Benares, where a Brahmin of the new persuasion watched the straight spires of funereal smoke ascend into the glow of the late afternoon, while he talked to an English painter, his friend, of the blind intolerance of race and caste and custom in India. "Or here." The Angel pointed to a group of people who had gathered upon a little beach at the head of a Norwegian fiord. There were three lads, an old man and two women, and they stood about the body of a drowned German sailor which had been washed up that day. For a time they had talked in whispers, but now suddenly the old man spoke aloud. "This is the fourth that has come ashore," he said. "Poor drowned souls! Because men will not serve God." "But folks go to church and pray enough," said one of the women. "They do not serve God," said the old man. "They just pray to him as one nods to a beggar. They do not serve God who is their King. They set up their false kings and emperors, and so all Europe is covered with dead, and the seas wash up these dead to us. Why does the world suffer these things? Why did we Norwegians, who are a free-spirited people, permit the Germans and the Swedes and the English to set up a king over us? Because we lack faith. Kings mean secret counsels, and secret counsels bring war. Sooner or later war will come to us also if we give the soul of our nation in trust to a king.... But things will not always be thus with men. God will not suffer them for ever. A day comes, and it is no distant day, when God himself will rule the earth, and when men will do, not what the king wishes nor what is expedient nor what is customary, but what is manifestly right.".... "But men are saying that now in a thousand places," said the Angel. "Here is something that goes a little beyond that." His pointing hand went southward until they saw the Africanders riding down to Windhuk. Two men, Boer farmers both, rode side by side and talked of the German officer they brought prisoner with them. He had put sheep-dip in the wells of drinking-water; his life was fairly forfeit, and he was not to be killed. "We want no more hate in South Africa," they agreed. "Dutch and English and German must live here now side by side. Men cannot always be killing." "And see his thoughts," said the Angel. The German's mind was one amazement. He had been sure of being shot, he had meant to make a good end, fierce and scornful, a relentless fighter to the last; and these men who might have shot him like a man were going to spare him like a dog. His mind was a tumbled muddle of old and new ideas. He had been brought up in an atmosphere of the foulest and fiercest militarism; he had been trained to relentlessness, ruthlessness and so forth; war was war and the bitterer the better, frightfulness was your way to victory over every enemy. But these people had found a better way. Here were Dutch and English side by side; sixteen years ago they had been at war together and now they wore the same uniform and rode together, and laughed at him for a queer fellow because he was for spitting at them and defying them, and folding his arms and looking level at the executioners' rifles. There were to be no executioners' rifles.... If it was so with Dutch and English, why shouldn't it be so presently with French and Germans? Why someday shouldn't French, German, Dutch and English, Russian and Pole, ride together under this new star of mankind, the Southern Cross, to catch whatever last mischief-maker was left to poison the wells of goodwill? His mind resisted and struggled against these ideas. "Austere," he whispered. "The ennobling tests of war." A trooner rode up alongside, and offered him a drink of water "Just a mouthful," he said apologetically. "We've had to go rather short."... "There's another brain busy here with the same idea," the Angel interrupted. And the bishop found himself looking into the bedroom of a young German attache in Washington, sleepless in the small hours. "Ach!" cried the young man, and sat up in bed and ran his hands through his fair hair. He had been working late upon this detestable business of the Lusitania; the news of her sinking had come to hand two days before, and all America was aflame with it. It might mean war. His task had been to pour out explanations and justifications to the press; to show that it was an act of necessity, to pretend a conviction that the great ship was loaded with munitions, to fight down the hostility and anger that blazed across a continent. He had worked to his limit. He had taken cup after cup of coffee, and had come to bed worked out not two hours ago. Now here he was awake after a nightmare of drowning women and children, trying to comfort his soul by recalling his own arguments. Never once since the war began had he doubted the rightness of the German cause. It seemed only a proof of his nervous exhaustion that he could doubt it now. Germany was the best organized, most cultivated, scientific and liberal nation the earth had ever seen, it was for the good of mankind that she should be the dominant power in the world; his patriotism had had the passion of a mission. The English were indolent, the French decadent, the Russians barbaric, the Americans basely democratic; the rest of the world was the "White man's Burthen"; the clear destiny of mankind was subservience to the good Prussian eagle. Nevertheless--those wet draggled bodies that swirled down in the eddies of the sinking Titan--Ach! He wished it could have been otherwise. He nursed his knees and prayed that there need not be much more of these things before the spirit of the enemy was broken and the great Peace of Germany came upon the world. And suddenly he stopped short in his prayer. Suddenly out of the nothingness and darkness about him came the conviction that God did not listen to his prayers.... Was there any other way? It was the most awful doubt he had ever had, for it smote at the training of all his life. "Could it be possible that after all our old German God is not the proper style and title of the true God? Is our old German God perhaps only the last of a long succession of bloodstained tribal effigies--and not God at all?" For a long time it seemed that the bishop watched the thoughts that gathered in the young attache's mind. Until suddenly he broke into a quotation, into that last cry of the dying Goethe, for "Light. More Light!"... "Leave him at that," said the Angel. "I want you to hear these two young women." The hand came back to England and pointed to where Southend at the mouth of the Thames was all agog with the excitement of an overnight Zeppelin raid. People had got up hours before their usual time in order to look at the wrecked houses before they went up to their work in town. Everybody seemed abroad. Two nurses, not very well trained as nurses go nor very well-educated women, were snatching a little sea air upon the front after an eventful night. They were too excited still to sleep. They were talking of the horror of the moment when they saw the nasty thing "up there," and felt helpless as it dropped its bombs. They had both hated it. "There didn't ought to be such things," said one. "They don't seem needed," said her companion. "Men won't always go on like this--making wars and all such wickedness." "It's 'ow to stop them?" "Science is going to stop them." "Science?" "Yes, science. My young brother--oh, he's a clever one--he says such things! He says that it's science that they won't always go on like this. There's more sense coming into the world and more--my young brother says so. Says it stands to reason; it's Evolution. It's science that men are all brothers; you can prove it. It's science that there oughtn't to be war. Science is ending war now by making it horrible like this, and making it so that no one is safe. Showing it up. Only when nobody is safe will everybody want to set up peace,

ca

How many times the word 'ca' appears in the text?

with the tortuousness and weakness of his own character. Every day he perceived that the difficulty of telling Lady Ella of the change in his faith became more mountainous. And every day he procrastinated. If he had told her naturally and simply on the evening of his return from London--before anything material intervened--everything would have been different, everything would have been simpler.... He groaned and rolled over in his bed. There came upon him the acutest remorse and misery. For he saw that amidst these petty immediacies he had lost touch with God. The last month became incredible. He had seen God. He had touched God's hand. God had been given to him, and he had neglected the gift. He was still lost amidst the darkness and loneliness, the chaotic ends and mean shifts, of an Erastian world. For a month now and more, after a vision of God so vivid and real and reassuring that surely no saint nor prophet had ever had a better, he had made no more than vague responsive movements; he had allowed himself to be persuaded into an unreasonable and cowardly delay, and the fetters of association and usage and minor interests were as unbroken as they had been before ever the vision shone. Was it credible that there had ever been such a vision in a life so entirely dictated by immediacy and instinct as his? We are all creatures of the dark stream, we swim in needs and bodily impulses and small vanities; if ever and again a bubble of spiritual imaginativeness glows out of us, it breaks and leaves us where we were. "Louse that I am!" he cried. He still believed in God, without a shadow of doubt; he believed in the God that he had seen, the high courage, the golden intention, the light that had for a moment touched him. But what had he to do with God, he, the loiterer, the little thing? He was little, he was funny. His prevarications with his wife, for example, were comic. There was no other word for him but "funny." He rolled back again and lay staring. "Who will deliver me from the body of this death?" What right has a little bishop in a purple stock and doeskin breeches, who hangs back in his palace from the very call of God, to a phrase so fine and tragic as "the body of this death?" He was the most unreal thing in the universe. He was a base insect giving himself airs. What advantage has a bishop over the Praying Mantis, that cricket which apes the attitude of piety? Does he matter more--to God? "To the God of the Universe, who can tell? To the God of man,--yes." He sat up in bed struck by his own answer, and full of an indescribable hunger for God and an indescribable sense of his complete want of courage to make the one simple appeal that would satisfy that hunger. He tried to pray. "O God!" he cried, "forgive me! Take me!" It seemed to him that he was not really praying but only making believe to pray. It seemed to him that he was not really existing but only seeming to exist. He seemed to himself to be one with figures on a china plate, with figures painted on walls, with the flimsy imagined lives of men in stories of forgotten times. "O God!" he said, "O God," acting a gesture, mimicking appeal. "Anaemic," he said, and was given an idea. He got out of bed, he took his keys from the night-table at the bed head and went to his bureau. He stood with Dale's tonic in his hand. He remained for some time holding it, and feeling a curious indisposition to go on with the thing in his mind. He turned at last with an effort. He carried the little phial to his bedside, and into the tumbler of his water-bottle he let the drops fall, drop by drop, until he had counted twenty. Then holding it to the bulb of his reading lamp he added the water and stood watching the slow pearly eddies in the mixture mingle into an opalescent uniformity. He replaced the water-bottle and stood with the glass in his hand. But he did not drink. He was afraid. He knew that he had only to drink and this world of confusion would grow transparent, would roll back and reveal the great simplicities behind. And he was afraid. He was afraid of that greatness. He was afraid of the great imperatives that he knew would at once take hold of his life. He wanted to muddle on for just a little longer. He wanted to stay just where he was, in his familiar prison-house, with the key of escape in his hand. Before he took the last step into the very presence of truth, he would--think. He put down the glass and lay down upon his bed.... (3) He awoke in a mood of great depression out of a dream of wandering interminably in an endless building of innumerable pillars, pillars so vast and high that the ceiling was lost in darkness. By the scale of these pillars he felt himself scarcely larger than an ant. He was always alone in these wanderings, and always missing something that passed along distant passages, something desirable, something in the nature of a procession or of a ceremony, something of which he was in futile pursuit, of which he heard faint echoes, something luminous of which he seemed at times to see the last fading reflection, across vast halls and wildernesses of shining pavement and through Cyclopaean archways. At last there was neither sound nor gleam, but the utmost solitude, and a darkness and silence and the uttermost profundity of sorrow.... It was bright day. Dunk had just come into the room with his tea, and the tumbler of Dr. Dale's tonic stood untouched upon the night-table. The bishop sat up in bed. He had missed his opportunity. To-day was a busy day, he knew. "No," he said, as Dunk hesitated whether to remove or leave the tumbler. "Leave that." Dunk found room for it upon the tea-tray, and vanished softly with the bishop's evening clothes. The bishop remained motionless facing the day. There stood the draught of decision that he had lacked the decision even to touch. From his bed he could just read the larger items that figured upon the engagement tablet which it was Whippham's business to fill over-night and place upon his table. He had two confirmation services, first the big one in the cathedral and then a second one in the evening at Pringle, various committees and an interview with Chasters. He had not yet finished his addresses for these confirmation services.... The task seemed mountainous--overwhelming. With a gesture of desperation he seized the tumblerful of tonic and drank it off at a gulp. (4) For some moments nothing seemed to happen. Then he began to feel stronger and less wretched, and then came a throbbing and tingling of artery and nerve. He had a sense of adventure, a pleasant fear in the thing that he had done. He got out of bed, leaving his cup of tea untasted, and began to dress. He had the sensation of relief a prisoner may feel who suddenly tries his cell door and finds it open upon sunshine, the outside world and freedom. He went on dressing although he was certain that in a few minutes the world of delusion about him would dissolve, and that he would find himself again in the great freedom of the place of God. This time the transition came much sooner and much more rapidly. This time the phases and quality of the experience were different. He felt once again that luminous confusion between the world in which a human life is imprisoned and a circumambient and interpenetrating world, but this phase passed very rapidly; it did not spread out over nearly half an hour as it had done before, and almost immediately he seemed to plunge away from everything in this life altogether into that outer freedom he sought. And this time there was not even the elemental scenery of the former vision. He stood on nothing; there was nothing below and nothing above him. There was no sense of falling, no terror, but a feeling as though he floated released. There was no light, but as it were a clear darkness about him. Then it was manifest to him that he was not alone, but that with him was that same being that in his former vision had called himself the Angel of God. He knew this without knowing why he knew this, and either he spoke and was answered, or he thought and his thought answered him back. His state of mind on this occasion was altogether different from the first vision of God; before it had been spectacular, but now his perception was altogether super-sensuous. (And nevertheless and all the time it seemed that very faintly he was still in his room.) It was he who was the first to speak. The great Angel whom he felt rather than saw seemed to be waiting for him to speak. "I have come," he said, "because once more I desire to see God." "But you have seen God." "I saw God. God was light, God was truth. And I went back to my life, and God was hidden. God seemed to call me. He called. I heard him, I sought him and I touched his hand. When I went back to my life I was presently lost in perplexity. I could not tell why God had called me nor what I had to do." "And why did you not come here before?" "Doubt and fear. Brother, will you not lay your hand on mine?" The figure in the darkness became distincter. But nothing touched the bishop's seeking hands. "I want to see God and to understand him. I want reassurance. I want conviction. I want to understand all that God asks me to do. The world is full of conflict and confusion and the spirit of war. It is dark and dreadful now with suffering and bloodshed. I want to serve God who could save it, and I do not know how." It seemed to the bishop that now he could distinguish dimly but surely the form and features of the great Angel to whom he talked. For a little while there was silence, and then the Angel spoke. "It was necessary first," said the Angel, "that you should apprehend God and desire him. That was the purport of your first vision. Now, since you require it, I will tell you and show you certain things about him, things that it seems you need to know, things that all men need to know. Know then first that the time is at hand when God will come into the world and rule it, and when men will know what is required of them. This time is close at hand. In a little while God will be made manifest throughout the earth. Men will know him and know that he is King. To you this truth is to be shown--that you may tell it to others." "This is no vision?" said the bishop, "no dream that will pass away?" "Am I not here beside you?" (5) The bishop was anxious to be very clear. Things that had been shapelessly present in his mind now took form and found words for themselves. "The God I saw in my vision--He is not yet manifest in the world?" "He comes. He is in the world, but he is not yet manifested. He whom you saw in your vision will speedily be manifest in the world. To you this vision is given of the things that come. The world is already glowing with God. Mankind is like a smouldering fire that will presently, in quite a little time, burst out into flame. "In your former vision I showed you God," said the Angel. "This time I will show you certain signs of the coming of God. And then you will understand the place you hold in the world and the task that is required of you." (6) And as the Angel spoke he lifted up his hands with the palms upward, and there appeared above them a little round cloud, that grew denser until it had the likeness of a silver sphere. It was a mirror in the form of a ball, but a mirror not shining uniformly; it was discoloured with greyish patches that had a familiar shape. It circled slowly upon the Angel's hands. It seemed no greater than the compass of a human skull, and yet it was as great as the earth. Indeed it showed the whole earth. It was the earth. The hands of the Angel vanished out of sight, dissolved and vanished, and the spinning world hung free. All about the bishop the velvet darkness broke into glittering points that shaped out the constellations, and nearest to them, so near as to seem only a few million miles away in the great emptiness into which everything had resolved itself, shone the sun, a ball of red-tongued fires. The Angel was but a voice now; the bishop and the Angel were somewhere aloof from and yet accessible to the circling silver sphere. At the time all that happened seemed to happen quite naturally, as things happen in a dream. It was only later, when all this was a matter of memory, that the bishop realized how strange and incomprehensible his vision had been. The sphere was the earth with all its continents and seas, its ships and cities, its country-sides and mountain ranges. It was so small that he could see it all at once, and so great and full that he could see everything in it. He could see great countries like little patches upon it, and at the same time he could see the faces of the men upon the highways, he could see the feelings in men's hearts and the thoughts in their minds. But it did not seem in any way wonderful to the bishop that so he should see those things, or that it was to him that these things were shown. "This is the whole world," he said. "This is the vision of the world," the Angel answered. "It is very wonderful," said the bishop, and stood for a moment marvelling at the compass of his vision. For here was India, here was Samarkand, in the light of the late afternoon; and China and the swarming cities upon her silvery rivers sinking through twilight to the night and throwing a spray and tracery of lantern spots upon the dark; here was Russia under the noontide, and so great a battle of artillery raging on the Dunajec as no man had ever seen before; whole lines of trenches dissolved into clouds of dust and heaps of blood-streaked earth; here close to the waiting streets of Constantinople were the hills of Gallipoli, the grave of British Imperialism, streaming to heaven with the dust and smoke of bursting shells and rifle fire and the smoke and flame of burning brushwood. In the sea of Marmora a big ship crowded with Turkish troops was sinking; and, purple under the clear water, he could see the shape of the British submarine which had torpedoed her and had submerged and was going away. Berlin prepared its frugal meals, still far from famine. He saw the war in Europe as if he saw it on a map, yet every human detail showed. Over hundreds of miles of trenches east and west of Germany he could see shells bursting and the men below dropping, and the stretcher-bearers going back with the wounded. The roads to every front were crowded with reserves and munitions. For a moment a little group of men indifferent to all this struggle, who were landing amidst the Antarctic wilderness, held his attention; and then his eyes went westward to the dark rolling Atlantic across which, as the edge of the night was drawn like a curtain, more and still more ships became visible beating upon their courses eastward or westward under the overtaking day. The wonder increased; the wonder of the single and infinitely multitudinous adventure of mankind. "So God perhaps sees it," he whispered. (7) "Look at this man," said the Angel, and the black shadow of a hand seemed to point. It was a Chinaman sitting with two others in a little low room separated by translucent paper windows from a noisy street of shrill-voiced people. The three had been talking of the ultimatum that Japan had sent that day to China, claiming a priority in many matters over European influences they were by no means sure whether it was a wrong or a benefit that had been done to their country. From that topic they had passed to the discussion of the war, and then of wars and national aggressions and the perpetual thrusting and quarrelling of mankind. The older man had said that so life would always be; it was the will of Heaven. The little, very yellow-faced, emaciated man had agreed with him. But now this younger man, to whose thoughts the Angel had so particularly directed the bishop's attention, was speaking. He did not agree with his companion. "War is not the will of Heaven," he said; "it is the blindness of men." "Man changes," he said, "from day to day and from age to age. The science of the West has taught us that. Man changes and war changes and all things change. China has been the land of flowery peace, and she may yet give peace to all the world. She has put aside that puppet Emperor at Peking, she turns her face to the new learning of the West as a man lays aside his heavy robes, in order that her task may be achieved." The older man spoke, his manner was more than a little incredulous, and yet not altogether contemptuous. "You believe that someday there will be no more war in the world, that a time will come when men will no longer plot and plan against the welfare of men?" "Even that last," said the younger man. "Did any of us dream twenty-five years ago that here in China we should live to see a republic? The age of the republics draws near, when men in every country of the world will look straight up to the rule of Right and the empire of Heaven." ("And God will be King of the World," said the Angel. "Is not that faith exactly the faith that is coming to you?") The two other Chinamen questioned their companion, but without hostility. "This war," said the Chinaman, "will end in a great harvesting of kings." "But Japan--" the older man began. The bishop would have liked to hear more of that conversation, but the dark hand of the Angel motioned him to another part of the world. "Listen to this," said the Angel. He pointed the bishop to where the armies of Britain and Turkey lay in the heat of Mesopotamia. Along the sandy bank of a wide, slow-flowing river rode two horsemen, an Englishman and a Turk. They were returning from the Turkish lines, whither the Englishman had been with a flag of truce. When Englishmen and Turks are thrown together they soon become friends, and in this case matters had been facilitated by the Englishman's command of the Turkish language. He was quite an exceptional Englishman. The Turk had just been remarking cheerfully that it wouldn't please the Germans if they were to discover how amiably he and his charge had got on. "It's a pity we ever ceased to be friends," he said. "You Englishmen aren't like our Christians," he went on. The Englishmen wanted to know why. "You haven't priests in robes. You don't chant and worship crosses and pictures, and quarrel among yourselves." "We worship the same God as you do," said the Englishman. "Then why do we fight?" "That's what we want to know." "Why do you call yourselves Christians? And take part against us? All who worship the One God are brothers." "They ought to be," said the Englishman, and thought. He was struck by what seemed to him an amazingly novel idea. "If it weren't for religions all men would serve God together," he said. "And then there would be no wars--only now and then perhaps just a little honest fighting...." "And see here," said the Angel. "Here close behind this frightful battle, where the German phalanx of guns pounds its way through the Russian hosts. Here is a young German talking to two wounded Russian prisoners, who have stopped to rest by the roadside. He is a German of East Prussia; he knows and thinks a little Russian. And they too are saying, all three of them, that the war is not God's will, but the confusion of mankind. "Here," he said, and the shadow of his hand hovered over the burning-ghats of Benares, where a Brahmin of the new persuasion watched the straight spires of funereal smoke ascend into the glow of the late afternoon, while he talked to an English painter, his friend, of the blind intolerance of race and caste and custom in India. "Or here." The Angel pointed to a group of people who had gathered upon a little beach at the head of a Norwegian fiord. There were three lads, an old man and two women, and they stood about the body of a drowned German sailor which had been washed up that day. For a time they had talked in whispers, but now suddenly the old man spoke aloud. "This is the fourth that has come ashore," he said. "Poor drowned souls! Because men will not serve God." "But folks go to church and pray enough," said one of the women. "They do not serve God," said the old man. "They just pray to him as one nods to a beggar. They do not serve God who is their King. They set up their false kings and emperors, and so all Europe is covered with dead, and the seas wash up these dead to us. Why does the world suffer these things? Why did we Norwegians, who are a free-spirited people, permit the Germans and the Swedes and the English to set up a king over us? Because we lack faith. Kings mean secret counsels, and secret counsels bring war. Sooner or later war will come to us also if we give the soul of our nation in trust to a king.... But things will not always be thus with men. God will not suffer them for ever. A day comes, and it is no distant day, when God himself will rule the earth, and when men will do, not what the king wishes nor what is expedient nor what is customary, but what is manifestly right.".... "But men are saying that now in a thousand places," said the Angel. "Here is something that goes a little beyond that." His pointing hand went southward until they saw the Africanders riding down to Windhuk. Two men, Boer farmers both, rode side by side and talked of the German officer they brought prisoner with them. He had put sheep-dip in the wells of drinking-water; his life was fairly forfeit, and he was not to be killed. "We want no more hate in South Africa," they agreed. "Dutch and English and German must live here now side by side. Men cannot always be killing." "And see his thoughts," said the Angel. The German's mind was one amazement. He had been sure of being shot, he had meant to make a good end, fierce and scornful, a relentless fighter to the last; and these men who might have shot him like a man were going to spare him like a dog. His mind was a tumbled muddle of old and new ideas. He had been brought up in an atmosphere of the foulest and fiercest militarism; he had been trained to relentlessness, ruthlessness and so forth; war was war and the bitterer the better, frightfulness was your way to victory over every enemy. But these people had found a better way. Here were Dutch and English side by side; sixteen years ago they had been at war together and now they wore the same uniform and rode together, and laughed at him for a queer fellow because he was for spitting at them and defying them, and folding his arms and looking level at the executioners' rifles. There were to be no executioners' rifles.... If it was so with Dutch and English, why shouldn't it be so presently with French and Germans? Why someday shouldn't French, German, Dutch and English, Russian and Pole, ride together under this new star of mankind, the Southern Cross, to catch whatever last mischief-maker was left to poison the wells of goodwill? His mind resisted and struggled against these ideas. "Austere," he whispered. "The ennobling tests of war." A trooner rode up alongside, and offered him a drink of water "Just a mouthful," he said apologetically. "We've had to go rather short."... "There's another brain busy here with the same idea," the Angel interrupted. And the bishop found himself looking into the bedroom of a young German attache in Washington, sleepless in the small hours. "Ach!" cried the young man, and sat up in bed and ran his hands through his fair hair. He had been working late upon this detestable business of the Lusitania; the news of her sinking had come to hand two days before, and all America was aflame with it. It might mean war. His task had been to pour out explanations and justifications to the press; to show that it was an act of necessity, to pretend a conviction that the great ship was loaded with munitions, to fight down the hostility and anger that blazed across a continent. He had worked to his limit. He had taken cup after cup of coffee, and had come to bed worked out not two hours ago. Now here he was awake after a nightmare of drowning women and children, trying to comfort his soul by recalling his own arguments. Never once since the war began had he doubted the rightness of the German cause. It seemed only a proof of his nervous exhaustion that he could doubt it now. Germany was the best organized, most cultivated, scientific and liberal nation the earth had ever seen, it was for the good of mankind that she should be the dominant power in the world; his patriotism had had the passion of a mission. The English were indolent, the French decadent, the Russians barbaric, the Americans basely democratic; the rest of the world was the "White man's Burthen"; the clear destiny of mankind was subservience to the good Prussian eagle. Nevertheless--those wet draggled bodies that swirled down in the eddies of the sinking Titan--Ach! He wished it could have been otherwise. He nursed his knees and prayed that there need not be much more of these things before the spirit of the enemy was broken and the great Peace of Germany came upon the world. And suddenly he stopped short in his prayer. Suddenly out of the nothingness and darkness about him came the conviction that God did not listen to his prayers.... Was there any other way? It was the most awful doubt he had ever had, for it smote at the training of all his life. "Could it be possible that after all our old German God is not the proper style and title of the true God? Is our old German God perhaps only the last of a long succession of bloodstained tribal effigies--and not God at all?" For a long time it seemed that the bishop watched the thoughts that gathered in the young attache's mind. Until suddenly he broke into a quotation, into that last cry of the dying Goethe, for "Light. More Light!"... "Leave him at that," said the Angel. "I want you to hear these two young women." The hand came back to England and pointed to where Southend at the mouth of the Thames was all agog with the excitement of an overnight Zeppelin raid. People had got up hours before their usual time in order to look at the wrecked houses before they went up to their work in town. Everybody seemed abroad. Two nurses, not very well trained as nurses go nor very well-educated women, were snatching a little sea air upon the front after an eventful night. They were too excited still to sleep. They were talking of the horror of the moment when they saw the nasty thing "up there," and felt helpless as it dropped its bombs. They had both hated it. "There didn't ought to be such things," said one. "They don't seem needed," said her companion. "Men won't always go on like this--making wars and all such wickedness." "It's 'ow to stop them?" "Science is going to stop them." "Science?" "Yes, science. My young brother--oh, he's a clever one--he says such things! He says that it's science that they won't always go on like this. There's more sense coming into the world and more--my young brother says so. Says it stands to reason; it's Evolution. It's science that men are all brothers; you can prove it. It's science that there oughtn't to be war. Science is ending war now by making it horrible like this, and making it so that no one is safe. Showing it up. Only when nobody is safe will everybody want to set up peace,

knew

How many times the word 'knew' appears in the text?

with the tortuousness and weakness of his own character. Every day he perceived that the difficulty of telling Lady Ella of the change in his faith became more mountainous. And every day he procrastinated. If he had told her naturally and simply on the evening of his return from London--before anything material intervened--everything would have been different, everything would have been simpler.... He groaned and rolled over in his bed. There came upon him the acutest remorse and misery. For he saw that amidst these petty immediacies he had lost touch with God. The last month became incredible. He had seen God. He had touched God's hand. God had been given to him, and he had neglected the gift. He was still lost amidst the darkness and loneliness, the chaotic ends and mean shifts, of an Erastian world. For a month now and more, after a vision of God so vivid and real and reassuring that surely no saint nor prophet had ever had a better, he had made no more than vague responsive movements; he had allowed himself to be persuaded into an unreasonable and cowardly delay, and the fetters of association and usage and minor interests were as unbroken as they had been before ever the vision shone. Was it credible that there had ever been such a vision in a life so entirely dictated by immediacy and instinct as his? We are all creatures of the dark stream, we swim in needs and bodily impulses and small vanities; if ever and again a bubble of spiritual imaginativeness glows out of us, it breaks and leaves us where we were. "Louse that I am!" he cried. He still believed in God, without a shadow of doubt; he believed in the God that he had seen, the high courage, the golden intention, the light that had for a moment touched him. But what had he to do with God, he, the loiterer, the little thing? He was little, he was funny. His prevarications with his wife, for example, were comic. There was no other word for him but "funny." He rolled back again and lay staring. "Who will deliver me from the body of this death?" What right has a little bishop in a purple stock and doeskin breeches, who hangs back in his palace from the very call of God, to a phrase so fine and tragic as "the body of this death?" He was the most unreal thing in the universe. He was a base insect giving himself airs. What advantage has a bishop over the Praying Mantis, that cricket which apes the attitude of piety? Does he matter more--to God? "To the God of the Universe, who can tell? To the God of man,--yes." He sat up in bed struck by his own answer, and full of an indescribable hunger for God and an indescribable sense of his complete want of courage to make the one simple appeal that would satisfy that hunger. He tried to pray. "O God!" he cried, "forgive me! Take me!" It seemed to him that he was not really praying but only making believe to pray. It seemed to him that he was not really existing but only seeming to exist. He seemed to himself to be one with figures on a china plate, with figures painted on walls, with the flimsy imagined lives of men in stories of forgotten times. "O God!" he said, "O God," acting a gesture, mimicking appeal. "Anaemic," he said, and was given an idea. He got out of bed, he took his keys from the night-table at the bed head and went to his bureau. He stood with Dale's tonic in his hand. He remained for some time holding it, and feeling a curious indisposition to go on with the thing in his mind. He turned at last with an effort. He carried the little phial to his bedside, and into the tumbler of his water-bottle he let the drops fall, drop by drop, until he had counted twenty. Then holding it to the bulb of his reading lamp he added the water and stood watching the slow pearly eddies in the mixture mingle into an opalescent uniformity. He replaced the water-bottle and stood with the glass in his hand. But he did not drink. He was afraid. He knew that he had only to drink and this world of confusion would grow transparent, would roll back and reveal the great simplicities behind. And he was afraid. He was afraid of that greatness. He was afraid of the great imperatives that he knew would at once take hold of his life. He wanted to muddle on for just a little longer. He wanted to stay just where he was, in his familiar prison-house, with the key of escape in his hand. Before he took the last step into the very presence of truth, he would--think. He put down the glass and lay down upon his bed.... (3) He awoke in a mood of great depression out of a dream of wandering interminably in an endless building of innumerable pillars, pillars so vast and high that the ceiling was lost in darkness. By the scale of these pillars he felt himself scarcely larger than an ant. He was always alone in these wanderings, and always missing something that passed along distant passages, something desirable, something in the nature of a procession or of a ceremony, something of which he was in futile pursuit, of which he heard faint echoes, something luminous of which he seemed at times to see the last fading reflection, across vast halls and wildernesses of shining pavement and through Cyclopaean archways. At last there was neither sound nor gleam, but the utmost solitude, and a darkness and silence and the uttermost profundity of sorrow.... It was bright day. Dunk had just come into the room with his tea, and the tumbler of Dr. Dale's tonic stood untouched upon the night-table. The bishop sat up in bed. He had missed his opportunity. To-day was a busy day, he knew. "No," he said, as Dunk hesitated whether to remove or leave the tumbler. "Leave that." Dunk found room for it upon the tea-tray, and vanished softly with the bishop's evening clothes. The bishop remained motionless facing the day. There stood the draught of decision that he had lacked the decision even to touch. From his bed he could just read the larger items that figured upon the engagement tablet which it was Whippham's business to fill over-night and place upon his table. He had two confirmation services, first the big one in the cathedral and then a second one in the evening at Pringle, various committees and an interview with Chasters. He had not yet finished his addresses for these confirmation services.... The task seemed mountainous--overwhelming. With a gesture of desperation he seized the tumblerful of tonic and drank it off at a gulp. (4) For some moments nothing seemed to happen. Then he began to feel stronger and less wretched, and then came a throbbing and tingling of artery and nerve. He had a sense of adventure, a pleasant fear in the thing that he had done. He got out of bed, leaving his cup of tea untasted, and began to dress. He had the sensation of relief a prisoner may feel who suddenly tries his cell door and finds it open upon sunshine, the outside world and freedom. He went on dressing although he was certain that in a few minutes the world of delusion about him would dissolve, and that he would find himself again in the great freedom of the place of God. This time the transition came much sooner and much more rapidly. This time the phases and quality of the experience were different. He felt once again that luminous confusion between the world in which a human life is imprisoned and a circumambient and interpenetrating world, but this phase passed very rapidly; it did not spread out over nearly half an hour as it had done before, and almost immediately he seemed to plunge away from everything in this life altogether into that outer freedom he sought. And this time there was not even the elemental scenery of the former vision. He stood on nothing; there was nothing below and nothing above him. There was no sense of falling, no terror, but a feeling as though he floated released. There was no light, but as it were a clear darkness about him. Then it was manifest to him that he was not alone, but that with him was that same being that in his former vision had called himself the Angel of God. He knew this without knowing why he knew this, and either he spoke and was answered, or he thought and his thought answered him back. His state of mind on this occasion was altogether different from the first vision of God; before it had been spectacular, but now his perception was altogether super-sensuous. (And nevertheless and all the time it seemed that very faintly he was still in his room.) It was he who was the first to speak. The great Angel whom he felt rather than saw seemed to be waiting for him to speak. "I have come," he said, "because once more I desire to see God." "But you have seen God." "I saw God. God was light, God was truth. And I went back to my life, and God was hidden. God seemed to call me. He called. I heard him, I sought him and I touched his hand. When I went back to my life I was presently lost in perplexity. I could not tell why God had called me nor what I had to do." "And why did you not come here before?" "Doubt and fear. Brother, will you not lay your hand on mine?" The figure in the darkness became distincter. But nothing touched the bishop's seeking hands. "I want to see God and to understand him. I want reassurance. I want conviction. I want to understand all that God asks me to do. The world is full of conflict and confusion and the spirit of war. It is dark and dreadful now with suffering and bloodshed. I want to serve God who could save it, and I do not know how." It seemed to the bishop that now he could distinguish dimly but surely the form and features of the great Angel to whom he talked. For a little while there was silence, and then the Angel spoke. "It was necessary first," said the Angel, "that you should apprehend God and desire him. That was the purport of your first vision. Now, since you require it, I will tell you and show you certain things about him, things that it seems you need to know, things that all men need to know. Know then first that the time is at hand when God will come into the world and rule it, and when men will know what is required of them. This time is close at hand. In a little while God will be made manifest throughout the earth. Men will know him and know that he is King. To you this truth is to be shown--that you may tell it to others." "This is no vision?" said the bishop, "no dream that will pass away?" "Am I not here beside you?" (5) The bishop was anxious to be very clear. Things that had been shapelessly present in his mind now took form and found words for themselves. "The God I saw in my vision--He is not yet manifest in the world?" "He comes. He is in the world, but he is not yet manifested. He whom you saw in your vision will speedily be manifest in the world. To you this vision is given of the things that come. The world is already glowing with God. Mankind is like a smouldering fire that will presently, in quite a little time, burst out into flame. "In your former vision I showed you God," said the Angel. "This time I will show you certain signs of the coming of God. And then you will understand the place you hold in the world and the task that is required of you." (6) And as the Angel spoke he lifted up his hands with the palms upward, and there appeared above them a little round cloud, that grew denser until it had the likeness of a silver sphere. It was a mirror in the form of a ball, but a mirror not shining uniformly; it was discoloured with greyish patches that had a familiar shape. It circled slowly upon the Angel's hands. It seemed no greater than the compass of a human skull, and yet it was as great as the earth. Indeed it showed the whole earth. It was the earth. The hands of the Angel vanished out of sight, dissolved and vanished, and the spinning world hung free. All about the bishop the velvet darkness broke into glittering points that shaped out the constellations, and nearest to them, so near as to seem only a few million miles away in the great emptiness into which everything had resolved itself, shone the sun, a ball of red-tongued fires. The Angel was but a voice now; the bishop and the Angel were somewhere aloof from and yet accessible to the circling silver sphere. At the time all that happened seemed to happen quite naturally, as things happen in a dream. It was only later, when all this was a matter of memory, that the bishop realized how strange and incomprehensible his vision had been. The sphere was the earth with all its continents and seas, its ships and cities, its country-sides and mountain ranges. It was so small that he could see it all at once, and so great and full that he could see everything in it. He could see great countries like little patches upon it, and at the same time he could see the faces of the men upon the highways, he could see the feelings in men's hearts and the thoughts in their minds. But it did not seem in any way wonderful to the bishop that so he should see those things, or that it was to him that these things were shown. "This is the whole world," he said. "This is the vision of the world," the Angel answered. "It is very wonderful," said the bishop, and stood for a moment marvelling at the compass of his vision. For here was India, here was Samarkand, in the light of the late afternoon; and China and the swarming cities upon her silvery rivers sinking through twilight to the night and throwing a spray and tracery of lantern spots upon the dark; here was Russia under the noontide, and so great a battle of artillery raging on the Dunajec as no man had ever seen before; whole lines of trenches dissolved into clouds of dust and heaps of blood-streaked earth; here close to the waiting streets of Constantinople were the hills of Gallipoli, the grave of British Imperialism, streaming to heaven with the dust and smoke of bursting shells and rifle fire and the smoke and flame of burning brushwood. In the sea of Marmora a big ship crowded with Turkish troops was sinking; and, purple under the clear water, he could see the shape of the British submarine which had torpedoed her and had submerged and was going away. Berlin prepared its frugal meals, still far from famine. He saw the war in Europe as if he saw it on a map, yet every human detail showed. Over hundreds of miles of trenches east and west of Germany he could see shells bursting and the men below dropping, and the stretcher-bearers going back with the wounded. The roads to every front were crowded with reserves and munitions. For a moment a little group of men indifferent to all this struggle, who were landing amidst the Antarctic wilderness, held his attention; and then his eyes went westward to the dark rolling Atlantic across which, as the edge of the night was drawn like a curtain, more and still more ships became visible beating upon their courses eastward or westward under the overtaking day. The wonder increased; the wonder of the single and infinitely multitudinous adventure of mankind. "So God perhaps sees it," he whispered. (7) "Look at this man," said the Angel, and the black shadow of a hand seemed to point. It was a Chinaman sitting with two others in a little low room separated by translucent paper windows from a noisy street of shrill-voiced people. The three had been talking of the ultimatum that Japan had sent that day to China, claiming a priority in many matters over European influences they were by no means sure whether it was a wrong or a benefit that had been done to their country. From that topic they had passed to the discussion of the war, and then of wars and national aggressions and the perpetual thrusting and quarrelling of mankind. The older man had said that so life would always be; it was the will of Heaven. The little, very yellow-faced, emaciated man had agreed with him. But now this younger man, to whose thoughts the Angel had so particularly directed the bishop's attention, was speaking. He did not agree with his companion. "War is not the will of Heaven," he said; "it is the blindness of men." "Man changes," he said, "from day to day and from age to age. The science of the West has taught us that. Man changes and war changes and all things change. China has been the land of flowery peace, and she may yet give peace to all the world. She has put aside that puppet Emperor at Peking, she turns her face to the new learning of the West as a man lays aside his heavy robes, in order that her task may be achieved." The older man spoke, his manner was more than a little incredulous, and yet not altogether contemptuous. "You believe that someday there will be no more war in the world, that a time will come when men will no longer plot and plan against the welfare of men?" "Even that last," said the younger man. "Did any of us dream twenty-five years ago that here in China we should live to see a republic? The age of the republics draws near, when men in every country of the world will look straight up to the rule of Right and the empire of Heaven." ("And God will be King of the World," said the Angel. "Is not that faith exactly the faith that is coming to you?") The two other Chinamen questioned their companion, but without hostility. "This war," said the Chinaman, "will end in a great harvesting of kings." "But Japan--" the older man began. The bishop would have liked to hear more of that conversation, but the dark hand of the Angel motioned him to another part of the world. "Listen to this," said the Angel. He pointed the bishop to where the armies of Britain and Turkey lay in the heat of Mesopotamia. Along the sandy bank of a wide, slow-flowing river rode two horsemen, an Englishman and a Turk. They were returning from the Turkish lines, whither the Englishman had been with a flag of truce. When Englishmen and Turks are thrown together they soon become friends, and in this case matters had been facilitated by the Englishman's command of the Turkish language. He was quite an exceptional Englishman. The Turk had just been remarking cheerfully that it wouldn't please the Germans if they were to discover how amiably he and his charge had got on. "It's a pity we ever ceased to be friends," he said. "You Englishmen aren't like our Christians," he went on. The Englishmen wanted to know why. "You haven't priests in robes. You don't chant and worship crosses and pictures, and quarrel among yourselves." "We worship the same God as you do," said the Englishman. "Then why do we fight?" "That's what we want to know." "Why do you call yourselves Christians? And take part against us? All who worship the One God are brothers." "They ought to be," said the Englishman, and thought. He was struck by what seemed to him an amazingly novel idea. "If it weren't for religions all men would serve God together," he said. "And then there would be no wars--only now and then perhaps just a little honest fighting...." "And see here," said the Angel. "Here close behind this frightful battle, where the German phalanx of guns pounds its way through the Russian hosts. Here is a young German talking to two wounded Russian prisoners, who have stopped to rest by the roadside. He is a German of East Prussia; he knows and thinks a little Russian. And they too are saying, all three of them, that the war is not God's will, but the confusion of mankind. "Here," he said, and the shadow of his hand hovered over the burning-ghats of Benares, where a Brahmin of the new persuasion watched the straight spires of funereal smoke ascend into the glow of the late afternoon, while he talked to an English painter, his friend, of the blind intolerance of race and caste and custom in India. "Or here." The Angel pointed to a group of people who had gathered upon a little beach at the head of a Norwegian fiord. There were three lads, an old man and two women, and they stood about the body of a drowned German sailor which had been washed up that day. For a time they had talked in whispers, but now suddenly the old man spoke aloud. "This is the fourth that has come ashore," he said. "Poor drowned souls! Because men will not serve God." "But folks go to church and pray enough," said one of the women. "They do not serve God," said the old man. "They just pray to him as one nods to a beggar. They do not serve God who is their King. They set up their false kings and emperors, and so all Europe is covered with dead, and the seas wash up these dead to us. Why does the world suffer these things? Why did we Norwegians, who are a free-spirited people, permit the Germans and the Swedes and the English to set up a king over us? Because we lack faith. Kings mean secret counsels, and secret counsels bring war. Sooner or later war will come to us also if we give the soul of our nation in trust to a king.... But things will not always be thus with men. God will not suffer them for ever. A day comes, and it is no distant day, when God himself will rule the earth, and when men will do, not what the king wishes nor what is expedient nor what is customary, but what is manifestly right.".... "But men are saying that now in a thousand places," said the Angel. "Here is something that goes a little beyond that." His pointing hand went southward until they saw the Africanders riding down to Windhuk. Two men, Boer farmers both, rode side by side and talked of the German officer they brought prisoner with them. He had put sheep-dip in the wells of drinking-water; his life was fairly forfeit, and he was not to be killed. "We want no more hate in South Africa," they agreed. "Dutch and English and German must live here now side by side. Men cannot always be killing." "And see his thoughts," said the Angel. The German's mind was one amazement. He had been sure of being shot, he had meant to make a good end, fierce and scornful, a relentless fighter to the last; and these men who might have shot him like a man were going to spare him like a dog. His mind was a tumbled muddle of old and new ideas. He had been brought up in an atmosphere of the foulest and fiercest militarism; he had been trained to relentlessness, ruthlessness and so forth; war was war and the bitterer the better, frightfulness was your way to victory over every enemy. But these people had found a better way. Here were Dutch and English side by side; sixteen years ago they had been at war together and now they wore the same uniform and rode together, and laughed at him for a queer fellow because he was for spitting at them and defying them, and folding his arms and looking level at the executioners' rifles. There were to be no executioners' rifles.... If it was so with Dutch and English, why shouldn't it be so presently with French and Germans? Why someday shouldn't French, German, Dutch and English, Russian and Pole, ride together under this new star of mankind, the Southern Cross, to catch whatever last mischief-maker was left to poison the wells of goodwill? His mind resisted and struggled against these ideas. "Austere," he whispered. "The ennobling tests of war." A trooner rode up alongside, and offered him a drink of water "Just a mouthful," he said apologetically. "We've had to go rather short."... "There's another brain busy here with the same idea," the Angel interrupted. And the bishop found himself looking into the bedroom of a young German attache in Washington, sleepless in the small hours. "Ach!" cried the young man, and sat up in bed and ran his hands through his fair hair. He had been working late upon this detestable business of the Lusitania; the news of her sinking had come to hand two days before, and all America was aflame with it. It might mean war. His task had been to pour out explanations and justifications to the press; to show that it was an act of necessity, to pretend a conviction that the great ship was loaded with munitions, to fight down the hostility and anger that blazed across a continent. He had worked to his limit. He had taken cup after cup of coffee, and had come to bed worked out not two hours ago. Now here he was awake after a nightmare of drowning women and children, trying to comfort his soul by recalling his own arguments. Never once since the war began had he doubted the rightness of the German cause. It seemed only a proof of his nervous exhaustion that he could doubt it now. Germany was the best organized, most cultivated, scientific and liberal nation the earth had ever seen, it was for the good of mankind that she should be the dominant power in the world; his patriotism had had the passion of a mission. The English were indolent, the French decadent, the Russians barbaric, the Americans basely democratic; the rest of the world was the "White man's Burthen"; the clear destiny of mankind was subservience to the good Prussian eagle. Nevertheless--those wet draggled bodies that swirled down in the eddies of the sinking Titan--Ach! He wished it could have been otherwise. He nursed his knees and prayed that there need not be much more of these things before the spirit of the enemy was broken and the great Peace of Germany came upon the world. And suddenly he stopped short in his prayer. Suddenly out of the nothingness and darkness about him came the conviction that God did not listen to his prayers.... Was there any other way? It was the most awful doubt he had ever had, for it smote at the training of all his life. "Could it be possible that after all our old German God is not the proper style and title of the true God? Is our old German God perhaps only the last of a long succession of bloodstained tribal effigies--and not God at all?" For a long time it seemed that the bishop watched the thoughts that gathered in the young attache's mind. Until suddenly he broke into a quotation, into that last cry of the dying Goethe, for "Light. More Light!"... "Leave him at that," said the Angel. "I want you to hear these two young women." The hand came back to England and pointed to where Southend at the mouth of the Thames was all agog with the excitement of an overnight Zeppelin raid. People had got up hours before their usual time in order to look at the wrecked houses before they went up to their work in town. Everybody seemed abroad. Two nurses, not very well trained as nurses go nor very well-educated women, were snatching a little sea air upon the front after an eventful night. They were too excited still to sleep. They were talking of the horror of the moment when they saw the nasty thing "up there," and felt helpless as it dropped its bombs. They had both hated it. "There didn't ought to be such things," said one. "They don't seem needed," said her companion. "Men won't always go on like this--making wars and all such wickedness." "It's 'ow to stop them?" "Science is going to stop them." "Science?" "Yes, science. My young brother--oh, he's a clever one--he says such things! He says that it's science that they won't always go on like this. There's more sense coming into the world and more--my young brother says so. Says it stands to reason; it's Evolution. It's science that men are all brothers; you can prove it. It's science that there oughtn't to be war. Science is ending war now by making it horrible like this, and making it so that no one is safe. Showing it up. Only when nobody is safe will everybody want to set up peace,

appeal

How many times the word 'appeal' appears in the text?

with the tortuousness and weakness of his own character. Every day he perceived that the difficulty of telling Lady Ella of the change in his faith became more mountainous. And every day he procrastinated. If he had told her naturally and simply on the evening of his return from London--before anything material intervened--everything would have been different, everything would have been simpler.... He groaned and rolled over in his bed. There came upon him the acutest remorse and misery. For he saw that amidst these petty immediacies he had lost touch with God. The last month became incredible. He had seen God. He had touched God's hand. God had been given to him, and he had neglected the gift. He was still lost amidst the darkness and loneliness, the chaotic ends and mean shifts, of an Erastian world. For a month now and more, after a vision of God so vivid and real and reassuring that surely no saint nor prophet had ever had a better, he had made no more than vague responsive movements; he had allowed himself to be persuaded into an unreasonable and cowardly delay, and the fetters of association and usage and minor interests were as unbroken as they had been before ever the vision shone. Was it credible that there had ever been such a vision in a life so entirely dictated by immediacy and instinct as his? We are all creatures of the dark stream, we swim in needs and bodily impulses and small vanities; if ever and again a bubble of spiritual imaginativeness glows out of us, it breaks and leaves us where we were. "Louse that I am!" he cried. He still believed in God, without a shadow of doubt; he believed in the God that he had seen, the high courage, the golden intention, the light that had for a moment touched him. But what had he to do with God, he, the loiterer, the little thing? He was little, he was funny. His prevarications with his wife, for example, were comic. There was no other word for him but "funny." He rolled back again and lay staring. "Who will deliver me from the body of this death?" What right has a little bishop in a purple stock and doeskin breeches, who hangs back in his palace from the very call of God, to a phrase so fine and tragic as "the body of this death?" He was the most unreal thing in the universe. He was a base insect giving himself airs. What advantage has a bishop over the Praying Mantis, that cricket which apes the attitude of piety? Does he matter more--to God? "To the God of the Universe, who can tell? To the God of man,--yes." He sat up in bed struck by his own answer, and full of an indescribable hunger for God and an indescribable sense of his complete want of courage to make the one simple appeal that would satisfy that hunger. He tried to pray. "O God!" he cried, "forgive me! Take me!" It seemed to him that he was not really praying but only making believe to pray. It seemed to him that he was not really existing but only seeming to exist. He seemed to himself to be one with figures on a china plate, with figures painted on walls, with the flimsy imagined lives of men in stories of forgotten times. "O God!" he said, "O God," acting a gesture, mimicking appeal. "Anaemic," he said, and was given an idea. He got out of bed, he took his keys from the night-table at the bed head and went to his bureau. He stood with Dale's tonic in his hand. He remained for some time holding it, and feeling a curious indisposition to go on with the thing in his mind. He turned at last with an effort. He carried the little phial to his bedside, and into the tumbler of his water-bottle he let the drops fall, drop by drop, until he had counted twenty. Then holding it to the bulb of his reading lamp he added the water and stood watching the slow pearly eddies in the mixture mingle into an opalescent uniformity. He replaced the water-bottle and stood with the glass in his hand. But he did not drink. He was afraid. He knew that he had only to drink and this world of confusion would grow transparent, would roll back and reveal the great simplicities behind. And he was afraid. He was afraid of that greatness. He was afraid of the great imperatives that he knew would at once take hold of his life. He wanted to muddle on for just a little longer. He wanted to stay just where he was, in his familiar prison-house, with the key of escape in his hand. Before he took the last step into the very presence of truth, he would--think. He put down the glass and lay down upon his bed.... (3) He awoke in a mood of great depression out of a dream of wandering interminably in an endless building of innumerable pillars, pillars so vast and high that the ceiling was lost in darkness. By the scale of these pillars he felt himself scarcely larger than an ant. He was always alone in these wanderings, and always missing something that passed along distant passages, something desirable, something in the nature of a procession or of a ceremony, something of which he was in futile pursuit, of which he heard faint echoes, something luminous of which he seemed at times to see the last fading reflection, across vast halls and wildernesses of shining pavement and through Cyclopaean archways. At last there was neither sound nor gleam, but the utmost solitude, and a darkness and silence and the uttermost profundity of sorrow.... It was bright day. Dunk had just come into the room with his tea, and the tumbler of Dr. Dale's tonic stood untouched upon the night-table. The bishop sat up in bed. He had missed his opportunity. To-day was a busy day, he knew. "No," he said, as Dunk hesitated whether to remove or leave the tumbler. "Leave that." Dunk found room for it upon the tea-tray, and vanished softly with the bishop's evening clothes. The bishop remained motionless facing the day. There stood the draught of decision that he had lacked the decision even to touch. From his bed he could just read the larger items that figured upon the engagement tablet which it was Whippham's business to fill over-night and place upon his table. He had two confirmation services, first the big one in the cathedral and then a second one in the evening at Pringle, various committees and an interview with Chasters. He had not yet finished his addresses for these confirmation services.... The task seemed mountainous--overwhelming. With a gesture of desperation he seized the tumblerful of tonic and drank it off at a gulp. (4) For some moments nothing seemed to happen. Then he began to feel stronger and less wretched, and then came a throbbing and tingling of artery and nerve. He had a sense of adventure, a pleasant fear in the thing that he had done. He got out of bed, leaving his cup of tea untasted, and began to dress. He had the sensation of relief a prisoner may feel who suddenly tries his cell door and finds it open upon sunshine, the outside world and freedom. He went on dressing although he was certain that in a few minutes the world of delusion about him would dissolve, and that he would find himself again in the great freedom of the place of God. This time the transition came much sooner and much more rapidly. This time the phases and quality of the experience were different. He felt once again that luminous confusion between the world in which a human life is imprisoned and a circumambient and interpenetrating world, but this phase passed very rapidly; it did not spread out over nearly half an hour as it had done before, and almost immediately he seemed to plunge away from everything in this life altogether into that outer freedom he sought. And this time there was not even the elemental scenery of the former vision. He stood on nothing; there was nothing below and nothing above him. There was no sense of falling, no terror, but a feeling as though he floated released. There was no light, but as it were a clear darkness about him. Then it was manifest to him that he was not alone, but that with him was that same being that in his former vision had called himself the Angel of God. He knew this without knowing why he knew this, and either he spoke and was answered, or he thought and his thought answered him back. His state of mind on this occasion was altogether different from the first vision of God; before it had been spectacular, but now his perception was altogether super-sensuous. (And nevertheless and all the time it seemed that very faintly he was still in his room.) It was he who was the first to speak. The great Angel whom he felt rather than saw seemed to be waiting for him to speak. "I have come," he said, "because once more I desire to see God." "But you have seen God." "I saw God. God was light, God was truth. And I went back to my life, and God was hidden. God seemed to call me. He called. I heard him, I sought him and I touched his hand. When I went back to my life I was presently lost in perplexity. I could not tell why God had called me nor what I had to do." "And why did you not come here before?" "Doubt and fear. Brother, will you not lay your hand on mine?" The figure in the darkness became distincter. But nothing touched the bishop's seeking hands. "I want to see God and to understand him. I want reassurance. I want conviction. I want to understand all that God asks me to do. The world is full of conflict and confusion and the spirit of war. It is dark and dreadful now with suffering and bloodshed. I want to serve God who could save it, and I do not know how." It seemed to the bishop that now he could distinguish dimly but surely the form and features of the great Angel to whom he talked. For a little while there was silence, and then the Angel spoke. "It was necessary first," said the Angel, "that you should apprehend God and desire him. That was the purport of your first vision. Now, since you require it, I will tell you and show you certain things about him, things that it seems you need to know, things that all men need to know. Know then first that the time is at hand when God will come into the world and rule it, and when men will know what is required of them. This time is close at hand. In a little while God will be made manifest throughout the earth. Men will know him and know that he is King. To you this truth is to be shown--that you may tell it to others." "This is no vision?" said the bishop, "no dream that will pass away?" "Am I not here beside you?" (5) The bishop was anxious to be very clear. Things that had been shapelessly present in his mind now took form and found words for themselves. "The God I saw in my vision--He is not yet manifest in the world?" "He comes. He is in the world, but he is not yet manifested. He whom you saw in your vision will speedily be manifest in the world. To you this vision is given of the things that come. The world is already glowing with God. Mankind is like a smouldering fire that will presently, in quite a little time, burst out into flame. "In your former vision I showed you God," said the Angel. "This time I will show you certain signs of the coming of God. And then you will understand the place you hold in the world and the task that is required of you." (6) And as the Angel spoke he lifted up his hands with the palms upward, and there appeared above them a little round cloud, that grew denser until it had the likeness of a silver sphere. It was a mirror in the form of a ball, but a mirror not shining uniformly; it was discoloured with greyish patches that had a familiar shape. It circled slowly upon the Angel's hands. It seemed no greater than the compass of a human skull, and yet it was as great as the earth. Indeed it showed the whole earth. It was the earth. The hands of the Angel vanished out of sight, dissolved and vanished, and the spinning world hung free. All about the bishop the velvet darkness broke into glittering points that shaped out the constellations, and nearest to them, so near as to seem only a few million miles away in the great emptiness into which everything had resolved itself, shone the sun, a ball of red-tongued fires. The Angel was but a voice now; the bishop and the Angel were somewhere aloof from and yet accessible to the circling silver sphere. At the time all that happened seemed to happen quite naturally, as things happen in a dream. It was only later, when all this was a matter of memory, that the bishop realized how strange and incomprehensible his vision had been. The sphere was the earth with all its continents and seas, its ships and cities, its country-sides and mountain ranges. It was so small that he could see it all at once, and so great and full that he could see everything in it. He could see great countries like little patches upon it, and at the same time he could see the faces of the men upon the highways, he could see the feelings in men's hearts and the thoughts in their minds. But it did not seem in any way wonderful to the bishop that so he should see those things, or that it was to him that these things were shown. "This is the whole world," he said. "This is the vision of the world," the Angel answered. "It is very wonderful," said the bishop, and stood for a moment marvelling at the compass of his vision. For here was India, here was Samarkand, in the light of the late afternoon; and China and the swarming cities upon her silvery rivers sinking through twilight to the night and throwing a spray and tracery of lantern spots upon the dark; here was Russia under the noontide, and so great a battle of artillery raging on the Dunajec as no man had ever seen before; whole lines of trenches dissolved into clouds of dust and heaps of blood-streaked earth; here close to the waiting streets of Constantinople were the hills of Gallipoli, the grave of British Imperialism, streaming to heaven with the dust and smoke of bursting shells and rifle fire and the smoke and flame of burning brushwood. In the sea of Marmora a big ship crowded with Turkish troops was sinking; and, purple under the clear water, he could see the shape of the British submarine which had torpedoed her and had submerged and was going away. Berlin prepared its frugal meals, still far from famine. He saw the war in Europe as if he saw it on a map, yet every human detail showed. Over hundreds of miles of trenches east and west of Germany he could see shells bursting and the men below dropping, and the stretcher-bearers going back with the wounded. The roads to every front were crowded with reserves and munitions. For a moment a little group of men indifferent to all this struggle, who were landing amidst the Antarctic wilderness, held his attention; and then his eyes went westward to the dark rolling Atlantic across which, as the edge of the night was drawn like a curtain, more and still more ships became visible beating upon their courses eastward or westward under the overtaking day. The wonder increased; the wonder of the single and infinitely multitudinous adventure of mankind. "So God perhaps sees it," he whispered. (7) "Look at this man," said the Angel, and the black shadow of a hand seemed to point. It was a Chinaman sitting with two others in a little low room separated by translucent paper windows from a noisy street of shrill-voiced people. The three had been talking of the ultimatum that Japan had sent that day to China, claiming a priority in many matters over European influences they were by no means sure whether it was a wrong or a benefit that had been done to their country. From that topic they had passed to the discussion of the war, and then of wars and national aggressions and the perpetual thrusting and quarrelling of mankind. The older man had said that so life would always be; it was the will of Heaven. The little, very yellow-faced, emaciated man had agreed with him. But now this younger man, to whose thoughts the Angel had so particularly directed the bishop's attention, was speaking. He did not agree with his companion. "War is not the will of Heaven," he said; "it is the blindness of men." "Man changes," he said, "from day to day and from age to age. The science of the West has taught us that. Man changes and war changes and all things change. China has been the land of flowery peace, and she may yet give peace to all the world. She has put aside that puppet Emperor at Peking, she turns her face to the new learning of the West as a man lays aside his heavy robes, in order that her task may be achieved." The older man spoke, his manner was more than a little incredulous, and yet not altogether contemptuous. "You believe that someday there will be no more war in the world, that a time will come when men will no longer plot and plan against the welfare of men?" "Even that last," said the younger man. "Did any of us dream twenty-five years ago that here in China we should live to see a republic? The age of the republics draws near, when men in every country of the world will look straight up to the rule of Right and the empire of Heaven." ("And God will be King of the World," said the Angel. "Is not that faith exactly the faith that is coming to you?") The two other Chinamen questioned their companion, but without hostility. "This war," said the Chinaman, "will end in a great harvesting of kings." "But Japan--" the older man began. The bishop would have liked to hear more of that conversation, but the dark hand of the Angel motioned him to another part of the world. "Listen to this," said the Angel. He pointed the bishop to where the armies of Britain and Turkey lay in the heat of Mesopotamia. Along the sandy bank of a wide, slow-flowing river rode two horsemen, an Englishman and a Turk. They were returning from the Turkish lines, whither the Englishman had been with a flag of truce. When Englishmen and Turks are thrown together they soon become friends, and in this case matters had been facilitated by the Englishman's command of the Turkish language. He was quite an exceptional Englishman. The Turk had just been remarking cheerfully that it wouldn't please the Germans if they were to discover how amiably he and his charge had got on. "It's a pity we ever ceased to be friends," he said. "You Englishmen aren't like our Christians," he went on. The Englishmen wanted to know why. "You haven't priests in robes. You don't chant and worship crosses and pictures, and quarrel among yourselves." "We worship the same God as you do," said the Englishman. "Then why do we fight?" "That's what we want to know." "Why do you call yourselves Christians? And take part against us? All who worship the One God are brothers." "They ought to be," said the Englishman, and thought. He was struck by what seemed to him an amazingly novel idea. "If it weren't for religions all men would serve God together," he said. "And then there would be no wars--only now and then perhaps just a little honest fighting...." "And see here," said the Angel. "Here close behind this frightful battle, where the German phalanx of guns pounds its way through the Russian hosts. Here is a young German talking to two wounded Russian prisoners, who have stopped to rest by the roadside. He is a German of East Prussia; he knows and thinks a little Russian. And they too are saying, all three of them, that the war is not God's will, but the confusion of mankind. "Here," he said, and the shadow of his hand hovered over the burning-ghats of Benares, where a Brahmin of the new persuasion watched the straight spires of funereal smoke ascend into the glow of the late afternoon, while he talked to an English painter, his friend, of the blind intolerance of race and caste and custom in India. "Or here." The Angel pointed to a group of people who had gathered upon a little beach at the head of a Norwegian fiord. There were three lads, an old man and two women, and they stood about the body of a drowned German sailor which had been washed up that day. For a time they had talked in whispers, but now suddenly the old man spoke aloud. "This is the fourth that has come ashore," he said. "Poor drowned souls! Because men will not serve God." "But folks go to church and pray enough," said one of the women. "They do not serve God," said the old man. "They just pray to him as one nods to a beggar. They do not serve God who is their King. They set up their false kings and emperors, and so all Europe is covered with dead, and the seas wash up these dead to us. Why does the world suffer these things? Why did we Norwegians, who are a free-spirited people, permit the Germans and the Swedes and the English to set up a king over us? Because we lack faith. Kings mean secret counsels, and secret counsels bring war. Sooner or later war will come to us also if we give the soul of our nation in trust to a king.... But things will not always be thus with men. God will not suffer them for ever. A day comes, and it is no distant day, when God himself will rule the earth, and when men will do, not what the king wishes nor what is expedient nor what is customary, but what is manifestly right.".... "But men are saying that now in a thousand places," said the Angel. "Here is something that goes a little beyond that." His pointing hand went southward until they saw the Africanders riding down to Windhuk. Two men, Boer farmers both, rode side by side and talked of the German officer they brought prisoner with them. He had put sheep-dip in the wells of drinking-water; his life was fairly forfeit, and he was not to be killed. "We want no more hate in South Africa," they agreed. "Dutch and English and German must live here now side by side. Men cannot always be killing." "And see his thoughts," said the Angel. The German's mind was one amazement. He had been sure of being shot, he had meant to make a good end, fierce and scornful, a relentless fighter to the last; and these men who might have shot him like a man were going to spare him like a dog. His mind was a tumbled muddle of old and new ideas. He had been brought up in an atmosphere of the foulest and fiercest militarism; he had been trained to relentlessness, ruthlessness and so forth; war was war and the bitterer the better, frightfulness was your way to victory over every enemy. But these people had found a better way. Here were Dutch and English side by side; sixteen years ago they had been at war together and now they wore the same uniform and rode together, and laughed at him for a queer fellow because he was for spitting at them and defying them, and folding his arms and looking level at the executioners' rifles. There were to be no executioners' rifles.... If it was so with Dutch and English, why shouldn't it be so presently with French and Germans? Why someday shouldn't French, German, Dutch and English, Russian and Pole, ride together under this new star of mankind, the Southern Cross, to catch whatever last mischief-maker was left to poison the wells of goodwill? His mind resisted and struggled against these ideas. "Austere," he whispered. "The ennobling tests of war." A trooner rode up alongside, and offered him a drink of water "Just a mouthful," he said apologetically. "We've had to go rather short."... "There's another brain busy here with the same idea," the Angel interrupted. And the bishop found himself looking into the bedroom of a young German attache in Washington, sleepless in the small hours. "Ach!" cried the young man, and sat up in bed and ran his hands through his fair hair. He had been working late upon this detestable business of the Lusitania; the news of her sinking had come to hand two days before, and all America was aflame with it. It might mean war. His task had been to pour out explanations and justifications to the press; to show that it was an act of necessity, to pretend a conviction that the great ship was loaded with munitions, to fight down the hostility and anger that blazed across a continent. He had worked to his limit. He had taken cup after cup of coffee, and had come to bed worked out not two hours ago. Now here he was awake after a nightmare of drowning women and children, trying to comfort his soul by recalling his own arguments. Never once since the war began had he doubted the rightness of the German cause. It seemed only a proof of his nervous exhaustion that he could doubt it now. Germany was the best organized, most cultivated, scientific and liberal nation the earth had ever seen, it was for the good of mankind that she should be the dominant power in the world; his patriotism had had the passion of a mission. The English were indolent, the French decadent, the Russians barbaric, the Americans basely democratic; the rest of the world was the "White man's Burthen"; the clear destiny of mankind was subservience to the good Prussian eagle. Nevertheless--those wet draggled bodies that swirled down in the eddies of the sinking Titan--Ach! He wished it could have been otherwise. He nursed his knees and prayed that there need not be much more of these things before the spirit of the enemy was broken and the great Peace of Germany came upon the world. And suddenly he stopped short in his prayer. Suddenly out of the nothingness and darkness about him came the conviction that God did not listen to his prayers.... Was there any other way? It was the most awful doubt he had ever had, for it smote at the training of all his life. "Could it be possible that after all our old German God is not the proper style and title of the true God? Is our old German God perhaps only the last of a long succession of bloodstained tribal effigies--and not God at all?" For a long time it seemed that the bishop watched the thoughts that gathered in the young attache's mind. Until suddenly he broke into a quotation, into that last cry of the dying Goethe, for "Light. More Light!"... "Leave him at that," said the Angel. "I want you to hear these two young women." The hand came back to England and pointed to where Southend at the mouth of the Thames was all agog with the excitement of an overnight Zeppelin raid. People had got up hours before their usual time in order to look at the wrecked houses before they went up to their work in town. Everybody seemed abroad. Two nurses, not very well trained as nurses go nor very well-educated women, were snatching a little sea air upon the front after an eventful night. They were too excited still to sleep. They were talking of the horror of the moment when they saw the nasty thing "up there," and felt helpless as it dropped its bombs. They had both hated it. "There didn't ought to be such things," said one. "They don't seem needed," said her companion. "Men won't always go on like this--making wars and all such wickedness." "It's 'ow to stop them?" "Science is going to stop them." "Science?" "Yes, science. My young brother--oh, he's a clever one--he says such things! He says that it's science that they won't always go on like this. There's more sense coming into the world and more--my young brother says so. Says it stands to reason; it's Evolution. It's science that men are all brothers; you can prove it. It's science that there oughtn't to be war. Science is ending war now by making it horrible like this, and making it so that no one is safe. Showing it up. Only when nobody is safe will everybody want to set up peace,

gesture

How many times the word 'gesture' appears in the text?

with the tortuousness and weakness of his own character. Every day he perceived that the difficulty of telling Lady Ella of the change in his faith became more mountainous. And every day he procrastinated. If he had told her naturally and simply on the evening of his return from London--before anything material intervened--everything would have been different, everything would have been simpler.... He groaned and rolled over in his bed. There came upon him the acutest remorse and misery. For he saw that amidst these petty immediacies he had lost touch with God. The last month became incredible. He had seen God. He had touched God's hand. God had been given to him, and he had neglected the gift. He was still lost amidst the darkness and loneliness, the chaotic ends and mean shifts, of an Erastian world. For a month now and more, after a vision of God so vivid and real and reassuring that surely no saint nor prophet had ever had a better, he had made no more than vague responsive movements; he had allowed himself to be persuaded into an unreasonable and cowardly delay, and the fetters of association and usage and minor interests were as unbroken as they had been before ever the vision shone. Was it credible that there had ever been such a vision in a life so entirely dictated by immediacy and instinct as his? We are all creatures of the dark stream, we swim in needs and bodily impulses and small vanities; if ever and again a bubble of spiritual imaginativeness glows out of us, it breaks and leaves us where we were. "Louse that I am!" he cried. He still believed in God, without a shadow of doubt; he believed in the God that he had seen, the high courage, the golden intention, the light that had for a moment touched him. But what had he to do with God, he, the loiterer, the little thing? He was little, he was funny. His prevarications with his wife, for example, were comic. There was no other word for him but "funny." He rolled back again and lay staring. "Who will deliver me from the body of this death?" What right has a little bishop in a purple stock and doeskin breeches, who hangs back in his palace from the very call of God, to a phrase so fine and tragic as "the body of this death?" He was the most unreal thing in the universe. He was a base insect giving himself airs. What advantage has a bishop over the Praying Mantis, that cricket which apes the attitude of piety? Does he matter more--to God? "To the God of the Universe, who can tell? To the God of man,--yes." He sat up in bed struck by his own answer, and full of an indescribable hunger for God and an indescribable sense of his complete want of courage to make the one simple appeal that would satisfy that hunger. He tried to pray. "O God!" he cried, "forgive me! Take me!" It seemed to him that he was not really praying but only making believe to pray. It seemed to him that he was not really existing but only seeming to exist. He seemed to himself to be one with figures on a china plate, with figures painted on walls, with the flimsy imagined lives of men in stories of forgotten times. "O God!" he said, "O God," acting a gesture, mimicking appeal. "Anaemic," he said, and was given an idea. He got out of bed, he took his keys from the night-table at the bed head and went to his bureau. He stood with Dale's tonic in his hand. He remained for some time holding it, and feeling a curious indisposition to go on with the thing in his mind. He turned at last with an effort. He carried the little phial to his bedside, and into the tumbler of his water-bottle he let the drops fall, drop by drop, until he had counted twenty. Then holding it to the bulb of his reading lamp he added the water and stood watching the slow pearly eddies in the mixture mingle into an opalescent uniformity. He replaced the water-bottle and stood with the glass in his hand. But he did not drink. He was afraid. He knew that he had only to drink and this world of confusion would grow transparent, would roll back and reveal the great simplicities behind. And he was afraid. He was afraid of that greatness. He was afraid of the great imperatives that he knew would at once take hold of his life. He wanted to muddle on for just a little longer. He wanted to stay just where he was, in his familiar prison-house, with the key of escape in his hand. Before he took the last step into the very presence of truth, he would--think. He put down the glass and lay down upon his bed.... (3) He awoke in a mood of great depression out of a dream of wandering interminably in an endless building of innumerable pillars, pillars so vast and high that the ceiling was lost in darkness. By the scale of these pillars he felt himself scarcely larger than an ant. He was always alone in these wanderings, and always missing something that passed along distant passages, something desirable, something in the nature of a procession or of a ceremony, something of which he was in futile pursuit, of which he heard faint echoes, something luminous of which he seemed at times to see the last fading reflection, across vast halls and wildernesses of shining pavement and through Cyclopaean archways. At last there was neither sound nor gleam, but the utmost solitude, and a darkness and silence and the uttermost profundity of sorrow.... It was bright day. Dunk had just come into the room with his tea, and the tumbler of Dr. Dale's tonic stood untouched upon the night-table. The bishop sat up in bed. He had missed his opportunity. To-day was a busy day, he knew. "No," he said, as Dunk hesitated whether to remove or leave the tumbler. "Leave that." Dunk found room for it upon the tea-tray, and vanished softly with the bishop's evening clothes. The bishop remained motionless facing the day. There stood the draught of decision that he had lacked the decision even to touch. From his bed he could just read the larger items that figured upon the engagement tablet which it was Whippham's business to fill over-night and place upon his table. He had two confirmation services, first the big one in the cathedral and then a second one in the evening at Pringle, various committees and an interview with Chasters. He had not yet finished his addresses for these confirmation services.... The task seemed mountainous--overwhelming. With a gesture of desperation he seized the tumblerful of tonic and drank it off at a gulp. (4) For some moments nothing seemed to happen. Then he began to feel stronger and less wretched, and then came a throbbing and tingling of artery and nerve. He had a sense of adventure, a pleasant fear in the thing that he had done. He got out of bed, leaving his cup of tea untasted, and began to dress. He had the sensation of relief a prisoner may feel who suddenly tries his cell door and finds it open upon sunshine, the outside world and freedom. He went on dressing although he was certain that in a few minutes the world of delusion about him would dissolve, and that he would find himself again in the great freedom of the place of God. This time the transition came much sooner and much more rapidly. This time the phases and quality of the experience were different. He felt once again that luminous confusion between the world in which a human life is imprisoned and a circumambient and interpenetrating world, but this phase passed very rapidly; it did not spread out over nearly half an hour as it had done before, and almost immediately he seemed to plunge away from everything in this life altogether into that outer freedom he sought. And this time there was not even the elemental scenery of the former vision. He stood on nothing; there was nothing below and nothing above him. There was no sense of falling, no terror, but a feeling as though he floated released. There was no light, but as it were a clear darkness about him. Then it was manifest to him that he was not alone, but that with him was that same being that in his former vision had called himself the Angel of God. He knew this without knowing why he knew this, and either he spoke and was answered, or he thought and his thought answered him back. His state of mind on this occasion was altogether different from the first vision of God; before it had been spectacular, but now his perception was altogether super-sensuous. (And nevertheless and all the time it seemed that very faintly he was still in his room.) It was he who was the first to speak. The great Angel whom he felt rather than saw seemed to be waiting for him to speak. "I have come," he said, "because once more I desire to see God." "But you have seen God." "I saw God. God was light, God was truth. And I went back to my life, and God was hidden. God seemed to call me. He called. I heard him, I sought him and I touched his hand. When I went back to my life I was presently lost in perplexity. I could not tell why God had called me nor what I had to do." "And why did you not come here before?" "Doubt and fear. Brother, will you not lay your hand on mine?" The figure in the darkness became distincter. But nothing touched the bishop's seeking hands. "I want to see God and to understand him. I want reassurance. I want conviction. I want to understand all that God asks me to do. The world is full of conflict and confusion and the spirit of war. It is dark and dreadful now with suffering and bloodshed. I want to serve God who could save it, and I do not know how." It seemed to the bishop that now he could distinguish dimly but surely the form and features of the great Angel to whom he talked. For a little while there was silence, and then the Angel spoke. "It was necessary first," said the Angel, "that you should apprehend God and desire him. That was the purport of your first vision. Now, since you require it, I will tell you and show you certain things about him, things that it seems you need to know, things that all men need to know. Know then first that the time is at hand when God will come into the world and rule it, and when men will know what is required of them. This time is close at hand. In a little while God will be made manifest throughout the earth. Men will know him and know that he is King. To you this truth is to be shown--that you may tell it to others." "This is no vision?" said the bishop, "no dream that will pass away?" "Am I not here beside you?" (5) The bishop was anxious to be very clear. Things that had been shapelessly present in his mind now took form and found words for themselves. "The God I saw in my vision--He is not yet manifest in the world?" "He comes. He is in the world, but he is not yet manifested. He whom you saw in your vision will speedily be manifest in the world. To you this vision is given of the things that come. The world is already glowing with God. Mankind is like a smouldering fire that will presently, in quite a little time, burst out into flame. "In your former vision I showed you God," said the Angel. "This time I will show you certain signs of the coming of God. And then you will understand the place you hold in the world and the task that is required of you." (6) And as the Angel spoke he lifted up his hands with the palms upward, and there appeared above them a little round cloud, that grew denser until it had the likeness of a silver sphere. It was a mirror in the form of a ball, but a mirror not shining uniformly; it was discoloured with greyish patches that had a familiar shape. It circled slowly upon the Angel's hands. It seemed no greater than the compass of a human skull, and yet it was as great as the earth. Indeed it showed the whole earth. It was the earth. The hands of the Angel vanished out of sight, dissolved and vanished, and the spinning world hung free. All about the bishop the velvet darkness broke into glittering points that shaped out the constellations, and nearest to them, so near as to seem only a few million miles away in the great emptiness into which everything had resolved itself, shone the sun, a ball of red-tongued fires. The Angel was but a voice now; the bishop and the Angel were somewhere aloof from and yet accessible to the circling silver sphere. At the time all that happened seemed to happen quite naturally, as things happen in a dream. It was only later, when all this was a matter of memory, that the bishop realized how strange and incomprehensible his vision had been. The sphere was the earth with all its continents and seas, its ships and cities, its country-sides and mountain ranges. It was so small that he could see it all at once, and so great and full that he could see everything in it. He could see great countries like little patches upon it, and at the same time he could see the faces of the men upon the highways, he could see the feelings in men's hearts and the thoughts in their minds. But it did not seem in any way wonderful to the bishop that so he should see those things, or that it was to him that these things were shown. "This is the whole world," he said. "This is the vision of the world," the Angel answered. "It is very wonderful," said the bishop, and stood for a moment marvelling at the compass of his vision. For here was India, here was Samarkand, in the light of the late afternoon; and China and the swarming cities upon her silvery rivers sinking through twilight to the night and throwing a spray and tracery of lantern spots upon the dark; here was Russia under the noontide, and so great a battle of artillery raging on the Dunajec as no man had ever seen before; whole lines of trenches dissolved into clouds of dust and heaps of blood-streaked earth; here close to the waiting streets of Constantinople were the hills of Gallipoli, the grave of British Imperialism, streaming to heaven with the dust and smoke of bursting shells and rifle fire and the smoke and flame of burning brushwood. In the sea of Marmora a big ship crowded with Turkish troops was sinking; and, purple under the clear water, he could see the shape of the British submarine which had torpedoed her and had submerged and was going away. Berlin prepared its frugal meals, still far from famine. He saw the war in Europe as if he saw it on a map, yet every human detail showed. Over hundreds of miles of trenches east and west of Germany he could see shells bursting and the men below dropping, and the stretcher-bearers going back with the wounded. The roads to every front were crowded with reserves and munitions. For a moment a little group of men indifferent to all this struggle, who were landing amidst the Antarctic wilderness, held his attention; and then his eyes went westward to the dark rolling Atlantic across which, as the edge of the night was drawn like a curtain, more and still more ships became visible beating upon their courses eastward or westward under the overtaking day. The wonder increased; the wonder of the single and infinitely multitudinous adventure of mankind. "So God perhaps sees it," he whispered. (7) "Look at this man," said the Angel, and the black shadow of a hand seemed to point. It was a Chinaman sitting with two others in a little low room separated by translucent paper windows from a noisy street of shrill-voiced people. The three had been talking of the ultimatum that Japan had sent that day to China, claiming a priority in many matters over European influences they were by no means sure whether it was a wrong or a benefit that had been done to their country. From that topic they had passed to the discussion of the war, and then of wars and national aggressions and the perpetual thrusting and quarrelling of mankind. The older man had said that so life would always be; it was the will of Heaven. The little, very yellow-faced, emaciated man had agreed with him. But now this younger man, to whose thoughts the Angel had so particularly directed the bishop's attention, was speaking. He did not agree with his companion. "War is not the will of Heaven," he said; "it is the blindness of men." "Man changes," he said, "from day to day and from age to age. The science of the West has taught us that. Man changes and war changes and all things change. China has been the land of flowery peace, and she may yet give peace to all the world. She has put aside that puppet Emperor at Peking, she turns her face to the new learning of the West as a man lays aside his heavy robes, in order that her task may be achieved." The older man spoke, his manner was more than a little incredulous, and yet not altogether contemptuous. "You believe that someday there will be no more war in the world, that a time will come when men will no longer plot and plan against the welfare of men?" "Even that last," said the younger man. "Did any of us dream twenty-five years ago that here in China we should live to see a republic? The age of the republics draws near, when men in every country of the world will look straight up to the rule of Right and the empire of Heaven." ("And God will be King of the World," said the Angel. "Is not that faith exactly the faith that is coming to you?") The two other Chinamen questioned their companion, but without hostility. "This war," said the Chinaman, "will end in a great harvesting of kings." "But Japan--" the older man began. The bishop would have liked to hear more of that conversation, but the dark hand of the Angel motioned him to another part of the world. "Listen to this," said the Angel. He pointed the bishop to where the armies of Britain and Turkey lay in the heat of Mesopotamia. Along the sandy bank of a wide, slow-flowing river rode two horsemen, an Englishman and a Turk. They were returning from the Turkish lines, whither the Englishman had been with a flag of truce. When Englishmen and Turks are thrown together they soon become friends, and in this case matters had been facilitated by the Englishman's command of the Turkish language. He was quite an exceptional Englishman. The Turk had just been remarking cheerfully that it wouldn't please the Germans if they were to discover how amiably he and his charge had got on. "It's a pity we ever ceased to be friends," he said. "You Englishmen aren't like our Christians," he went on. The Englishmen wanted to know why. "You haven't priests in robes. You don't chant and worship crosses and pictures, and quarrel among yourselves." "We worship the same God as you do," said the Englishman. "Then why do we fight?" "That's what we want to know." "Why do you call yourselves Christians? And take part against us? All who worship the One God are brothers." "They ought to be," said the Englishman, and thought. He was struck by what seemed to him an amazingly novel idea. "If it weren't for religions all men would serve God together," he said. "And then there would be no wars--only now and then perhaps just a little honest fighting...." "And see here," said the Angel. "Here close behind this frightful battle, where the German phalanx of guns pounds its way through the Russian hosts. Here is a young German talking to two wounded Russian prisoners, who have stopped to rest by the roadside. He is a German of East Prussia; he knows and thinks a little Russian. And they too are saying, all three of them, that the war is not God's will, but the confusion of mankind. "Here," he said, and the shadow of his hand hovered over the burning-ghats of Benares, where a Brahmin of the new persuasion watched the straight spires of funereal smoke ascend into the glow of the late afternoon, while he talked to an English painter, his friend, of the blind intolerance of race and caste and custom in India. "Or here." The Angel pointed to a group of people who had gathered upon a little beach at the head of a Norwegian fiord. There were three lads, an old man and two women, and they stood about the body of a drowned German sailor which had been washed up that day. For a time they had talked in whispers, but now suddenly the old man spoke aloud. "This is the fourth that has come ashore," he said. "Poor drowned souls! Because men will not serve God." "But folks go to church and pray enough," said one of the women. "They do not serve God," said the old man. "They just pray to him as one nods to a beggar. They do not serve God who is their King. They set up their false kings and emperors, and so all Europe is covered with dead, and the seas wash up these dead to us. Why does the world suffer these things? Why did we Norwegians, who are a free-spirited people, permit the Germans and the Swedes and the English to set up a king over us? Because we lack faith. Kings mean secret counsels, and secret counsels bring war. Sooner or later war will come to us also if we give the soul of our nation in trust to a king.... But things will not always be thus with men. God will not suffer them for ever. A day comes, and it is no distant day, when God himself will rule the earth, and when men will do, not what the king wishes nor what is expedient nor what is customary, but what is manifestly right.".... "But men are saying that now in a thousand places," said the Angel. "Here is something that goes a little beyond that." His pointing hand went southward until they saw the Africanders riding down to Windhuk. Two men, Boer farmers both, rode side by side and talked of the German officer they brought prisoner with them. He had put sheep-dip in the wells of drinking-water; his life was fairly forfeit, and he was not to be killed. "We want no more hate in South Africa," they agreed. "Dutch and English and German must live here now side by side. Men cannot always be killing." "And see his thoughts," said the Angel. The German's mind was one amazement. He had been sure of being shot, he had meant to make a good end, fierce and scornful, a relentless fighter to the last; and these men who might have shot him like a man were going to spare him like a dog. His mind was a tumbled muddle of old and new ideas. He had been brought up in an atmosphere of the foulest and fiercest militarism; he had been trained to relentlessness, ruthlessness and so forth; war was war and the bitterer the better, frightfulness was your way to victory over every enemy. But these people had found a better way. Here were Dutch and English side by side; sixteen years ago they had been at war together and now they wore the same uniform and rode together, and laughed at him for a queer fellow because he was for spitting at them and defying them, and folding his arms and looking level at the executioners' rifles. There were to be no executioners' rifles.... If it was so with Dutch and English, why shouldn't it be so presently with French and Germans? Why someday shouldn't French, German, Dutch and English, Russian and Pole, ride together under this new star of mankind, the Southern Cross, to catch whatever last mischief-maker was left to poison the wells of goodwill? His mind resisted and struggled against these ideas. "Austere," he whispered. "The ennobling tests of war." A trooner rode up alongside, and offered him a drink of water "Just a mouthful," he said apologetically. "We've had to go rather short."... "There's another brain busy here with the same idea," the Angel interrupted. And the bishop found himself looking into the bedroom of a young German attache in Washington, sleepless in the small hours. "Ach!" cried the young man, and sat up in bed and ran his hands through his fair hair. He had been working late upon this detestable business of the Lusitania; the news of her sinking had come to hand two days before, and all America was aflame with it. It might mean war. His task had been to pour out explanations and justifications to the press; to show that it was an act of necessity, to pretend a conviction that the great ship was loaded with munitions, to fight down the hostility and anger that blazed across a continent. He had worked to his limit. He had taken cup after cup of coffee, and had come to bed worked out not two hours ago. Now here he was awake after a nightmare of drowning women and children, trying to comfort his soul by recalling his own arguments. Never once since the war began had he doubted the rightness of the German cause. It seemed only a proof of his nervous exhaustion that he could doubt it now. Germany was the best organized, most cultivated, scientific and liberal nation the earth had ever seen, it was for the good of mankind that she should be the dominant power in the world; his patriotism had had the passion of a mission. The English were indolent, the French decadent, the Russians barbaric, the Americans basely democratic; the rest of the world was the "White man's Burthen"; the clear destiny of mankind was subservience to the good Prussian eagle. Nevertheless--those wet draggled bodies that swirled down in the eddies of the sinking Titan--Ach! He wished it could have been otherwise. He nursed his knees and prayed that there need not be much more of these things before the spirit of the enemy was broken and the great Peace of Germany came upon the world. And suddenly he stopped short in his prayer. Suddenly out of the nothingness and darkness about him came the conviction that God did not listen to his prayers.... Was there any other way? It was the most awful doubt he had ever had, for it smote at the training of all his life. "Could it be possible that after all our old German God is not the proper style and title of the true God? Is our old German God perhaps only the last of a long succession of bloodstained tribal effigies--and not God at all?" For a long time it seemed that the bishop watched the thoughts that gathered in the young attache's mind. Until suddenly he broke into a quotation, into that last cry of the dying Goethe, for "Light. More Light!"... "Leave him at that," said the Angel. "I want you to hear these two young women." The hand came back to England and pointed to where Southend at the mouth of the Thames was all agog with the excitement of an overnight Zeppelin raid. People had got up hours before their usual time in order to look at the wrecked houses before they went up to their work in town. Everybody seemed abroad. Two nurses, not very well trained as nurses go nor very well-educated women, were snatching a little sea air upon the front after an eventful night. They were too excited still to sleep. They were talking of the horror of the moment when they saw the nasty thing "up there," and felt helpless as it dropped its bombs. They had both hated it. "There didn't ought to be such things," said one. "They don't seem needed," said her companion. "Men won't always go on like this--making wars and all such wickedness." "It's 'ow to stop them?" "Science is going to stop them." "Science?" "Yes, science. My young brother--oh, he's a clever one--he says such things! He says that it's science that they won't always go on like this. There's more sense coming into the world and more--my young brother says so. Says it stands to reason; it's Evolution. It's science that men are all brothers; you can prove it. It's science that there oughtn't to be war. Science is ending war now by making it horrible like this, and making it so that no one is safe. Showing it up. Only when nobody is safe will everybody want to set up peace,

rapi

How many times the word 'rapi' appears in the text?

with the tortuousness and weakness of his own character. Every day he perceived that the difficulty of telling Lady Ella of the change in his faith became more mountainous. And every day he procrastinated. If he had told her naturally and simply on the evening of his return from London--before anything material intervened--everything would have been different, everything would have been simpler.... He groaned and rolled over in his bed. There came upon him the acutest remorse and misery. For he saw that amidst these petty immediacies he had lost touch with God. The last month became incredible. He had seen God. He had touched God's hand. God had been given to him, and he had neglected the gift. He was still lost amidst the darkness and loneliness, the chaotic ends and mean shifts, of an Erastian world. For a month now and more, after a vision of God so vivid and real and reassuring that surely no saint nor prophet had ever had a better, he had made no more than vague responsive movements; he had allowed himself to be persuaded into an unreasonable and cowardly delay, and the fetters of association and usage and minor interests were as unbroken as they had been before ever the vision shone. Was it credible that there had ever been such a vision in a life so entirely dictated by immediacy and instinct as his? We are all creatures of the dark stream, we swim in needs and bodily impulses and small vanities; if ever and again a bubble of spiritual imaginativeness glows out of us, it breaks and leaves us where we were. "Louse that I am!" he cried. He still believed in God, without a shadow of doubt; he believed in the God that he had seen, the high courage, the golden intention, the light that had for a moment touched him. But what had he to do with God, he, the loiterer, the little thing? He was little, he was funny. His prevarications with his wife, for example, were comic. There was no other word for him but "funny." He rolled back again and lay staring. "Who will deliver me from the body of this death?" What right has a little bishop in a purple stock and doeskin breeches, who hangs back in his palace from the very call of God, to a phrase so fine and tragic as "the body of this death?" He was the most unreal thing in the universe. He was a base insect giving himself airs. What advantage has a bishop over the Praying Mantis, that cricket which apes the attitude of piety? Does he matter more--to God? "To the God of the Universe, who can tell? To the God of man,--yes." He sat up in bed struck by his own answer, and full of an indescribable hunger for God and an indescribable sense of his complete want of courage to make the one simple appeal that would satisfy that hunger. He tried to pray. "O God!" he cried, "forgive me! Take me!" It seemed to him that he was not really praying but only making believe to pray. It seemed to him that he was not really existing but only seeming to exist. He seemed to himself to be one with figures on a china plate, with figures painted on walls, with the flimsy imagined lives of men in stories of forgotten times. "O God!" he said, "O God," acting a gesture, mimicking appeal. "Anaemic," he said, and was given an idea. He got out of bed, he took his keys from the night-table at the bed head and went to his bureau. He stood with Dale's tonic in his hand. He remained for some time holding it, and feeling a curious indisposition to go on with the thing in his mind. He turned at last with an effort. He carried the little phial to his bedside, and into the tumbler of his water-bottle he let the drops fall, drop by drop, until he had counted twenty. Then holding it to the bulb of his reading lamp he added the water and stood watching the slow pearly eddies in the mixture mingle into an opalescent uniformity. He replaced the water-bottle and stood with the glass in his hand. But he did not drink. He was afraid. He knew that he had only to drink and this world of confusion would grow transparent, would roll back and reveal the great simplicities behind. And he was afraid. He was afraid of that greatness. He was afraid of the great imperatives that he knew would at once take hold of his life. He wanted to muddle on for just a little longer. He wanted to stay just where he was, in his familiar prison-house, with the key of escape in his hand. Before he took the last step into the very presence of truth, he would--think. He put down the glass and lay down upon his bed.... (3) He awoke in a mood of great depression out of a dream of wandering interminably in an endless building of innumerable pillars, pillars so vast and high that the ceiling was lost in darkness. By the scale of these pillars he felt himself scarcely larger than an ant. He was always alone in these wanderings, and always missing something that passed along distant passages, something desirable, something in the nature of a procession or of a ceremony, something of which he was in futile pursuit, of which he heard faint echoes, something luminous of which he seemed at times to see the last fading reflection, across vast halls and wildernesses of shining pavement and through Cyclopaean archways. At last there was neither sound nor gleam, but the utmost solitude, and a darkness and silence and the uttermost profundity of sorrow.... It was bright day. Dunk had just come into the room with his tea, and the tumbler of Dr. Dale's tonic stood untouched upon the night-table. The bishop sat up in bed. He had missed his opportunity. To-day was a busy day, he knew. "No," he said, as Dunk hesitated whether to remove or leave the tumbler. "Leave that." Dunk found room for it upon the tea-tray, and vanished softly with the bishop's evening clothes. The bishop remained motionless facing the day. There stood the draught of decision that he had lacked the decision even to touch. From his bed he could just read the larger items that figured upon the engagement tablet which it was Whippham's business to fill over-night and place upon his table. He had two confirmation services, first the big one in the cathedral and then a second one in the evening at Pringle, various committees and an interview with Chasters. He had not yet finished his addresses for these confirmation services.... The task seemed mountainous--overwhelming. With a gesture of desperation he seized the tumblerful of tonic and drank it off at a gulp. (4) For some moments nothing seemed to happen. Then he began to feel stronger and less wretched, and then came a throbbing and tingling of artery and nerve. He had a sense of adventure, a pleasant fear in the thing that he had done. He got out of bed, leaving his cup of tea untasted, and began to dress. He had the sensation of relief a prisoner may feel who suddenly tries his cell door and finds it open upon sunshine, the outside world and freedom. He went on dressing although he was certain that in a few minutes the world of delusion about him would dissolve, and that he would find himself again in the great freedom of the place of God. This time the transition came much sooner and much more rapidly. This time the phases and quality of the experience were different. He felt once again that luminous confusion between the world in which a human life is imprisoned and a circumambient and interpenetrating world, but this phase passed very rapidly; it did not spread out over nearly half an hour as it had done before, and almost immediately he seemed to plunge away from everything in this life altogether into that outer freedom he sought. And this time there was not even the elemental scenery of the former vision. He stood on nothing; there was nothing below and nothing above him. There was no sense of falling, no terror, but a feeling as though he floated released. There was no light, but as it were a clear darkness about him. Then it was manifest to him that he was not alone, but that with him was that same being that in his former vision had called himself the Angel of God. He knew this without knowing why he knew this, and either he spoke and was answered, or he thought and his thought answered him back. His state of mind on this occasion was altogether different from the first vision of God; before it had been spectacular, but now his perception was altogether super-sensuous. (And nevertheless and all the time it seemed that very faintly he was still in his room.) It was he who was the first to speak. The great Angel whom he felt rather than saw seemed to be waiting for him to speak. "I have come," he said, "because once more I desire to see God." "But you have seen God." "I saw God. God was light, God was truth. And I went back to my life, and God was hidden. God seemed to call me. He called. I heard him, I sought him and I touched his hand. When I went back to my life I was presently lost in perplexity. I could not tell why God had called me nor what I had to do." "And why did you not come here before?" "Doubt and fear. Brother, will you not lay your hand on mine?" The figure in the darkness became distincter. But nothing touched the bishop's seeking hands. "I want to see God and to understand him. I want reassurance. I want conviction. I want to understand all that God asks me to do. The world is full of conflict and confusion and the spirit of war. It is dark and dreadful now with suffering and bloodshed. I want to serve God who could save it, and I do not know how." It seemed to the bishop that now he could distinguish dimly but surely the form and features of the great Angel to whom he talked. For a little while there was silence, and then the Angel spoke. "It was necessary first," said the Angel, "that you should apprehend God and desire him. That was the purport of your first vision. Now, since you require it, I will tell you and show you certain things about him, things that it seems you need to know, things that all men need to know. Know then first that the time is at hand when God will come into the world and rule it, and when men will know what is required of them. This time is close at hand. In a little while God will be made manifest throughout the earth. Men will know him and know that he is King. To you this truth is to be shown--that you may tell it to others." "This is no vision?" said the bishop, "no dream that will pass away?" "Am I not here beside you?" (5) The bishop was anxious to be very clear. Things that had been shapelessly present in his mind now took form and found words for themselves. "The God I saw in my vision--He is not yet manifest in the world?" "He comes. He is in the world, but he is not yet manifested. He whom you saw in your vision will speedily be manifest in the world. To you this vision is given of the things that come. The world is already glowing with God. Mankind is like a smouldering fire that will presently, in quite a little time, burst out into flame. "In your former vision I showed you God," said the Angel. "This time I will show you certain signs of the coming of God. And then you will understand the place you hold in the world and the task that is required of you." (6) And as the Angel spoke he lifted up his hands with the palms upward, and there appeared above them a little round cloud, that grew denser until it had the likeness of a silver sphere. It was a mirror in the form of a ball, but a mirror not shining uniformly; it was discoloured with greyish patches that had a familiar shape. It circled slowly upon the Angel's hands. It seemed no greater than the compass of a human skull, and yet it was as great as the earth. Indeed it showed the whole earth. It was the earth. The hands of the Angel vanished out of sight, dissolved and vanished, and the spinning world hung free. All about the bishop the velvet darkness broke into glittering points that shaped out the constellations, and nearest to them, so near as to seem only a few million miles away in the great emptiness into which everything had resolved itself, shone the sun, a ball of red-tongued fires. The Angel was but a voice now; the bishop and the Angel were somewhere aloof from and yet accessible to the circling silver sphere. At the time all that happened seemed to happen quite naturally, as things happen in a dream. It was only later, when all this was a matter of memory, that the bishop realized how strange and incomprehensible his vision had been. The sphere was the earth with all its continents and seas, its ships and cities, its country-sides and mountain ranges. It was so small that he could see it all at once, and so great and full that he could see everything in it. He could see great countries like little patches upon it, and at the same time he could see the faces of the men upon the highways, he could see the feelings in men's hearts and the thoughts in their minds. But it did not seem in any way wonderful to the bishop that so he should see those things, or that it was to him that these things were shown. "This is the whole world," he said. "This is the vision of the world," the Angel answered. "It is very wonderful," said the bishop, and stood for a moment marvelling at the compass of his vision. For here was India, here was Samarkand, in the light of the late afternoon; and China and the swarming cities upon her silvery rivers sinking through twilight to the night and throwing a spray and tracery of lantern spots upon the dark; here was Russia under the noontide, and so great a battle of artillery raging on the Dunajec as no man had ever seen before; whole lines of trenches dissolved into clouds of dust and heaps of blood-streaked earth; here close to the waiting streets of Constantinople were the hills of Gallipoli, the grave of British Imperialism, streaming to heaven with the dust and smoke of bursting shells and rifle fire and the smoke and flame of burning brushwood. In the sea of Marmora a big ship crowded with Turkish troops was sinking; and, purple under the clear water, he could see the shape of the British submarine which had torpedoed her and had submerged and was going away. Berlin prepared its frugal meals, still far from famine. He saw the war in Europe as if he saw it on a map, yet every human detail showed. Over hundreds of miles of trenches east and west of Germany he could see shells bursting and the men below dropping, and the stretcher-bearers going back with the wounded. The roads to every front were crowded with reserves and munitions. For a moment a little group of men indifferent to all this struggle, who were landing amidst the Antarctic wilderness, held his attention; and then his eyes went westward to the dark rolling Atlantic across which, as the edge of the night was drawn like a curtain, more and still more ships became visible beating upon their courses eastward or westward under the overtaking day. The wonder increased; the wonder of the single and infinitely multitudinous adventure of mankind. "So God perhaps sees it," he whispered. (7) "Look at this man," said the Angel, and the black shadow of a hand seemed to point. It was a Chinaman sitting with two others in a little low room separated by translucent paper windows from a noisy street of shrill-voiced people. The three had been talking of the ultimatum that Japan had sent that day to China, claiming a priority in many matters over European influences they were by no means sure whether it was a wrong or a benefit that had been done to their country. From that topic they had passed to the discussion of the war, and then of wars and national aggressions and the perpetual thrusting and quarrelling of mankind. The older man had said that so life would always be; it was the will of Heaven. The little, very yellow-faced, emaciated man had agreed with him. But now this younger man, to whose thoughts the Angel had so particularly directed the bishop's attention, was speaking. He did not agree with his companion. "War is not the will of Heaven," he said; "it is the blindness of men." "Man changes," he said, "from day to day and from age to age. The science of the West has taught us that. Man changes and war changes and all things change. China has been the land of flowery peace, and she may yet give peace to all the world. She has put aside that puppet Emperor at Peking, she turns her face to the new learning of the West as a man lays aside his heavy robes, in order that her task may be achieved." The older man spoke, his manner was more than a little incredulous, and yet not altogether contemptuous. "You believe that someday there will be no more war in the world, that a time will come when men will no longer plot and plan against the welfare of men?" "Even that last," said the younger man. "Did any of us dream twenty-five years ago that here in China we should live to see a republic? The age of the republics draws near, when men in every country of the world will look straight up to the rule of Right and the empire of Heaven." ("And God will be King of the World," said the Angel. "Is not that faith exactly the faith that is coming to you?") The two other Chinamen questioned their companion, but without hostility. "This war," said the Chinaman, "will end in a great harvesting of kings." "But Japan--" the older man began. The bishop would have liked to hear more of that conversation, but the dark hand of the Angel motioned him to another part of the world. "Listen to this," said the Angel. He pointed the bishop to where the armies of Britain and Turkey lay in the heat of Mesopotamia. Along the sandy bank of a wide, slow-flowing river rode two horsemen, an Englishman and a Turk. They were returning from the Turkish lines, whither the Englishman had been with a flag of truce. When Englishmen and Turks are thrown together they soon become friends, and in this case matters had been facilitated by the Englishman's command of the Turkish language. He was quite an exceptional Englishman. The Turk had just been remarking cheerfully that it wouldn't please the Germans if they were to discover how amiably he and his charge had got on. "It's a pity we ever ceased to be friends," he said. "You Englishmen aren't like our Christians," he went on. The Englishmen wanted to know why. "You haven't priests in robes. You don't chant and worship crosses and pictures, and quarrel among yourselves." "We worship the same God as you do," said the Englishman. "Then why do we fight?" "That's what we want to know." "Why do you call yourselves Christians? And take part against us? All who worship the One God are brothers." "They ought to be," said the Englishman, and thought. He was struck by what seemed to him an amazingly novel idea. "If it weren't for religions all men would serve God together," he said. "And then there would be no wars--only now and then perhaps just a little honest fighting...." "And see here," said the Angel. "Here close behind this frightful battle, where the German phalanx of guns pounds its way through the Russian hosts. Here is a young German talking to two wounded Russian prisoners, who have stopped to rest by the roadside. He is a German of East Prussia; he knows and thinks a little Russian. And they too are saying, all three of them, that the war is not God's will, but the confusion of mankind. "Here," he said, and the shadow of his hand hovered over the burning-ghats of Benares, where a Brahmin of the new persuasion watched the straight spires of funereal smoke ascend into the glow of the late afternoon, while he talked to an English painter, his friend, of the blind intolerance of race and caste and custom in India. "Or here." The Angel pointed to a group of people who had gathered upon a little beach at the head of a Norwegian fiord. There were three lads, an old man and two women, and they stood about the body of a drowned German sailor which had been washed up that day. For a time they had talked in whispers, but now suddenly the old man spoke aloud. "This is the fourth that has come ashore," he said. "Poor drowned souls! Because men will not serve God." "But folks go to church and pray enough," said one of the women. "They do not serve God," said the old man. "They just pray to him as one nods to a beggar. They do not serve God who is their King. They set up their false kings and emperors, and so all Europe is covered with dead, and the seas wash up these dead to us. Why does the world suffer these things? Why did we Norwegians, who are a free-spirited people, permit the Germans and the Swedes and the English to set up a king over us? Because we lack faith. Kings mean secret counsels, and secret counsels bring war. Sooner or later war will come to us also if we give the soul of our nation in trust to a king.... But things will not always be thus with men. God will not suffer them for ever. A day comes, and it is no distant day, when God himself will rule the earth, and when men will do, not what the king wishes nor what is expedient nor what is customary, but what is manifestly right.".... "But men are saying that now in a thousand places," said the Angel. "Here is something that goes a little beyond that." His pointing hand went southward until they saw the Africanders riding down to Windhuk. Two men, Boer farmers both, rode side by side and talked of the German officer they brought prisoner with them. He had put sheep-dip in the wells of drinking-water; his life was fairly forfeit, and he was not to be killed. "We want no more hate in South Africa," they agreed. "Dutch and English and German must live here now side by side. Men cannot always be killing." "And see his thoughts," said the Angel. The German's mind was one amazement. He had been sure of being shot, he had meant to make a good end, fierce and scornful, a relentless fighter to the last; and these men who might have shot him like a man were going to spare him like a dog. His mind was a tumbled muddle of old and new ideas. He had been brought up in an atmosphere of the foulest and fiercest militarism; he had been trained to relentlessness, ruthlessness and so forth; war was war and the bitterer the better, frightfulness was your way to victory over every enemy. But these people had found a better way. Here were Dutch and English side by side; sixteen years ago they had been at war together and now they wore the same uniform and rode together, and laughed at him for a queer fellow because he was for spitting at them and defying them, and folding his arms and looking level at the executioners' rifles. There were to be no executioners' rifles.... If it was so with Dutch and English, why shouldn't it be so presently with French and Germans? Why someday shouldn't French, German, Dutch and English, Russian and Pole, ride together under this new star of mankind, the Southern Cross, to catch whatever last mischief-maker was left to poison the wells of goodwill? His mind resisted and struggled against these ideas. "Austere," he whispered. "The ennobling tests of war." A trooner rode up alongside, and offered him a drink of water "Just a mouthful," he said apologetically. "We've had to go rather short."... "There's another brain busy here with the same idea," the Angel interrupted. And the bishop found himself looking into the bedroom of a young German attache in Washington, sleepless in the small hours. "Ach!" cried the young man, and sat up in bed and ran his hands through his fair hair. He had been working late upon this detestable business of the Lusitania; the news of her sinking had come to hand two days before, and all America was aflame with it. It might mean war. His task had been to pour out explanations and justifications to the press; to show that it was an act of necessity, to pretend a conviction that the great ship was loaded with munitions, to fight down the hostility and anger that blazed across a continent. He had worked to his limit. He had taken cup after cup of coffee, and had come to bed worked out not two hours ago. Now here he was awake after a nightmare of drowning women and children, trying to comfort his soul by recalling his own arguments. Never once since the war began had he doubted the rightness of the German cause. It seemed only a proof of his nervous exhaustion that he could doubt it now. Germany was the best organized, most cultivated, scientific and liberal nation the earth had ever seen, it was for the good of mankind that she should be the dominant power in the world; his patriotism had had the passion of a mission. The English were indolent, the French decadent, the Russians barbaric, the Americans basely democratic; the rest of the world was the "White man's Burthen"; the clear destiny of mankind was subservience to the good Prussian eagle. Nevertheless--those wet draggled bodies that swirled down in the eddies of the sinking Titan--Ach! He wished it could have been otherwise. He nursed his knees and prayed that there need not be much more of these things before the spirit of the enemy was broken and the great Peace of Germany came upon the world. And suddenly he stopped short in his prayer. Suddenly out of the nothingness and darkness about him came the conviction that God did not listen to his prayers.... Was there any other way? It was the most awful doubt he had ever had, for it smote at the training of all his life. "Could it be possible that after all our old German God is not the proper style and title of the true God? Is our old German God perhaps only the last of a long succession of bloodstained tribal effigies--and not God at all?" For a long time it seemed that the bishop watched the thoughts that gathered in the young attache's mind. Until suddenly he broke into a quotation, into that last cry of the dying Goethe, for "Light. More Light!"... "Leave him at that," said the Angel. "I want you to hear these two young women." The hand came back to England and pointed to where Southend at the mouth of the Thames was all agog with the excitement of an overnight Zeppelin raid. People had got up hours before their usual time in order to look at the wrecked houses before they went up to their work in town. Everybody seemed abroad. Two nurses, not very well trained as nurses go nor very well-educated women, were snatching a little sea air upon the front after an eventful night. They were too excited still to sleep. They were talking of the horror of the moment when they saw the nasty thing "up there," and felt helpless as it dropped its bombs. They had both hated it. "There didn't ought to be such things," said one. "They don't seem needed," said her companion. "Men won't always go on like this--making wars and all such wickedness." "It's 'ow to stop them?" "Science is going to stop them." "Science?" "Yes, science. My young brother--oh, he's a clever one--he says such things! He says that it's science that they won't always go on like this. There's more sense coming into the world and more--my young brother says so. Says it stands to reason; it's Evolution. It's science that men are all brothers; you can prove it. It's science that there oughtn't to be war. Science is ending war now by making it horrible like this, and making it so that no one is safe. Showing it up. Only when nobody is safe will everybody want to set up peace,

decision

How many times the word 'decision' appears in the text?

with the tortuousness and weakness of his own character. Every day he perceived that the difficulty of telling Lady Ella of the change in his faith became more mountainous. And every day he procrastinated. If he had told her naturally and simply on the evening of his return from London--before anything material intervened--everything would have been different, everything would have been simpler.... He groaned and rolled over in his bed. There came upon him the acutest remorse and misery. For he saw that amidst these petty immediacies he had lost touch with God. The last month became incredible. He had seen God. He had touched God's hand. God had been given to him, and he had neglected the gift. He was still lost amidst the darkness and loneliness, the chaotic ends and mean shifts, of an Erastian world. For a month now and more, after a vision of God so vivid and real and reassuring that surely no saint nor prophet had ever had a better, he had made no more than vague responsive movements; he had allowed himself to be persuaded into an unreasonable and cowardly delay, and the fetters of association and usage and minor interests were as unbroken as they had been before ever the vision shone. Was it credible that there had ever been such a vision in a life so entirely dictated by immediacy and instinct as his? We are all creatures of the dark stream, we swim in needs and bodily impulses and small vanities; if ever and again a bubble of spiritual imaginativeness glows out of us, it breaks and leaves us where we were. "Louse that I am!" he cried. He still believed in God, without a shadow of doubt; he believed in the God that he had seen, the high courage, the golden intention, the light that had for a moment touched him. But what had he to do with God, he, the loiterer, the little thing? He was little, he was funny. His prevarications with his wife, for example, were comic. There was no other word for him but "funny." He rolled back again and lay staring. "Who will deliver me from the body of this death?" What right has a little bishop in a purple stock and doeskin breeches, who hangs back in his palace from the very call of God, to a phrase so fine and tragic as "the body of this death?" He was the most unreal thing in the universe. He was a base insect giving himself airs. What advantage has a bishop over the Praying Mantis, that cricket which apes the attitude of piety? Does he matter more--to God? "To the God of the Universe, who can tell? To the God of man,--yes." He sat up in bed struck by his own answer, and full of an indescribable hunger for God and an indescribable sense of his complete want of courage to make the one simple appeal that would satisfy that hunger. He tried to pray. "O God!" he cried, "forgive me! Take me!" It seemed to him that he was not really praying but only making believe to pray. It seemed to him that he was not really existing but only seeming to exist. He seemed to himself to be one with figures on a china plate, with figures painted on walls, with the flimsy imagined lives of men in stories of forgotten times. "O God!" he said, "O God," acting a gesture, mimicking appeal. "Anaemic," he said, and was given an idea. He got out of bed, he took his keys from the night-table at the bed head and went to his bureau. He stood with Dale's tonic in his hand. He remained for some time holding it, and feeling a curious indisposition to go on with the thing in his mind. He turned at last with an effort. He carried the little phial to his bedside, and into the tumbler of his water-bottle he let the drops fall, drop by drop, until he had counted twenty. Then holding it to the bulb of his reading lamp he added the water and stood watching the slow pearly eddies in the mixture mingle into an opalescent uniformity. He replaced the water-bottle and stood with the glass in his hand. But he did not drink. He was afraid. He knew that he had only to drink and this world of confusion would grow transparent, would roll back and reveal the great simplicities behind. And he was afraid. He was afraid of that greatness. He was afraid of the great imperatives that he knew would at once take hold of his life. He wanted to muddle on for just a little longer. He wanted to stay just where he was, in his familiar prison-house, with the key of escape in his hand. Before he took the last step into the very presence of truth, he would--think. He put down the glass and lay down upon his bed.... (3) He awoke in a mood of great depression out of a dream of wandering interminably in an endless building of innumerable pillars, pillars so vast and high that the ceiling was lost in darkness. By the scale of these pillars he felt himself scarcely larger than an ant. He was always alone in these wanderings, and always missing something that passed along distant passages, something desirable, something in the nature of a procession or of a ceremony, something of which he was in futile pursuit, of which he heard faint echoes, something luminous of which he seemed at times to see the last fading reflection, across vast halls and wildernesses of shining pavement and through Cyclopaean archways. At last there was neither sound nor gleam, but the utmost solitude, and a darkness and silence and the uttermost profundity of sorrow.... It was bright day. Dunk had just come into the room with his tea, and the tumbler of Dr. Dale's tonic stood untouched upon the night-table. The bishop sat up in bed. He had missed his opportunity. To-day was a busy day, he knew. "No," he said, as Dunk hesitated whether to remove or leave the tumbler. "Leave that." Dunk found room for it upon the tea-tray, and vanished softly with the bishop's evening clothes. The bishop remained motionless facing the day. There stood the draught of decision that he had lacked the decision even to touch. From his bed he could just read the larger items that figured upon the engagement tablet which it was Whippham's business to fill over-night and place upon his table. He had two confirmation services, first the big one in the cathedral and then a second one in the evening at Pringle, various committees and an interview with Chasters. He had not yet finished his addresses for these confirmation services.... The task seemed mountainous--overwhelming. With a gesture of desperation he seized the tumblerful of tonic and drank it off at a gulp. (4) For some moments nothing seemed to happen. Then he began to feel stronger and less wretched, and then came a throbbing and tingling of artery and nerve. He had a sense of adventure, a pleasant fear in the thing that he had done. He got out of bed, leaving his cup of tea untasted, and began to dress. He had the sensation of relief a prisoner may feel who suddenly tries his cell door and finds it open upon sunshine, the outside world and freedom. He went on dressing although he was certain that in a few minutes the world of delusion about him would dissolve, and that he would find himself again in the great freedom of the place of God. This time the transition came much sooner and much more rapidly. This time the phases and quality of the experience were different. He felt once again that luminous confusion between the world in which a human life is imprisoned and a circumambient and interpenetrating world, but this phase passed very rapidly; it did not spread out over nearly half an hour as it had done before, and almost immediately he seemed to plunge away from everything in this life altogether into that outer freedom he sought. And this time there was not even the elemental scenery of the former vision. He stood on nothing; there was nothing below and nothing above him. There was no sense of falling, no terror, but a feeling as though he floated released. There was no light, but as it were a clear darkness about him. Then it was manifest to him that he was not alone, but that with him was that same being that in his former vision had called himself the Angel of God. He knew this without knowing why he knew this, and either he spoke and was answered, or he thought and his thought answered him back. His state of mind on this occasion was altogether different from the first vision of God; before it had been spectacular, but now his perception was altogether super-sensuous. (And nevertheless and all the time it seemed that very faintly he was still in his room.) It was he who was the first to speak. The great Angel whom he felt rather than saw seemed to be waiting for him to speak. "I have come," he said, "because once more I desire to see God." "But you have seen God." "I saw God. God was light, God was truth. And I went back to my life, and God was hidden. God seemed to call me. He called. I heard him, I sought him and I touched his hand. When I went back to my life I was presently lost in perplexity. I could not tell why God had called me nor what I had to do." "And why did you not come here before?" "Doubt and fear. Brother, will you not lay your hand on mine?" The figure in the darkness became distincter. But nothing touched the bishop's seeking hands. "I want to see God and to understand him. I want reassurance. I want conviction. I want to understand all that God asks me to do. The world is full of conflict and confusion and the spirit of war. It is dark and dreadful now with suffering and bloodshed. I want to serve God who could save it, and I do not know how." It seemed to the bishop that now he could distinguish dimly but surely the form and features of the great Angel to whom he talked. For a little while there was silence, and then the Angel spoke. "It was necessary first," said the Angel, "that you should apprehend God and desire him. That was the purport of your first vision. Now, since you require it, I will tell you and show you certain things about him, things that it seems you need to know, things that all men need to know. Know then first that the time is at hand when God will come into the world and rule it, and when men will know what is required of them. This time is close at hand. In a little while God will be made manifest throughout the earth. Men will know him and know that he is King. To you this truth is to be shown--that you may tell it to others." "This is no vision?" said the bishop, "no dream that will pass away?" "Am I not here beside you?" (5) The bishop was anxious to be very clear. Things that had been shapelessly present in his mind now took form and found words for themselves. "The God I saw in my vision--He is not yet manifest in the world?" "He comes. He is in the world, but he is not yet manifested. He whom you saw in your vision will speedily be manifest in the world. To you this vision is given of the things that come. The world is already glowing with God. Mankind is like a smouldering fire that will presently, in quite a little time, burst out into flame. "In your former vision I showed you God," said the Angel. "This time I will show you certain signs of the coming of God. And then you will understand the place you hold in the world and the task that is required of you." (6) And as the Angel spoke he lifted up his hands with the palms upward, and there appeared above them a little round cloud, that grew denser until it had the likeness of a silver sphere. It was a mirror in the form of a ball, but a mirror not shining uniformly; it was discoloured with greyish patches that had a familiar shape. It circled slowly upon the Angel's hands. It seemed no greater than the compass of a human skull, and yet it was as great as the earth. Indeed it showed the whole earth. It was the earth. The hands of the Angel vanished out of sight, dissolved and vanished, and the spinning world hung free. All about the bishop the velvet darkness broke into glittering points that shaped out the constellations, and nearest to them, so near as to seem only a few million miles away in the great emptiness into which everything had resolved itself, shone the sun, a ball of red-tongued fires. The Angel was but a voice now; the bishop and the Angel were somewhere aloof from and yet accessible to the circling silver sphere. At the time all that happened seemed to happen quite naturally, as things happen in a dream. It was only later, when all this was a matter of memory, that the bishop realized how strange and incomprehensible his vision had been. The sphere was the earth with all its continents and seas, its ships and cities, its country-sides and mountain ranges. It was so small that he could see it all at once, and so great and full that he could see everything in it. He could see great countries like little patches upon it, and at the same time he could see the faces of the men upon the highways, he could see the feelings in men's hearts and the thoughts in their minds. But it did not seem in any way wonderful to the bishop that so he should see those things, or that it was to him that these things were shown. "This is the whole world," he said. "This is the vision of the world," the Angel answered. "It is very wonderful," said the bishop, and stood for a moment marvelling at the compass of his vision. For here was India, here was Samarkand, in the light of the late afternoon; and China and the swarming cities upon her silvery rivers sinking through twilight to the night and throwing a spray and tracery of lantern spots upon the dark; here was Russia under the noontide, and so great a battle of artillery raging on the Dunajec as no man had ever seen before; whole lines of trenches dissolved into clouds of dust and heaps of blood-streaked earth; here close to the waiting streets of Constantinople were the hills of Gallipoli, the grave of British Imperialism, streaming to heaven with the dust and smoke of bursting shells and rifle fire and the smoke and flame of burning brushwood. In the sea of Marmora a big ship crowded with Turkish troops was sinking; and, purple under the clear water, he could see the shape of the British submarine which had torpedoed her and had submerged and was going away. Berlin prepared its frugal meals, still far from famine. He saw the war in Europe as if he saw it on a map, yet every human detail showed. Over hundreds of miles of trenches east and west of Germany he could see shells bursting and the men below dropping, and the stretcher-bearers going back with the wounded. The roads to every front were crowded with reserves and munitions. For a moment a little group of men indifferent to all this struggle, who were landing amidst the Antarctic wilderness, held his attention; and then his eyes went westward to the dark rolling Atlantic across which, as the edge of the night was drawn like a curtain, more and still more ships became visible beating upon their courses eastward or westward under the overtaking day. The wonder increased; the wonder of the single and infinitely multitudinous adventure of mankind. "So God perhaps sees it," he whispered. (7) "Look at this man," said the Angel, and the black shadow of a hand seemed to point. It was a Chinaman sitting with two others in a little low room separated by translucent paper windows from a noisy street of shrill-voiced people. The three had been talking of the ultimatum that Japan had sent that day to China, claiming a priority in many matters over European influences they were by no means sure whether it was a wrong or a benefit that had been done to their country. From that topic they had passed to the discussion of the war, and then of wars and national aggressions and the perpetual thrusting and quarrelling of mankind. The older man had said that so life would always be; it was the will of Heaven. The little, very yellow-faced, emaciated man had agreed with him. But now this younger man, to whose thoughts the Angel had so particularly directed the bishop's attention, was speaking. He did not agree with his companion. "War is not the will of Heaven," he said; "it is the blindness of men." "Man changes," he said, "from day to day and from age to age. The science of the West has taught us that. Man changes and war changes and all things change. China has been the land of flowery peace, and she may yet give peace to all the world. She has put aside that puppet Emperor at Peking, she turns her face to the new learning of the West as a man lays aside his heavy robes, in order that her task may be achieved." The older man spoke, his manner was more than a little incredulous, and yet not altogether contemptuous. "You believe that someday there will be no more war in the world, that a time will come when men will no longer plot and plan against the welfare of men?" "Even that last," said the younger man. "Did any of us dream twenty-five years ago that here in China we should live to see a republic? The age of the republics draws near, when men in every country of the world will look straight up to the rule of Right and the empire of Heaven." ("And God will be King of the World," said the Angel. "Is not that faith exactly the faith that is coming to you?") The two other Chinamen questioned their companion, but without hostility. "This war," said the Chinaman, "will end in a great harvesting of kings." "But Japan--" the older man began. The bishop would have liked to hear more of that conversation, but the dark hand of the Angel motioned him to another part of the world. "Listen to this," said the Angel. He pointed the bishop to where the armies of Britain and Turkey lay in the heat of Mesopotamia. Along the sandy bank of a wide, slow-flowing river rode two horsemen, an Englishman and a Turk. They were returning from the Turkish lines, whither the Englishman had been with a flag of truce. When Englishmen and Turks are thrown together they soon become friends, and in this case matters had been facilitated by the Englishman's command of the Turkish language. He was quite an exceptional Englishman. The Turk had just been remarking cheerfully that it wouldn't please the Germans if they were to discover how amiably he and his charge had got on. "It's a pity we ever ceased to be friends," he said. "You Englishmen aren't like our Christians," he went on. The Englishmen wanted to know why. "You haven't priests in robes. You don't chant and worship crosses and pictures, and quarrel among yourselves." "We worship the same God as you do," said the Englishman. "Then why do we fight?" "That's what we want to know." "Why do you call yourselves Christians? And take part against us? All who worship the One God are brothers." "They ought to be," said the Englishman, and thought. He was struck by what seemed to him an amazingly novel idea. "If it weren't for religions all men would serve God together," he said. "And then there would be no wars--only now and then perhaps just a little honest fighting...." "And see here," said the Angel. "Here close behind this frightful battle, where the German phalanx of guns pounds its way through the Russian hosts. Here is a young German talking to two wounded Russian prisoners, who have stopped to rest by the roadside. He is a German of East Prussia; he knows and thinks a little Russian. And they too are saying, all three of them, that the war is not God's will, but the confusion of mankind. "Here," he said, and the shadow of his hand hovered over the burning-ghats of Benares, where a Brahmin of the new persuasion watched the straight spires of funereal smoke ascend into the glow of the late afternoon, while he talked to an English painter, his friend, of the blind intolerance of race and caste and custom in India. "Or here." The Angel pointed to a group of people who had gathered upon a little beach at the head of a Norwegian fiord. There were three lads, an old man and two women, and they stood about the body of a drowned German sailor which had been washed up that day. For a time they had talked in whispers, but now suddenly the old man spoke aloud. "This is the fourth that has come ashore," he said. "Poor drowned souls! Because men will not serve God." "But folks go to church and pray enough," said one of the women. "They do not serve God," said the old man. "They just pray to him as one nods to a beggar. They do not serve God who is their King. They set up their false kings and emperors, and so all Europe is covered with dead, and the seas wash up these dead to us. Why does the world suffer these things? Why did we Norwegians, who are a free-spirited people, permit the Germans and the Swedes and the English to set up a king over us? Because we lack faith. Kings mean secret counsels, and secret counsels bring war. Sooner or later war will come to us also if we give the soul of our nation in trust to a king.... But things will not always be thus with men. God will not suffer them for ever. A day comes, and it is no distant day, when God himself will rule the earth, and when men will do, not what the king wishes nor what is expedient nor what is customary, but what is manifestly right.".... "But men are saying that now in a thousand places," said the Angel. "Here is something that goes a little beyond that." His pointing hand went southward until they saw the Africanders riding down to Windhuk. Two men, Boer farmers both, rode side by side and talked of the German officer they brought prisoner with them. He had put sheep-dip in the wells of drinking-water; his life was fairly forfeit, and he was not to be killed. "We want no more hate in South Africa," they agreed. "Dutch and English and German must live here now side by side. Men cannot always be killing." "And see his thoughts," said the Angel. The German's mind was one amazement. He had been sure of being shot, he had meant to make a good end, fierce and scornful, a relentless fighter to the last; and these men who might have shot him like a man were going to spare him like a dog. His mind was a tumbled muddle of old and new ideas. He had been brought up in an atmosphere of the foulest and fiercest militarism; he had been trained to relentlessness, ruthlessness and so forth; war was war and the bitterer the better, frightfulness was your way to victory over every enemy. But these people had found a better way. Here were Dutch and English side by side; sixteen years ago they had been at war together and now they wore the same uniform and rode together, and laughed at him for a queer fellow because he was for spitting at them and defying them, and folding his arms and looking level at the executioners' rifles. There were to be no executioners' rifles.... If it was so with Dutch and English, why shouldn't it be so presently with French and Germans? Why someday shouldn't French, German, Dutch and English, Russian and Pole, ride together under this new star of mankind, the Southern Cross, to catch whatever last mischief-maker was left to poison the wells of goodwill? His mind resisted and struggled against these ideas. "Austere," he whispered. "The ennobling tests of war." A trooner rode up alongside, and offered him a drink of water "Just a mouthful," he said apologetically. "We've had to go rather short."... "There's another brain busy here with the same idea," the Angel interrupted. And the bishop found himself looking into the bedroom of a young German attache in Washington, sleepless in the small hours. "Ach!" cried the young man, and sat up in bed and ran his hands through his fair hair. He had been working late upon this detestable business of the Lusitania; the news of her sinking had come to hand two days before, and all America was aflame with it. It might mean war. His task had been to pour out explanations and justifications to the press; to show that it was an act of necessity, to pretend a conviction that the great ship was loaded with munitions, to fight down the hostility and anger that blazed across a continent. He had worked to his limit. He had taken cup after cup of coffee, and had come to bed worked out not two hours ago. Now here he was awake after a nightmare of drowning women and children, trying to comfort his soul by recalling his own arguments. Never once since the war began had he doubted the rightness of the German cause. It seemed only a proof of his nervous exhaustion that he could doubt it now. Germany was the best organized, most cultivated, scientific and liberal nation the earth had ever seen, it was for the good of mankind that she should be the dominant power in the world; his patriotism had had the passion of a mission. The English were indolent, the French decadent, the Russians barbaric, the Americans basely democratic; the rest of the world was the "White man's Burthen"; the clear destiny of mankind was subservience to the good Prussian eagle. Nevertheless--those wet draggled bodies that swirled down in the eddies of the sinking Titan--Ach! He wished it could have been otherwise. He nursed his knees and prayed that there need not be much more of these things before the spirit of the enemy was broken and the great Peace of Germany came upon the world. And suddenly he stopped short in his prayer. Suddenly out of the nothingness and darkness about him came the conviction that God did not listen to his prayers.... Was there any other way? It was the most awful doubt he had ever had, for it smote at the training of all his life. "Could it be possible that after all our old German God is not the proper style and title of the true God? Is our old German God perhaps only the last of a long succession of bloodstained tribal effigies--and not God at all?" For a long time it seemed that the bishop watched the thoughts that gathered in the young attache's mind. Until suddenly he broke into a quotation, into that last cry of the dying Goethe, for "Light. More Light!"... "Leave him at that," said the Angel. "I want you to hear these two young women." The hand came back to England and pointed to where Southend at the mouth of the Thames was all agog with the excitement of an overnight Zeppelin raid. People had got up hours before their usual time in order to look at the wrecked houses before they went up to their work in town. Everybody seemed abroad. Two nurses, not very well trained as nurses go nor very well-educated women, were snatching a little sea air upon the front after an eventful night. They were too excited still to sleep. They were talking of the horror of the moment when they saw the nasty thing "up there," and felt helpless as it dropped its bombs. They had both hated it. "There didn't ought to be such things," said one. "They don't seem needed," said her companion. "Men won't always go on like this--making wars and all such wickedness." "It's 'ow to stop them?" "Science is going to stop them." "Science?" "Yes, science. My young brother--oh, he's a clever one--he says such things! He says that it's science that they won't always go on like this. There's more sense coming into the world and more--my young brother says so. Says it stands to reason; it's Evolution. It's science that men are all brothers; you can prove it. It's science that there oughtn't to be war. Science is ending war now by making it horrible like this, and making it so that no one is safe. Showing it up. Only when nobody is safe will everybody want to set up peace,

bords

How many times the word 'bords' appears in the text?

with the tortuousness and weakness of his own character. Every day he perceived that the difficulty of telling Lady Ella of the change in his faith became more mountainous. And every day he procrastinated. If he had told her naturally and simply on the evening of his return from London--before anything material intervened--everything would have been different, everything would have been simpler.... He groaned and rolled over in his bed. There came upon him the acutest remorse and misery. For he saw that amidst these petty immediacies he had lost touch with God. The last month became incredible. He had seen God. He had touched God's hand. God had been given to him, and he had neglected the gift. He was still lost amidst the darkness and loneliness, the chaotic ends and mean shifts, of an Erastian world. For a month now and more, after a vision of God so vivid and real and reassuring that surely no saint nor prophet had ever had a better, he had made no more than vague responsive movements; he had allowed himself to be persuaded into an unreasonable and cowardly delay, and the fetters of association and usage and minor interests were as unbroken as they had been before ever the vision shone. Was it credible that there had ever been such a vision in a life so entirely dictated by immediacy and instinct as his? We are all creatures of the dark stream, we swim in needs and bodily impulses and small vanities; if ever and again a bubble of spiritual imaginativeness glows out of us, it breaks and leaves us where we were. "Louse that I am!" he cried. He still believed in God, without a shadow of doubt; he believed in the God that he had seen, the high courage, the golden intention, the light that had for a moment touched him. But what had he to do with God, he, the loiterer, the little thing? He was little, he was funny. His prevarications with his wife, for example, were comic. There was no other word for him but "funny." He rolled back again and lay staring. "Who will deliver me from the body of this death?" What right has a little bishop in a purple stock and doeskin breeches, who hangs back in his palace from the very call of God, to a phrase so fine and tragic as "the body of this death?" He was the most unreal thing in the universe. He was a base insect giving himself airs. What advantage has a bishop over the Praying Mantis, that cricket which apes the attitude of piety? Does he matter more--to God? "To the God of the Universe, who can tell? To the God of man,--yes." He sat up in bed struck by his own answer, and full of an indescribable hunger for God and an indescribable sense of his complete want of courage to make the one simple appeal that would satisfy that hunger. He tried to pray. "O God!" he cried, "forgive me! Take me!" It seemed to him that he was not really praying but only making believe to pray. It seemed to him that he was not really existing but only seeming to exist. He seemed to himself to be one with figures on a china plate, with figures painted on walls, with the flimsy imagined lives of men in stories of forgotten times. "O God!" he said, "O God," acting a gesture, mimicking appeal. "Anaemic," he said, and was given an idea. He got out of bed, he took his keys from the night-table at the bed head and went to his bureau. He stood with Dale's tonic in his hand. He remained for some time holding it, and feeling a curious indisposition to go on with the thing in his mind. He turned at last with an effort. He carried the little phial to his bedside, and into the tumbler of his water-bottle he let the drops fall, drop by drop, until he had counted twenty. Then holding it to the bulb of his reading lamp he added the water and stood watching the slow pearly eddies in the mixture mingle into an opalescent uniformity. He replaced the water-bottle and stood with the glass in his hand. But he did not drink. He was afraid. He knew that he had only to drink and this world of confusion would grow transparent, would roll back and reveal the great simplicities behind. And he was afraid. He was afraid of that greatness. He was afraid of the great imperatives that he knew would at once take hold of his life. He wanted to muddle on for just a little longer. He wanted to stay just where he was, in his familiar prison-house, with the key of escape in his hand. Before he took the last step into the very presence of truth, he would--think. He put down the glass and lay down upon his bed.... (3) He awoke in a mood of great depression out of a dream of wandering interminably in an endless building of innumerable pillars, pillars so vast and high that the ceiling was lost in darkness. By the scale of these pillars he felt himself scarcely larger than an ant. He was always alone in these wanderings, and always missing something that passed along distant passages, something desirable, something in the nature of a procession or of a ceremony, something of which he was in futile pursuit, of which he heard faint echoes, something luminous of which he seemed at times to see the last fading reflection, across vast halls and wildernesses of shining pavement and through Cyclopaean archways. At last there was neither sound nor gleam, but the utmost solitude, and a darkness and silence and the uttermost profundity of sorrow.... It was bright day. Dunk had just come into the room with his tea, and the tumbler of Dr. Dale's tonic stood untouched upon the night-table. The bishop sat up in bed. He had missed his opportunity. To-day was a busy day, he knew. "No," he said, as Dunk hesitated whether to remove or leave the tumbler. "Leave that." Dunk found room for it upon the tea-tray, and vanished softly with the bishop's evening clothes. The bishop remained motionless facing the day. There stood the draught of decision that he had lacked the decision even to touch. From his bed he could just read the larger items that figured upon the engagement tablet which it was Whippham's business to fill over-night and place upon his table. He had two confirmation services, first the big one in the cathedral and then a second one in the evening at Pringle, various committees and an interview with Chasters. He had not yet finished his addresses for these confirmation services.... The task seemed mountainous--overwhelming. With a gesture of desperation he seized the tumblerful of tonic and drank it off at a gulp. (4) For some moments nothing seemed to happen. Then he began to feel stronger and less wretched, and then came a throbbing and tingling of artery and nerve. He had a sense of adventure, a pleasant fear in the thing that he had done. He got out of bed, leaving his cup of tea untasted, and began to dress. He had the sensation of relief a prisoner may feel who suddenly tries his cell door and finds it open upon sunshine, the outside world and freedom. He went on dressing although he was certain that in a few minutes the world of delusion about him would dissolve, and that he would find himself again in the great freedom of the place of God. This time the transition came much sooner and much more rapidly. This time the phases and quality of the experience were different. He felt once again that luminous confusion between the world in which a human life is imprisoned and a circumambient and interpenetrating world, but this phase passed very rapidly; it did not spread out over nearly half an hour as it had done before, and almost immediately he seemed to plunge away from everything in this life altogether into that outer freedom he sought. And this time there was not even the elemental scenery of the former vision. He stood on nothing; there was nothing below and nothing above him. There was no sense of falling, no terror, but a feeling as though he floated released. There was no light, but as it were a clear darkness about him. Then it was manifest to him that he was not alone, but that with him was that same being that in his former vision had called himself the Angel of God. He knew this without knowing why he knew this, and either he spoke and was answered, or he thought and his thought answered him back. His state of mind on this occasion was altogether different from the first vision of God; before it had been spectacular, but now his perception was altogether super-sensuous. (And nevertheless and all the time it seemed that very faintly he was still in his room.) It was he who was the first to speak. The great Angel whom he felt rather than saw seemed to be waiting for him to speak. "I have come," he said, "because once more I desire to see God." "But you have seen God." "I saw God. God was light, God was truth. And I went back to my life, and God was hidden. God seemed to call me. He called. I heard him, I sought him and I touched his hand. When I went back to my life I was presently lost in perplexity. I could not tell why God had called me nor what I had to do." "And why did you not come here before?" "Doubt and fear. Brother, will you not lay your hand on mine?" The figure in the darkness became distincter. But nothing touched the bishop's seeking hands. "I want to see God and to understand him. I want reassurance. I want conviction. I want to understand all that God asks me to do. The world is full of conflict and confusion and the spirit of war. It is dark and dreadful now with suffering and bloodshed. I want to serve God who could save it, and I do not know how." It seemed to the bishop that now he could distinguish dimly but surely the form and features of the great Angel to whom he talked. For a little while there was silence, and then the Angel spoke. "It was necessary first," said the Angel, "that you should apprehend God and desire him. That was the purport of your first vision. Now, since you require it, I will tell you and show you certain things about him, things that it seems you need to know, things that all men need to know. Know then first that the time is at hand when God will come into the world and rule it, and when men will know what is required of them. This time is close at hand. In a little while God will be made manifest throughout the earth. Men will know him and know that he is King. To you this truth is to be shown--that you may tell it to others." "This is no vision?" said the bishop, "no dream that will pass away?" "Am I not here beside you?" (5) The bishop was anxious to be very clear. Things that had been shapelessly present in his mind now took form and found words for themselves. "The God I saw in my vision--He is not yet manifest in the world?" "He comes. He is in the world, but he is not yet manifested. He whom you saw in your vision will speedily be manifest in the world. To you this vision is given of the things that come. The world is already glowing with God. Mankind is like a smouldering fire that will presently, in quite a little time, burst out into flame. "In your former vision I showed you God," said the Angel. "This time I will show you certain signs of the coming of God. And then you will understand the place you hold in the world and the task that is required of you." (6) And as the Angel spoke he lifted up his hands with the palms upward, and there appeared above them a little round cloud, that grew denser until it had the likeness of a silver sphere. It was a mirror in the form of a ball, but a mirror not shining uniformly; it was discoloured with greyish patches that had a familiar shape. It circled slowly upon the Angel's hands. It seemed no greater than the compass of a human skull, and yet it was as great as the earth. Indeed it showed the whole earth. It was the earth. The hands of the Angel vanished out of sight, dissolved and vanished, and the spinning world hung free. All about the bishop the velvet darkness broke into glittering points that shaped out the constellations, and nearest to them, so near as to seem only a few million miles away in the great emptiness into which everything had resolved itself, shone the sun, a ball of red-tongued fires. The Angel was but a voice now; the bishop and the Angel were somewhere aloof from and yet accessible to the circling silver sphere. At the time all that happened seemed to happen quite naturally, as things happen in a dream. It was only later, when all this was a matter of memory, that the bishop realized how strange and incomprehensible his vision had been. The sphere was the earth with all its continents and seas, its ships and cities, its country-sides and mountain ranges. It was so small that he could see it all at once, and so great and full that he could see everything in it. He could see great countries like little patches upon it, and at the same time he could see the faces of the men upon the highways, he could see the feelings in men's hearts and the thoughts in their minds. But it did not seem in any way wonderful to the bishop that so he should see those things, or that it was to him that these things were shown. "This is the whole world," he said. "This is the vision of the world," the Angel answered. "It is very wonderful," said the bishop, and stood for a moment marvelling at the compass of his vision. For here was India, here was Samarkand, in the light of the late afternoon; and China and the swarming cities upon her silvery rivers sinking through twilight to the night and throwing a spray and tracery of lantern spots upon the dark; here was Russia under the noontide, and so great a battle of artillery raging on the Dunajec as no man had ever seen before; whole lines of trenches dissolved into clouds of dust and heaps of blood-streaked earth; here close to the waiting streets of Constantinople were the hills of Gallipoli, the grave of British Imperialism, streaming to heaven with the dust and smoke of bursting shells and rifle fire and the smoke and flame of burning brushwood. In the sea of Marmora a big ship crowded with Turkish troops was sinking; and, purple under the clear water, he could see the shape of the British submarine which had torpedoed her and had submerged and was going away. Berlin prepared its frugal meals, still far from famine. He saw the war in Europe as if he saw it on a map, yet every human detail showed. Over hundreds of miles of trenches east and west of Germany he could see shells bursting and the men below dropping, and the stretcher-bearers going back with the wounded. The roads to every front were crowded with reserves and munitions. For a moment a little group of men indifferent to all this struggle, who were landing amidst the Antarctic wilderness, held his attention; and then his eyes went westward to the dark rolling Atlantic across which, as the edge of the night was drawn like a curtain, more and still more ships became visible beating upon their courses eastward or westward under the overtaking day. The wonder increased; the wonder of the single and infinitely multitudinous adventure of mankind. "So God perhaps sees it," he whispered. (7) "Look at this man," said the Angel, and the black shadow of a hand seemed to point. It was a Chinaman sitting with two others in a little low room separated by translucent paper windows from a noisy street of shrill-voiced people. The three had been talking of the ultimatum that Japan had sent that day to China, claiming a priority in many matters over European influences they were by no means sure whether it was a wrong or a benefit that had been done to their country. From that topic they had passed to the discussion of the war, and then of wars and national aggressions and the perpetual thrusting and quarrelling of mankind. The older man had said that so life would always be; it was the will of Heaven. The little, very yellow-faced, emaciated man had agreed with him. But now this younger man, to whose thoughts the Angel had so particularly directed the bishop's attention, was speaking. He did not agree with his companion. "War is not the will of Heaven," he said; "it is the blindness of men." "Man changes," he said, "from day to day and from age to age. The science of the West has taught us that. Man changes and war changes and all things change. China has been the land of flowery peace, and she may yet give peace to all the world. She has put aside that puppet Emperor at Peking, she turns her face to the new learning of the West as a man lays aside his heavy robes, in order that her task may be achieved." The older man spoke, his manner was more than a little incredulous, and yet not altogether contemptuous. "You believe that someday there will be no more war in the world, that a time will come when men will no longer plot and plan against the welfare of men?" "Even that last," said the younger man. "Did any of us dream twenty-five years ago that here in China we should live to see a republic? The age of the republics draws near, when men in every country of the world will look straight up to the rule of Right and the empire of Heaven." ("And God will be King of the World," said the Angel. "Is not that faith exactly the faith that is coming to you?") The two other Chinamen questioned their companion, but without hostility. "This war," said the Chinaman, "will end in a great harvesting of kings." "But Japan--" the older man began. The bishop would have liked to hear more of that conversation, but the dark hand of the Angel motioned him to another part of the world. "Listen to this," said the Angel. He pointed the bishop to where the armies of Britain and Turkey lay in the heat of Mesopotamia. Along the sandy bank of a wide, slow-flowing river rode two horsemen, an Englishman and a Turk. They were returning from the Turkish lines, whither the Englishman had been with a flag of truce. When Englishmen and Turks are thrown together they soon become friends, and in this case matters had been facilitated by the Englishman's command of the Turkish language. He was quite an exceptional Englishman. The Turk had just been remarking cheerfully that it wouldn't please the Germans if they were to discover how amiably he and his charge had got on. "It's a pity we ever ceased to be friends," he said. "You Englishmen aren't like our Christians," he went on. The Englishmen wanted to know why. "You haven't priests in robes. You don't chant and worship crosses and pictures, and quarrel among yourselves." "We worship the same God as you do," said the Englishman. "Then why do we fight?" "That's what we want to know." "Why do you call yourselves Christians? And take part against us? All who worship the One God are brothers." "They ought to be," said the Englishman, and thought. He was struck by what seemed to him an amazingly novel idea. "If it weren't for religions all men would serve God together," he said. "And then there would be no wars--only now and then perhaps just a little honest fighting...." "And see here," said the Angel. "Here close behind this frightful battle, where the German phalanx of guns pounds its way through the Russian hosts. Here is a young German talking to two wounded Russian prisoners, who have stopped to rest by the roadside. He is a German of East Prussia; he knows and thinks a little Russian. And they too are saying, all three of them, that the war is not God's will, but the confusion of mankind. "Here," he said, and the shadow of his hand hovered over the burning-ghats of Benares, where a Brahmin of the new persuasion watched the straight spires of funereal smoke ascend into the glow of the late afternoon, while he talked to an English painter, his friend, of the blind intolerance of race and caste and custom in India. "Or here." The Angel pointed to a group of people who had gathered upon a little beach at the head of a Norwegian fiord. There were three lads, an old man and two women, and they stood about the body of a drowned German sailor which had been washed up that day. For a time they had talked in whispers, but now suddenly the old man spoke aloud. "This is the fourth that has come ashore," he said. "Poor drowned souls! Because men will not serve God." "But folks go to church and pray enough," said one of the women. "They do not serve God," said the old man. "They just pray to him as one nods to a beggar. They do not serve God who is their King. They set up their false kings and emperors, and so all Europe is covered with dead, and the seas wash up these dead to us. Why does the world suffer these things? Why did we Norwegians, who are a free-spirited people, permit the Germans and the Swedes and the English to set up a king over us? Because we lack faith. Kings mean secret counsels, and secret counsels bring war. Sooner or later war will come to us also if we give the soul of our nation in trust to a king.... But things will not always be thus with men. God will not suffer them for ever. A day comes, and it is no distant day, when God himself will rule the earth, and when men will do, not what the king wishes nor what is expedient nor what is customary, but what is manifestly right.".... "But men are saying that now in a thousand places," said the Angel. "Here is something that goes a little beyond that." His pointing hand went southward until they saw the Africanders riding down to Windhuk. Two men, Boer farmers both, rode side by side and talked of the German officer they brought prisoner with them. He had put sheep-dip in the wells of drinking-water; his life was fairly forfeit, and he was not to be killed. "We want no more hate in South Africa," they agreed. "Dutch and English and German must live here now side by side. Men cannot always be killing." "And see his thoughts," said the Angel. The German's mind was one amazement. He had been sure of being shot, he had meant to make a good end, fierce and scornful, a relentless fighter to the last; and these men who might have shot him like a man were going to spare him like a dog. His mind was a tumbled muddle of old and new ideas. He had been brought up in an atmosphere of the foulest and fiercest militarism; he had been trained to relentlessness, ruthlessness and so forth; war was war and the bitterer the better, frightfulness was your way to victory over every enemy. But these people had found a better way. Here were Dutch and English side by side; sixteen years ago they had been at war together and now they wore the same uniform and rode together, and laughed at him for a queer fellow because he was for spitting at them and defying them, and folding his arms and looking level at the executioners' rifles. There were to be no executioners' rifles.... If it was so with Dutch and English, why shouldn't it be so presently with French and Germans? Why someday shouldn't French, German, Dutch and English, Russian and Pole, ride together under this new star of mankind, the Southern Cross, to catch whatever last mischief-maker was left to poison the wells of goodwill? His mind resisted and struggled against these ideas. "Austere," he whispered. "The ennobling tests of war." A trooner rode up alongside, and offered him a drink of water "Just a mouthful," he said apologetically. "We've had to go rather short."... "There's another brain busy here with the same idea," the Angel interrupted. And the bishop found himself looking into the bedroom of a young German attache in Washington, sleepless in the small hours. "Ach!" cried the young man, and sat up in bed and ran his hands through his fair hair. He had been working late upon this detestable business of the Lusitania; the news of her sinking had come to hand two days before, and all America was aflame with it. It might mean war. His task had been to pour out explanations and justifications to the press; to show that it was an act of necessity, to pretend a conviction that the great ship was loaded with munitions, to fight down the hostility and anger that blazed across a continent. He had worked to his limit. He had taken cup after cup of coffee, and had come to bed worked out not two hours ago. Now here he was awake after a nightmare of drowning women and children, trying to comfort his soul by recalling his own arguments. Never once since the war began had he doubted the rightness of the German cause. It seemed only a proof of his nervous exhaustion that he could doubt it now. Germany was the best organized, most cultivated, scientific and liberal nation the earth had ever seen, it was for the good of mankind that she should be the dominant power in the world; his patriotism had had the passion of a mission. The English were indolent, the French decadent, the Russians barbaric, the Americans basely democratic; the rest of the world was the "White man's Burthen"; the clear destiny of mankind was subservience to the good Prussian eagle. Nevertheless--those wet draggled bodies that swirled down in the eddies of the sinking Titan--Ach! He wished it could have been otherwise. He nursed his knees and prayed that there need not be much more of these things before the spirit of the enemy was broken and the great Peace of Germany came upon the world. And suddenly he stopped short in his prayer. Suddenly out of the nothingness and darkness about him came the conviction that God did not listen to his prayers.... Was there any other way? It was the most awful doubt he had ever had, for it smote at the training of all his life. "Could it be possible that after all our old German God is not the proper style and title of the true God? Is our old German God perhaps only the last of a long succession of bloodstained tribal effigies--and not God at all?" For a long time it seemed that the bishop watched the thoughts that gathered in the young attache's mind. Until suddenly he broke into a quotation, into that last cry of the dying Goethe, for "Light. More Light!"... "Leave him at that," said the Angel. "I want you to hear these two young women." The hand came back to England and pointed to where Southend at the mouth of the Thames was all agog with the excitement of an overnight Zeppelin raid. People had got up hours before their usual time in order to look at the wrecked houses before they went up to their work in town. Everybody seemed abroad. Two nurses, not very well trained as nurses go nor very well-educated women, were snatching a little sea air upon the front after an eventful night. They were too excited still to sleep. They were talking of the horror of the moment when they saw the nasty thing "up there," and felt helpless as it dropped its bombs. They had both hated it. "There didn't ought to be such things," said one. "They don't seem needed," said her companion. "Men won't always go on like this--making wars and all such wickedness." "It's 'ow to stop them?" "Science is going to stop them." "Science?" "Yes, science. My young brother--oh, he's a clever one--he says such things! He says that it's science that they won't always go on like this. There's more sense coming into the world and more--my young brother says so. Says it stands to reason; it's Evolution. It's science that men are all brothers; you can prove it. It's science that there oughtn't to be war. Science is ending war now by making it horrible like this, and making it so that no one is safe. Showing it up. Only when nobody is safe will everybody want to set up peace,

immobile

How many times the word 'immobile' appears in the text?

with the tortuousness and weakness of his own character. Every day he perceived that the difficulty of telling Lady Ella of the change in his faith became more mountainous. And every day he procrastinated. If he had told her naturally and simply on the evening of his return from London--before anything material intervened--everything would have been different, everything would have been simpler.... He groaned and rolled over in his bed. There came upon him the acutest remorse and misery. For he saw that amidst these petty immediacies he had lost touch with God. The last month became incredible. He had seen God. He had touched God's hand. God had been given to him, and he had neglected the gift. He was still lost amidst the darkness and loneliness, the chaotic ends and mean shifts, of an Erastian world. For a month now and more, after a vision of God so vivid and real and reassuring that surely no saint nor prophet had ever had a better, he had made no more than vague responsive movements; he had allowed himself to be persuaded into an unreasonable and cowardly delay, and the fetters of association and usage and minor interests were as unbroken as they had been before ever the vision shone. Was it credible that there had ever been such a vision in a life so entirely dictated by immediacy and instinct as his? We are all creatures of the dark stream, we swim in needs and bodily impulses and small vanities; if ever and again a bubble of spiritual imaginativeness glows out of us, it breaks and leaves us where we were. "Louse that I am!" he cried. He still believed in God, without a shadow of doubt; he believed in the God that he had seen, the high courage, the golden intention, the light that had for a moment touched him. But what had he to do with God, he, the loiterer, the little thing? He was little, he was funny. His prevarications with his wife, for example, were comic. There was no other word for him but "funny." He rolled back again and lay staring. "Who will deliver me from the body of this death?" What right has a little bishop in a purple stock and doeskin breeches, who hangs back in his palace from the very call of God, to a phrase so fine and tragic as "the body of this death?" He was the most unreal thing in the universe. He was a base insect giving himself airs. What advantage has a bishop over the Praying Mantis, that cricket which apes the attitude of piety? Does he matter more--to God? "To the God of the Universe, who can tell? To the God of man,--yes." He sat up in bed struck by his own answer, and full of an indescribable hunger for God and an indescribable sense of his complete want of courage to make the one simple appeal that would satisfy that hunger. He tried to pray. "O God!" he cried, "forgive me! Take me!" It seemed to him that he was not really praying but only making believe to pray. It seemed to him that he was not really existing but only seeming to exist. He seemed to himself to be one with figures on a china plate, with figures painted on walls, with the flimsy imagined lives of men in stories of forgotten times. "O God!" he said, "O God," acting a gesture, mimicking appeal. "Anaemic," he said, and was given an idea. He got out of bed, he took his keys from the night-table at the bed head and went to his bureau. He stood with Dale's tonic in his hand. He remained for some time holding it, and feeling a curious indisposition to go on with the thing in his mind. He turned at last with an effort. He carried the little phial to his bedside, and into the tumbler of his water-bottle he let the drops fall, drop by drop, until he had counted twenty. Then holding it to the bulb of his reading lamp he added the water and stood watching the slow pearly eddies in the mixture mingle into an opalescent uniformity. He replaced the water-bottle and stood with the glass in his hand. But he did not drink. He was afraid. He knew that he had only to drink and this world of confusion would grow transparent, would roll back and reveal the great simplicities behind. And he was afraid. He was afraid of that greatness. He was afraid of the great imperatives that he knew would at once take hold of his life. He wanted to muddle on for just a little longer. He wanted to stay just where he was, in his familiar prison-house, with the key of escape in his hand. Before he took the last step into the very presence of truth, he would--think. He put down the glass and lay down upon his bed.... (3) He awoke in a mood of great depression out of a dream of wandering interminably in an endless building of innumerable pillars, pillars so vast and high that the ceiling was lost in darkness. By the scale of these pillars he felt himself scarcely larger than an ant. He was always alone in these wanderings, and always missing something that passed along distant passages, something desirable, something in the nature of a procession or of a ceremony, something of which he was in futile pursuit, of which he heard faint echoes, something luminous of which he seemed at times to see the last fading reflection, across vast halls and wildernesses of shining pavement and through Cyclopaean archways. At last there was neither sound nor gleam, but the utmost solitude, and a darkness and silence and the uttermost profundity of sorrow.... It was bright day. Dunk had just come into the room with his tea, and the tumbler of Dr. Dale's tonic stood untouched upon the night-table. The bishop sat up in bed. He had missed his opportunity. To-day was a busy day, he knew. "No," he said, as Dunk hesitated whether to remove or leave the tumbler. "Leave that." Dunk found room for it upon the tea-tray, and vanished softly with the bishop's evening clothes. The bishop remained motionless facing the day. There stood the draught of decision that he had lacked the decision even to touch. From his bed he could just read the larger items that figured upon the engagement tablet which it was Whippham's business to fill over-night and place upon his table. He had two confirmation services, first the big one in the cathedral and then a second one in the evening at Pringle, various committees and an interview with Chasters. He had not yet finished his addresses for these confirmation services.... The task seemed mountainous--overwhelming. With a gesture of desperation he seized the tumblerful of tonic and drank it off at a gulp. (4) For some moments nothing seemed to happen. Then he began to feel stronger and less wretched, and then came a throbbing and tingling of artery and nerve. He had a sense of adventure, a pleasant fear in the thing that he had done. He got out of bed, leaving his cup of tea untasted, and began to dress. He had the sensation of relief a prisoner may feel who suddenly tries his cell door and finds it open upon sunshine, the outside world and freedom. He went on dressing although he was certain that in a few minutes the world of delusion about him would dissolve, and that he would find himself again in the great freedom of the place of God. This time the transition came much sooner and much more rapidly. This time the phases and quality of the experience were different. He felt once again that luminous confusion between the world in which a human life is imprisoned and a circumambient and interpenetrating world, but this phase passed very rapidly; it did not spread out over nearly half an hour as it had done before, and almost immediately he seemed to plunge away from everything in this life altogether into that outer freedom he sought. And this time there was not even the elemental scenery of the former vision. He stood on nothing; there was nothing below and nothing above him. There was no sense of falling, no terror, but a feeling as though he floated released. There was no light, but as it were a clear darkness about him. Then it was manifest to him that he was not alone, but that with him was that same being that in his former vision had called himself the Angel of God. He knew this without knowing why he knew this, and either he spoke and was answered, or he thought and his thought answered him back. His state of mind on this occasion was altogether different from the first vision of God; before it had been spectacular, but now his perception was altogether super-sensuous. (And nevertheless and all the time it seemed that very faintly he was still in his room.) It was he who was the first to speak. The great Angel whom he felt rather than saw seemed to be waiting for him to speak. "I have come," he said, "because once more I desire to see God." "But you have seen God." "I saw God. God was light, God was truth. And I went back to my life, and God was hidden. God seemed to call me. He called. I heard him, I sought him and I touched his hand. When I went back to my life I was presently lost in perplexity. I could not tell why God had called me nor what I had to do." "And why did you not come here before?" "Doubt and fear. Brother, will you not lay your hand on mine?" The figure in the darkness became distincter. But nothing touched the bishop's seeking hands. "I want to see God and to understand him. I want reassurance. I want conviction. I want to understand all that God asks me to do. The world is full of conflict and confusion and the spirit of war. It is dark and dreadful now with suffering and bloodshed. I want to serve God who could save it, and I do not know how." It seemed to the bishop that now he could distinguish dimly but surely the form and features of the great Angel to whom he talked. For a little while there was silence, and then the Angel spoke. "It was necessary first," said the Angel, "that you should apprehend God and desire him. That was the purport of your first vision. Now, since you require it, I will tell you and show you certain things about him, things that it seems you need to know, things that all men need to know. Know then first that the time is at hand when God will come into the world and rule it, and when men will know what is required of them. This time is close at hand. In a little while God will be made manifest throughout the earth. Men will know him and know that he is King. To you this truth is to be shown--that you may tell it to others." "This is no vision?" said the bishop, "no dream that will pass away?" "Am I not here beside you?" (5) The bishop was anxious to be very clear. Things that had been shapelessly present in his mind now took form and found words for themselves. "The God I saw in my vision--He is not yet manifest in the world?" "He comes. He is in the world, but he is not yet manifested. He whom you saw in your vision will speedily be manifest in the world. To you this vision is given of the things that come. The world is already glowing with God. Mankind is like a smouldering fire that will presently, in quite a little time, burst out into flame. "In your former vision I showed you God," said the Angel. "This time I will show you certain signs of the coming of God. And then you will understand the place you hold in the world and the task that is required of you." (6) And as the Angel spoke he lifted up his hands with the palms upward, and there appeared above them a little round cloud, that grew denser until it had the likeness of a silver sphere. It was a mirror in the form of a ball, but a mirror not shining uniformly; it was discoloured with greyish patches that had a familiar shape. It circled slowly upon the Angel's hands. It seemed no greater than the compass of a human skull, and yet it was as great as the earth. Indeed it showed the whole earth. It was the earth. The hands of the Angel vanished out of sight, dissolved and vanished, and the spinning world hung free. All about the bishop the velvet darkness broke into glittering points that shaped out the constellations, and nearest to them, so near as to seem only a few million miles away in the great emptiness into which everything had resolved itself, shone the sun, a ball of red-tongued fires. The Angel was but a voice now; the bishop and the Angel were somewhere aloof from and yet accessible to the circling silver sphere. At the time all that happened seemed to happen quite naturally, as things happen in a dream. It was only later, when all this was a matter of memory, that the bishop realized how strange and incomprehensible his vision had been. The sphere was the earth with all its continents and seas, its ships and cities, its country-sides and mountain ranges. It was so small that he could see it all at once, and so great and full that he could see everything in it. He could see great countries like little patches upon it, and at the same time he could see the faces of the men upon the highways, he could see the feelings in men's hearts and the thoughts in their minds. But it did not seem in any way wonderful to the bishop that so he should see those things, or that it was to him that these things were shown. "This is the whole world," he said. "This is the vision of the world," the Angel answered. "It is very wonderful," said the bishop, and stood for a moment marvelling at the compass of his vision. For here was India, here was Samarkand, in the light of the late afternoon; and China and the swarming cities upon her silvery rivers sinking through twilight to the night and throwing a spray and tracery of lantern spots upon the dark; here was Russia under the noontide, and so great a battle of artillery raging on the Dunajec as no man had ever seen before; whole lines of trenches dissolved into clouds of dust and heaps of blood-streaked earth; here close to the waiting streets of Constantinople were the hills of Gallipoli, the grave of British Imperialism, streaming to heaven with the dust and smoke of bursting shells and rifle fire and the smoke and flame of burning brushwood. In the sea of Marmora a big ship crowded with Turkish troops was sinking; and, purple under the clear water, he could see the shape of the British submarine which had torpedoed her and had submerged and was going away. Berlin prepared its frugal meals, still far from famine. He saw the war in Europe as if he saw it on a map, yet every human detail showed. Over hundreds of miles of trenches east and west of Germany he could see shells bursting and the men below dropping, and the stretcher-bearers going back with the wounded. The roads to every front were crowded with reserves and munitions. For a moment a little group of men indifferent to all this struggle, who were landing amidst the Antarctic wilderness, held his attention; and then his eyes went westward to the dark rolling Atlantic across which, as the edge of the night was drawn like a curtain, more and still more ships became visible beating upon their courses eastward or westward under the overtaking day. The wonder increased; the wonder of the single and infinitely multitudinous adventure of mankind. "So God perhaps sees it," he whispered. (7) "Look at this man," said the Angel, and the black shadow of a hand seemed to point. It was a Chinaman sitting with two others in a little low room separated by translucent paper windows from a noisy street of shrill-voiced people. The three had been talking of the ultimatum that Japan had sent that day to China, claiming a priority in many matters over European influences they were by no means sure whether it was a wrong or a benefit that had been done to their country. From that topic they had passed to the discussion of the war, and then of wars and national aggressions and the perpetual thrusting and quarrelling of mankind. The older man had said that so life would always be; it was the will of Heaven. The little, very yellow-faced, emaciated man had agreed with him. But now this younger man, to whose thoughts the Angel had so particularly directed the bishop's attention, was speaking. He did not agree with his companion. "War is not the will of Heaven," he said; "it is the blindness of men." "Man changes," he said, "from day to day and from age to age. The science of the West has taught us that. Man changes and war changes and all things change. China has been the land of flowery peace, and she may yet give peace to all the world. She has put aside that puppet Emperor at Peking, she turns her face to the new learning of the West as a man lays aside his heavy robes, in order that her task may be achieved." The older man spoke, his manner was more than a little incredulous, and yet not altogether contemptuous. "You believe that someday there will be no more war in the world, that a time will come when men will no longer plot and plan against the welfare of men?" "Even that last," said the younger man. "Did any of us dream twenty-five years ago that here in China we should live to see a republic? The age of the republics draws near, when men in every country of the world will look straight up to the rule of Right and the empire of Heaven." ("And God will be King of the World," said the Angel. "Is not that faith exactly the faith that is coming to you?") The two other Chinamen questioned their companion, but without hostility. "This war," said the Chinaman, "will end in a great harvesting of kings." "But Japan--" the older man began. The bishop would have liked to hear more of that conversation, but the dark hand of the Angel motioned him to another part of the world. "Listen to this," said the Angel. He pointed the bishop to where the armies of Britain and Turkey lay in the heat of Mesopotamia. Along the sandy bank of a wide, slow-flowing river rode two horsemen, an Englishman and a Turk. They were returning from the Turkish lines, whither the Englishman had been with a flag of truce. When Englishmen and Turks are thrown together they soon become friends, and in this case matters had been facilitated by the Englishman's command of the Turkish language. He was quite an exceptional Englishman. The Turk had just been remarking cheerfully that it wouldn't please the Germans if they were to discover how amiably he and his charge had got on. "It's a pity we ever ceased to be friends," he said. "You Englishmen aren't like our Christians," he went on. The Englishmen wanted to know why. "You haven't priests in robes. You don't chant and worship crosses and pictures, and quarrel among yourselves." "We worship the same God as you do," said the Englishman. "Then why do we fight?" "That's what we want to know." "Why do you call yourselves Christians? And take part against us? All who worship the One God are brothers." "They ought to be," said the Englishman, and thought. He was struck by what seemed to him an amazingly novel idea. "If it weren't for religions all men would serve God together," he said. "And then there would be no wars--only now and then perhaps just a little honest fighting...." "And see here," said the Angel. "Here close behind this frightful battle, where the German phalanx of guns pounds its way through the Russian hosts. Here is a young German talking to two wounded Russian prisoners, who have stopped to rest by the roadside. He is a German of East Prussia; he knows and thinks a little Russian. And they too are saying, all three of them, that the war is not God's will, but the confusion of mankind. "Here," he said, and the shadow of his hand hovered over the burning-ghats of Benares, where a Brahmin of the new persuasion watched the straight spires of funereal smoke ascend into the glow of the late afternoon, while he talked to an English painter, his friend, of the blind intolerance of race and caste and custom in India. "Or here." The Angel pointed to a group of people who had gathered upon a little beach at the head of a Norwegian fiord. There were three lads, an old man and two women, and they stood about the body of a drowned German sailor which had been washed up that day. For a time they had talked in whispers, but now suddenly the old man spoke aloud. "This is the fourth that has come ashore," he said. "Poor drowned souls! Because men will not serve God." "But folks go to church and pray enough," said one of the women. "They do not serve God," said the old man. "They just pray to him as one nods to a beggar. They do not serve God who is their King. They set up their false kings and emperors, and so all Europe is covered with dead, and the seas wash up these dead to us. Why does the world suffer these things? Why did we Norwegians, who are a free-spirited people, permit the Germans and the Swedes and the English to set up a king over us? Because we lack faith. Kings mean secret counsels, and secret counsels bring war. Sooner or later war will come to us also if we give the soul of our nation in trust to a king.... But things will not always be thus with men. God will not suffer them for ever. A day comes, and it is no distant day, when God himself will rule the earth, and when men will do, not what the king wishes nor what is expedient nor what is customary, but what is manifestly right.".... "But men are saying that now in a thousand places," said the Angel. "Here is something that goes a little beyond that." His pointing hand went southward until they saw the Africanders riding down to Windhuk. Two men, Boer farmers both, rode side by side and talked of the German officer they brought prisoner with them. He had put sheep-dip in the wells of drinking-water; his life was fairly forfeit, and he was not to be killed. "We want no more hate in South Africa," they agreed. "Dutch and English and German must live here now side by side. Men cannot always be killing." "And see his thoughts," said the Angel. The German's mind was one amazement. He had been sure of being shot, he had meant to make a good end, fierce and scornful, a relentless fighter to the last; and these men who might have shot him like a man were going to spare him like a dog. His mind was a tumbled muddle of old and new ideas. He had been brought up in an atmosphere of the foulest and fiercest militarism; he had been trained to relentlessness, ruthlessness and so forth; war was war and the bitterer the better, frightfulness was your way to victory over every enemy. But these people had found a better way. Here were Dutch and English side by side; sixteen years ago they had been at war together and now they wore the same uniform and rode together, and laughed at him for a queer fellow because he was for spitting at them and defying them, and folding his arms and looking level at the executioners' rifles. There were to be no executioners' rifles.... If it was so with Dutch and English, why shouldn't it be so presently with French and Germans? Why someday shouldn't French, German, Dutch and English, Russian and Pole, ride together under this new star of mankind, the Southern Cross, to catch whatever last mischief-maker was left to poison the wells of goodwill? His mind resisted and struggled against these ideas. "Austere," he whispered. "The ennobling tests of war." A trooner rode up alongside, and offered him a drink of water "Just a mouthful," he said apologetically. "We've had to go rather short."... "There's another brain busy here with the same idea," the Angel interrupted. And the bishop found himself looking into the bedroom of a young German attache in Washington, sleepless in the small hours. "Ach!" cried the young man, and sat up in bed and ran his hands through his fair hair. He had been working late upon this detestable business of the Lusitania; the news of her sinking had come to hand two days before, and all America was aflame with it. It might mean war. His task had been to pour out explanations and justifications to the press; to show that it was an act of necessity, to pretend a conviction that the great ship was loaded with munitions, to fight down the hostility and anger that blazed across a continent. He had worked to his limit. He had taken cup after cup of coffee, and had come to bed worked out not two hours ago. Now here he was awake after a nightmare of drowning women and children, trying to comfort his soul by recalling his own arguments. Never once since the war began had he doubted the rightness of the German cause. It seemed only a proof of his nervous exhaustion that he could doubt it now. Germany was the best organized, most cultivated, scientific and liberal nation the earth had ever seen, it was for the good of mankind that she should be the dominant power in the world; his patriotism had had the passion of a mission. The English were indolent, the French decadent, the Russians barbaric, the Americans basely democratic; the rest of the world was the "White man's Burthen"; the clear destiny of mankind was subservience to the good Prussian eagle. Nevertheless--those wet draggled bodies that swirled down in the eddies of the sinking Titan--Ach! He wished it could have been otherwise. He nursed his knees and prayed that there need not be much more of these things before the spirit of the enemy was broken and the great Peace of Germany came upon the world. And suddenly he stopped short in his prayer. Suddenly out of the nothingness and darkness about him came the conviction that God did not listen to his prayers.... Was there any other way? It was the most awful doubt he had ever had, for it smote at the training of all his life. "Could it be possible that after all our old German God is not the proper style and title of the true God? Is our old German God perhaps only the last of a long succession of bloodstained tribal effigies--and not God at all?" For a long time it seemed that the bishop watched the thoughts that gathered in the young attache's mind. Until suddenly he broke into a quotation, into that last cry of the dying Goethe, for "Light. More Light!"... "Leave him at that," said the Angel. "I want you to hear these two young women." The hand came back to England and pointed to where Southend at the mouth of the Thames was all agog with the excitement of an overnight Zeppelin raid. People had got up hours before their usual time in order to look at the wrecked houses before they went up to their work in town. Everybody seemed abroad. Two nurses, not very well trained as nurses go nor very well-educated women, were snatching a little sea air upon the front after an eventful night. They were too excited still to sleep. They were talking of the horror of the moment when they saw the nasty thing "up there," and felt helpless as it dropped its bombs. They had both hated it. "There didn't ought to be such things," said one. "They don't seem needed," said her companion. "Men won't always go on like this--making wars and all such wickedness." "It's 'ow to stop them?" "Science is going to stop them." "Science?" "Yes, science. My young brother--oh, he's a clever one--he says such things! He says that it's science that they won't always go on like this. There's more sense coming into the world and more--my young brother says so. Says it stands to reason; it's Evolution. It's science that men are all brothers; you can prove it. It's science that there oughtn't to be war. Science is ending war now by making it horrible like this, and making it so that no one is safe. Showing it up. Only when nobody is safe will everybody want to set up peace,

high

How many times the word 'high' appears in the text?

with the tortuousness and weakness of his own character. Every day he perceived that the difficulty of telling Lady Ella of the change in his faith became more mountainous. And every day he procrastinated. If he had told her naturally and simply on the evening of his return from London--before anything material intervened--everything would have been different, everything would have been simpler.... He groaned and rolled over in his bed. There came upon him the acutest remorse and misery. For he saw that amidst these petty immediacies he had lost touch with God. The last month became incredible. He had seen God. He had touched God's hand. God had been given to him, and he had neglected the gift. He was still lost amidst the darkness and loneliness, the chaotic ends and mean shifts, of an Erastian world. For a month now and more, after a vision of God so vivid and real and reassuring that surely no saint nor prophet had ever had a better, he had made no more than vague responsive movements; he had allowed himself to be persuaded into an unreasonable and cowardly delay, and the fetters of association and usage and minor interests were as unbroken as they had been before ever the vision shone. Was it credible that there had ever been such a vision in a life so entirely dictated by immediacy and instinct as his? We are all creatures of the dark stream, we swim in needs and bodily impulses and small vanities; if ever and again a bubble of spiritual imaginativeness glows out of us, it breaks and leaves us where we were. "Louse that I am!" he cried. He still believed in God, without a shadow of doubt; he believed in the God that he had seen, the high courage, the golden intention, the light that had for a moment touched him. But what had he to do with God, he, the loiterer, the little thing? He was little, he was funny. His prevarications with his wife, for example, were comic. There was no other word for him but "funny." He rolled back again and lay staring. "Who will deliver me from the body of this death?" What right has a little bishop in a purple stock and doeskin breeches, who hangs back in his palace from the very call of God, to a phrase so fine and tragic as "the body of this death?" He was the most unreal thing in the universe. He was a base insect giving himself airs. What advantage has a bishop over the Praying Mantis, that cricket which apes the attitude of piety? Does he matter more--to God? "To the God of the Universe, who can tell? To the God of man,--yes." He sat up in bed struck by his own answer, and full of an indescribable hunger for God and an indescribable sense of his complete want of courage to make the one simple appeal that would satisfy that hunger. He tried to pray. "O God!" he cried, "forgive me! Take me!" It seemed to him that he was not really praying but only making believe to pray. It seemed to him that he was not really existing but only seeming to exist. He seemed to himself to be one with figures on a china plate, with figures painted on walls, with the flimsy imagined lives of men in stories of forgotten times. "O God!" he said, "O God," acting a gesture, mimicking appeal. "Anaemic," he said, and was given an idea. He got out of bed, he took his keys from the night-table at the bed head and went to his bureau. He stood with Dale's tonic in his hand. He remained for some time holding it, and feeling a curious indisposition to go on with the thing in his mind. He turned at last with an effort. He carried the little phial to his bedside, and into the tumbler of his water-bottle he let the drops fall, drop by drop, until he had counted twenty. Then holding it to the bulb of his reading lamp he added the water and stood watching the slow pearly eddies in the mixture mingle into an opalescent uniformity. He replaced the water-bottle and stood with the glass in his hand. But he did not drink. He was afraid. He knew that he had only to drink and this world of confusion would grow transparent, would roll back and reveal the great simplicities behind. And he was afraid. He was afraid of that greatness. He was afraid of the great imperatives that he knew would at once take hold of his life. He wanted to muddle on for just a little longer. He wanted to stay just where he was, in his familiar prison-house, with the key of escape in his hand. Before he took the last step into the very presence of truth, he would--think. He put down the glass and lay down upon his bed.... (3) He awoke in a mood of great depression out of a dream of wandering interminably in an endless building of innumerable pillars, pillars so vast and high that the ceiling was lost in darkness. By the scale of these pillars he felt himself scarcely larger than an ant. He was always alone in these wanderings, and always missing something that passed along distant passages, something desirable, something in the nature of a procession or of a ceremony, something of which he was in futile pursuit, of which he heard faint echoes, something luminous of which he seemed at times to see the last fading reflection, across vast halls and wildernesses of shining pavement and through Cyclopaean archways. At last there was neither sound nor gleam, but the utmost solitude, and a darkness and silence and the uttermost profundity of sorrow.... It was bright day. Dunk had just come into the room with his tea, and the tumbler of Dr. Dale's tonic stood untouched upon the night-table. The bishop sat up in bed. He had missed his opportunity. To-day was a busy day, he knew. "No," he said, as Dunk hesitated whether to remove or leave the tumbler. "Leave that." Dunk found room for it upon the tea-tray, and vanished softly with the bishop's evening clothes. The bishop remained motionless facing the day. There stood the draught of decision that he had lacked the decision even to touch. From his bed he could just read the larger items that figured upon the engagement tablet which it was Whippham's business to fill over-night and place upon his table. He had two confirmation services, first the big one in the cathedral and then a second one in the evening at Pringle, various committees and an interview with Chasters. He had not yet finished his addresses for these confirmation services.... The task seemed mountainous--overwhelming. With a gesture of desperation he seized the tumblerful of tonic and drank it off at a gulp. (4) For some moments nothing seemed to happen. Then he began to feel stronger and less wretched, and then came a throbbing and tingling of artery and nerve. He had a sense of adventure, a pleasant fear in the thing that he had done. He got out of bed, leaving his cup of tea untasted, and began to dress. He had the sensation of relief a prisoner may feel who suddenly tries his cell door and finds it open upon sunshine, the outside world and freedom. He went on dressing although he was certain that in a few minutes the world of delusion about him would dissolve, and that he would find himself again in the great freedom of the place of God. This time the transition came much sooner and much more rapidly. This time the phases and quality of the experience were different. He felt once again that luminous confusion between the world in which a human life is imprisoned and a circumambient and interpenetrating world, but this phase passed very rapidly; it did not spread out over nearly half an hour as it had done before, and almost immediately he seemed to plunge away from everything in this life altogether into that outer freedom he sought. And this time there was not even the elemental scenery of the former vision. He stood on nothing; there was nothing below and nothing above him. There was no sense of falling, no terror, but a feeling as though he floated released. There was no light, but as it were a clear darkness about him. Then it was manifest to him that he was not alone, but that with him was that same being that in his former vision had called himself the Angel of God. He knew this without knowing why he knew this, and either he spoke and was answered, or he thought and his thought answered him back. His state of mind on this occasion was altogether different from the first vision of God; before it had been spectacular, but now his perception was altogether super-sensuous. (And nevertheless and all the time it seemed that very faintly he was still in his room.) It was he who was the first to speak. The great Angel whom he felt rather than saw seemed to be waiting for him to speak. "I have come," he said, "because once more I desire to see God." "But you have seen God." "I saw God. God was light, God was truth. And I went back to my life, and God was hidden. God seemed to call me. He called. I heard him, I sought him and I touched his hand. When I went back to my life I was presently lost in perplexity. I could not tell why God had called me nor what I had to do." "And why did you not come here before?" "Doubt and fear. Brother, will you not lay your hand on mine?" The figure in the darkness became distincter. But nothing touched the bishop's seeking hands. "I want to see God and to understand him. I want reassurance. I want conviction. I want to understand all that God asks me to do. The world is full of conflict and confusion and the spirit of war. It is dark and dreadful now with suffering and bloodshed. I want to serve God who could save it, and I do not know how." It seemed to the bishop that now he could distinguish dimly but surely the form and features of the great Angel to whom he talked. For a little while there was silence, and then the Angel spoke. "It was necessary first," said the Angel, "that you should apprehend God and desire him. That was the purport of your first vision. Now, since you require it, I will tell you and show you certain things about him, things that it seems you need to know, things that all men need to know. Know then first that the time is at hand when God will come into the world and rule it, and when men will know what is required of them. This time is close at hand. In a little while God will be made manifest throughout the earth. Men will know him and know that he is King. To you this truth is to be shown--that you may tell it to others." "This is no vision?" said the bishop, "no dream that will pass away?" "Am I not here beside you?" (5) The bishop was anxious to be very clear. Things that had been shapelessly present in his mind now took form and found words for themselves. "The God I saw in my vision--He is not yet manifest in the world?" "He comes. He is in the world, but he is not yet manifested. He whom you saw in your vision will speedily be manifest in the world. To you this vision is given of the things that come. The world is already glowing with God. Mankind is like a smouldering fire that will presently, in quite a little time, burst out into flame. "In your former vision I showed you God," said the Angel. "This time I will show you certain signs of the coming of God. And then you will understand the place you hold in the world and the task that is required of you." (6) And as the Angel spoke he lifted up his hands with the palms upward, and there appeared above them a little round cloud, that grew denser until it had the likeness of a silver sphere. It was a mirror in the form of a ball, but a mirror not shining uniformly; it was discoloured with greyish patches that had a familiar shape. It circled slowly upon the Angel's hands. It seemed no greater than the compass of a human skull, and yet it was as great as the earth. Indeed it showed the whole earth. It was the earth. The hands of the Angel vanished out of sight, dissolved and vanished, and the spinning world hung free. All about the bishop the velvet darkness broke into glittering points that shaped out the constellations, and nearest to them, so near as to seem only a few million miles away in the great emptiness into which everything had resolved itself, shone the sun, a ball of red-tongued fires. The Angel was but a voice now; the bishop and the Angel were somewhere aloof from and yet accessible to the circling silver sphere. At the time all that happened seemed to happen quite naturally, as things happen in a dream. It was only later, when all this was a matter of memory, that the bishop realized how strange and incomprehensible his vision had been. The sphere was the earth with all its continents and seas, its ships and cities, its country-sides and mountain ranges. It was so small that he could see it all at once, and so great and full that he could see everything in it. He could see great countries like little patches upon it, and at the same time he could see the faces of the men upon the highways, he could see the feelings in men's hearts and the thoughts in their minds. But it did not seem in any way wonderful to the bishop that so he should see those things, or that it was to him that these things were shown. "This is the whole world," he said. "This is the vision of the world," the Angel answered. "It is very wonderful," said the bishop, and stood for a moment marvelling at the compass of his vision. For here was India, here was Samarkand, in the light of the late afternoon; and China and the swarming cities upon her silvery rivers sinking through twilight to the night and throwing a spray and tracery of lantern spots upon the dark; here was Russia under the noontide, and so great a battle of artillery raging on the Dunajec as no man had ever seen before; whole lines of trenches dissolved into clouds of dust and heaps of blood-streaked earth; here close to the waiting streets of Constantinople were the hills of Gallipoli, the grave of British Imperialism, streaming to heaven with the dust and smoke of bursting shells and rifle fire and the smoke and flame of burning brushwood. In the sea of Marmora a big ship crowded with Turkish troops was sinking; and, purple under the clear water, he could see the shape of the British submarine which had torpedoed her and had submerged and was going away. Berlin prepared its frugal meals, still far from famine. He saw the war in Europe as if he saw it on a map, yet every human detail showed. Over hundreds of miles of trenches east and west of Germany he could see shells bursting and the men below dropping, and the stretcher-bearers going back with the wounded. The roads to every front were crowded with reserves and munitions. For a moment a little group of men indifferent to all this struggle, who were landing amidst the Antarctic wilderness, held his attention; and then his eyes went westward to the dark rolling Atlantic across which, as the edge of the night was drawn like a curtain, more and still more ships became visible beating upon their courses eastward or westward under the overtaking day. The wonder increased; the wonder of the single and infinitely multitudinous adventure of mankind. "So God perhaps sees it," he whispered. (7) "Look at this man," said the Angel, and the black shadow of a hand seemed to point. It was a Chinaman sitting with two others in a little low room separated by translucent paper windows from a noisy street of shrill-voiced people. The three had been talking of the ultimatum that Japan had sent that day to China, claiming a priority in many matters over European influences they were by no means sure whether it was a wrong or a benefit that had been done to their country. From that topic they had passed to the discussion of the war, and then of wars and national aggressions and the perpetual thrusting and quarrelling of mankind. The older man had said that so life would always be; it was the will of Heaven. The little, very yellow-faced, emaciated man had agreed with him. But now this younger man, to whose thoughts the Angel had so particularly directed the bishop's attention, was speaking. He did not agree with his companion. "War is not the will of Heaven," he said; "it is the blindness of men." "Man changes," he said, "from day to day and from age to age. The science of the West has taught us that. Man changes and war changes and all things change. China has been the land of flowery peace, and she may yet give peace to all the world. She has put aside that puppet Emperor at Peking, she turns her face to the new learning of the West as a man lays aside his heavy robes, in order that her task may be achieved." The older man spoke, his manner was more than a little incredulous, and yet not altogether contemptuous. "You believe that someday there will be no more war in the world, that a time will come when men will no longer plot and plan against the welfare of men?" "Even that last," said the younger man. "Did any of us dream twenty-five years ago that here in China we should live to see a republic? The age of the republics draws near, when men in every country of the world will look straight up to the rule of Right and the empire of Heaven." ("And God will be King of the World," said the Angel. "Is not that faith exactly the faith that is coming to you?") The two other Chinamen questioned their companion, but without hostility. "This war," said the Chinaman, "will end in a great harvesting of kings." "But Japan--" the older man began. The bishop would have liked to hear more of that conversation, but the dark hand of the Angel motioned him to another part of the world. "Listen to this," said the Angel. He pointed the bishop to where the armies of Britain and Turkey lay in the heat of Mesopotamia. Along the sandy bank of a wide, slow-flowing river rode two horsemen, an Englishman and a Turk. They were returning from the Turkish lines, whither the Englishman had been with a flag of truce. When Englishmen and Turks are thrown together they soon become friends, and in this case matters had been facilitated by the Englishman's command of the Turkish language. He was quite an exceptional Englishman. The Turk had just been remarking cheerfully that it wouldn't please the Germans if they were to discover how amiably he and his charge had got on. "It's a pity we ever ceased to be friends," he said. "You Englishmen aren't like our Christians," he went on. The Englishmen wanted to know why. "You haven't priests in robes. You don't chant and worship crosses and pictures, and quarrel among yourselves." "We worship the same God as you do," said the Englishman. "Then why do we fight?" "That's what we want to know." "Why do you call yourselves Christians? And take part against us? All who worship the One God are brothers." "They ought to be," said the Englishman, and thought. He was struck by what seemed to him an amazingly novel idea. "If it weren't for religions all men would serve God together," he said. "And then there would be no wars--only now and then perhaps just a little honest fighting...." "And see here," said the Angel. "Here close behind this frightful battle, where the German phalanx of guns pounds its way through the Russian hosts. Here is a young German talking to two wounded Russian prisoners, who have stopped to rest by the roadside. He is a German of East Prussia; he knows and thinks a little Russian. And they too are saying, all three of them, that the war is not God's will, but the confusion of mankind. "Here," he said, and the shadow of his hand hovered over the burning-ghats of Benares, where a Brahmin of the new persuasion watched the straight spires of funereal smoke ascend into the glow of the late afternoon, while he talked to an English painter, his friend, of the blind intolerance of race and caste and custom in India. "Or here." The Angel pointed to a group of people who had gathered upon a little beach at the head of a Norwegian fiord. There were three lads, an old man and two women, and they stood about the body of a drowned German sailor which had been washed up that day. For a time they had talked in whispers, but now suddenly the old man spoke aloud. "This is the fourth that has come ashore," he said. "Poor drowned souls! Because men will not serve God." "But folks go to church and pray enough," said one of the women. "They do not serve God," said the old man. "They just pray to him as one nods to a beggar. They do not serve God who is their King. They set up their false kings and emperors, and so all Europe is covered with dead, and the seas wash up these dead to us. Why does the world suffer these things? Why did we Norwegians, who are a free-spirited people, permit the Germans and the Swedes and the English to set up a king over us? Because we lack faith. Kings mean secret counsels, and secret counsels bring war. Sooner or later war will come to us also if we give the soul of our nation in trust to a king.... But things will not always be thus with men. God will not suffer them for ever. A day comes, and it is no distant day, when God himself will rule the earth, and when men will do, not what the king wishes nor what is expedient nor what is customary, but what is manifestly right.".... "But men are saying that now in a thousand places," said the Angel. "Here is something that goes a little beyond that." His pointing hand went southward until they saw the Africanders riding down to Windhuk. Two men, Boer farmers both, rode side by side and talked of the German officer they brought prisoner with them. He had put sheep-dip in the wells of drinking-water; his life was fairly forfeit, and he was not to be killed. "We want no more hate in South Africa," they agreed. "Dutch and English and German must live here now side by side. Men cannot always be killing." "And see his thoughts," said the Angel. The German's mind was one amazement. He had been sure of being shot, he had meant to make a good end, fierce and scornful, a relentless fighter to the last; and these men who might have shot him like a man were going to spare him like a dog. His mind was a tumbled muddle of old and new ideas. He had been brought up in an atmosphere of the foulest and fiercest militarism; he had been trained to relentlessness, ruthlessness and so forth; war was war and the bitterer the better, frightfulness was your way to victory over every enemy. But these people had found a better way. Here were Dutch and English side by side; sixteen years ago they had been at war together and now they wore the same uniform and rode together, and laughed at him for a queer fellow because he was for spitting at them and defying them, and folding his arms and looking level at the executioners' rifles. There were to be no executioners' rifles.... If it was so with Dutch and English, why shouldn't it be so presently with French and Germans? Why someday shouldn't French, German, Dutch and English, Russian and Pole, ride together under this new star of mankind, the Southern Cross, to catch whatever last mischief-maker was left to poison the wells of goodwill? His mind resisted and struggled against these ideas. "Austere," he whispered. "The ennobling tests of war." A trooner rode up alongside, and offered him a drink of water "Just a mouthful," he said apologetically. "We've had to go rather short."... "There's another brain busy here with the same idea," the Angel interrupted. And the bishop found himself looking into the bedroom of a young German attache in Washington, sleepless in the small hours. "Ach!" cried the young man, and sat up in bed and ran his hands through his fair hair. He had been working late upon this detestable business of the Lusitania; the news of her sinking had come to hand two days before, and all America was aflame with it. It might mean war. His task had been to pour out explanations and justifications to the press; to show that it was an act of necessity, to pretend a conviction that the great ship was loaded with munitions, to fight down the hostility and anger that blazed across a continent. He had worked to his limit. He had taken cup after cup of coffee, and had come to bed worked out not two hours ago. Now here he was awake after a nightmare of drowning women and children, trying to comfort his soul by recalling his own arguments. Never once since the war began had he doubted the rightness of the German cause. It seemed only a proof of his nervous exhaustion that he could doubt it now. Germany was the best organized, most cultivated, scientific and liberal nation the earth had ever seen, it was for the good of mankind that she should be the dominant power in the world; his patriotism had had the passion of a mission. The English were indolent, the French decadent, the Russians barbaric, the Americans basely democratic; the rest of the world was the "White man's Burthen"; the clear destiny of mankind was subservience to the good Prussian eagle. Nevertheless--those wet draggled bodies that swirled down in the eddies of the sinking Titan--Ach! He wished it could have been otherwise. He nursed his knees and prayed that there need not be much more of these things before the spirit of the enemy was broken and the great Peace of Germany came upon the world. And suddenly he stopped short in his prayer. Suddenly out of the nothingness and darkness about him came the conviction that God did not listen to his prayers.... Was there any other way? It was the most awful doubt he had ever had, for it smote at the training of all his life. "Could it be possible that after all our old German God is not the proper style and title of the true God? Is our old German God perhaps only the last of a long succession of bloodstained tribal effigies--and not God at all?" For a long time it seemed that the bishop watched the thoughts that gathered in the young attache's mind. Until suddenly he broke into a quotation, into that last cry of the dying Goethe, for "Light. More Light!"... "Leave him at that," said the Angel. "I want you to hear these two young women." The hand came back to England and pointed to where Southend at the mouth of the Thames was all agog with the excitement of an overnight Zeppelin raid. People had got up hours before their usual time in order to look at the wrecked houses before they went up to their work in town. Everybody seemed abroad. Two nurses, not very well trained as nurses go nor very well-educated women, were snatching a little sea air upon the front after an eventful night. They were too excited still to sleep. They were talking of the horror of the moment when they saw the nasty thing "up there," and felt helpless as it dropped its bombs. They had both hated it. "There didn't ought to be such things," said one. "They don't seem needed," said her companion. "Men won't always go on like this--making wars and all such wickedness." "It's 'ow to stop them?" "Science is going to stop them." "Science?" "Yes, science. My young brother--oh, he's a clever one--he says such things! He says that it's science that they won't always go on like this. There's more sense coming into the world and more--my young brother says so. Says it stands to reason; it's Evolution. It's science that men are all brothers; you can prove it. It's science that there oughtn't to be war. Science is ending war now by making it horrible like this, and making it so that no one is safe. Showing it up. Only when nobody is safe will everybody want to set up peace,

tea

How many times the word 'tea' appears in the text?

with the tortuousness and weakness of his own character. Every day he perceived that the difficulty of telling Lady Ella of the change in his faith became more mountainous. And every day he procrastinated. If he had told her naturally and simply on the evening of his return from London--before anything material intervened--everything would have been different, everything would have been simpler.... He groaned and rolled over in his bed. There came upon him the acutest remorse and misery. For he saw that amidst these petty immediacies he had lost touch with God. The last month became incredible. He had seen God. He had touched God's hand. God had been given to him, and he had neglected the gift. He was still lost amidst the darkness and loneliness, the chaotic ends and mean shifts, of an Erastian world. For a month now and more, after a vision of God so vivid and real and reassuring that surely no saint nor prophet had ever had a better, he had made no more than vague responsive movements; he had allowed himself to be persuaded into an unreasonable and cowardly delay, and the fetters of association and usage and minor interests were as unbroken as they had been before ever the vision shone. Was it credible that there had ever been such a vision in a life so entirely dictated by immediacy and instinct as his? We are all creatures of the dark stream, we swim in needs and bodily impulses and small vanities; if ever and again a bubble of spiritual imaginativeness glows out of us, it breaks and leaves us where we were. "Louse that I am!" he cried. He still believed in God, without a shadow of doubt; he believed in the God that he had seen, the high courage, the golden intention, the light that had for a moment touched him. But what had he to do with God, he, the loiterer, the little thing? He was little, he was funny. His prevarications with his wife, for example, were comic. There was no other word for him but "funny." He rolled back again and lay staring. "Who will deliver me from the body of this death?" What right has a little bishop in a purple stock and doeskin breeches, who hangs back in his palace from the very call of God, to a phrase so fine and tragic as "the body of this death?" He was the most unreal thing in the universe. He was a base insect giving himself airs. What advantage has a bishop over the Praying Mantis, that cricket which apes the attitude of piety? Does he matter more--to God? "To the God of the Universe, who can tell? To the God of man,--yes." He sat up in bed struck by his own answer, and full of an indescribable hunger for God and an indescribable sense of his complete want of courage to make the one simple appeal that would satisfy that hunger. He tried to pray. "O God!" he cried, "forgive me! Take me!" It seemed to him that he was not really praying but only making believe to pray. It seemed to him that he was not really existing but only seeming to exist. He seemed to himself to be one with figures on a china plate, with figures painted on walls, with the flimsy imagined lives of men in stories of forgotten times. "O God!" he said, "O God," acting a gesture, mimicking appeal. "Anaemic," he said, and was given an idea. He got out of bed, he took his keys from the night-table at the bed head and went to his bureau. He stood with Dale's tonic in his hand. He remained for some time holding it, and feeling a curious indisposition to go on with the thing in his mind. He turned at last with an effort. He carried the little phial to his bedside, and into the tumbler of his water-bottle he let the drops fall, drop by drop, until he had counted twenty. Then holding it to the bulb of his reading lamp he added the water and stood watching the slow pearly eddies in the mixture mingle into an opalescent uniformity. He replaced the water-bottle and stood with the glass in his hand. But he did not drink. He was afraid. He knew that he had only to drink and this world of confusion would grow transparent, would roll back and reveal the great simplicities behind. And he was afraid. He was afraid of that greatness. He was afraid of the great imperatives that he knew would at once take hold of his life. He wanted to muddle on for just a little longer. He wanted to stay just where he was, in his familiar prison-house, with the key of escape in his hand. Before he took the last step into the very presence of truth, he would--think. He put down the glass and lay down upon his bed.... (3) He awoke in a mood of great depression out of a dream of wandering interminably in an endless building of innumerable pillars, pillars so vast and high that the ceiling was lost in darkness. By the scale of these pillars he felt himself scarcely larger than an ant. He was always alone in these wanderings, and always missing something that passed along distant passages, something desirable, something in the nature of a procession or of a ceremony, something of which he was in futile pursuit, of which he heard faint echoes, something luminous of which he seemed at times to see the last fading reflection, across vast halls and wildernesses of shining pavement and through Cyclopaean archways. At last there was neither sound nor gleam, but the utmost solitude, and a darkness and silence and the uttermost profundity of sorrow.... It was bright day. Dunk had just come into the room with his tea, and the tumbler of Dr. Dale's tonic stood untouched upon the night-table. The bishop sat up in bed. He had missed his opportunity. To-day was a busy day, he knew. "No," he said, as Dunk hesitated whether to remove or leave the tumbler. "Leave that." Dunk found room for it upon the tea-tray, and vanished softly with the bishop's evening clothes. The bishop remained motionless facing the day. There stood the draught of decision that he had lacked the decision even to touch. From his bed he could just read the larger items that figured upon the engagement tablet which it was Whippham's business to fill over-night and place upon his table. He had two confirmation services, first the big one in the cathedral and then a second one in the evening at Pringle, various committees and an interview with Chasters. He had not yet finished his addresses for these confirmation services.... The task seemed mountainous--overwhelming. With a gesture of desperation he seized the tumblerful of tonic and drank it off at a gulp. (4) For some moments nothing seemed to happen. Then he began to feel stronger and less wretched, and then came a throbbing and tingling of artery and nerve. He had a sense of adventure, a pleasant fear in the thing that he had done. He got out of bed, leaving his cup of tea untasted, and began to dress. He had the sensation of relief a prisoner may feel who suddenly tries his cell door and finds it open upon sunshine, the outside world and freedom. He went on dressing although he was certain that in a few minutes the world of delusion about him would dissolve, and that he would find himself again in the great freedom of the place of God. This time the transition came much sooner and much more rapidly. This time the phases and quality of the experience were different. He felt once again that luminous confusion between the world in which a human life is imprisoned and a circumambient and interpenetrating world, but this phase passed very rapidly; it did not spread out over nearly half an hour as it had done before, and almost immediately he seemed to plunge away from everything in this life altogether into that outer freedom he sought. And this time there was not even the elemental scenery of the former vision. He stood on nothing; there was nothing below and nothing above him. There was no sense of falling, no terror, but a feeling as though he floated released. There was no light, but as it were a clear darkness about him. Then it was manifest to him that he was not alone, but that with him was that same being that in his former vision had called himself the Angel of God. He knew this without knowing why he knew this, and either he spoke and was answered, or he thought and his thought answered him back. His state of mind on this occasion was altogether different from the first vision of God; before it had been spectacular, but now his perception was altogether super-sensuous. (And nevertheless and all the time it seemed that very faintly he was still in his room.) It was he who was the first to speak. The great Angel whom he felt rather than saw seemed to be waiting for him to speak. "I have come," he said, "because once more I desire to see God." "But you have seen God." "I saw God. God was light, God was truth. And I went back to my life, and God was hidden. God seemed to call me. He called. I heard him, I sought him and I touched his hand. When I went back to my life I was presently lost in perplexity. I could not tell why God had called me nor what I had to do." "And why did you not come here before?" "Doubt and fear. Brother, will you not lay your hand on mine?" The figure in the darkness became distincter. But nothing touched the bishop's seeking hands. "I want to see God and to understand him. I want reassurance. I want conviction. I want to understand all that God asks me to do. The world is full of conflict and confusion and the spirit of war. It is dark and dreadful now with suffering and bloodshed. I want to serve God who could save it, and I do not know how." It seemed to the bishop that now he could distinguish dimly but surely the form and features of the great Angel to whom he talked. For a little while there was silence, and then the Angel spoke. "It was necessary first," said the Angel, "that you should apprehend God and desire him. That was the purport of your first vision. Now, since you require it, I will tell you and show you certain things about him, things that it seems you need to know, things that all men need to know. Know then first that the time is at hand when God will come into the world and rule it, and when men will know what is required of them. This time is close at hand. In a little while God will be made manifest throughout the earth. Men will know him and know that he is King. To you this truth is to be shown--that you may tell it to others." "This is no vision?" said the bishop, "no dream that will pass away?" "Am I not here beside you?" (5) The bishop was anxious to be very clear. Things that had been shapelessly present in his mind now took form and found words for themselves. "The God I saw in my vision--He is not yet manifest in the world?" "He comes. He is in the world, but he is not yet manifested. He whom you saw in your vision will speedily be manifest in the world. To you this vision is given of the things that come. The world is already glowing with God. Mankind is like a smouldering fire that will presently, in quite a little time, burst out into flame. "In your former vision I showed you God," said the Angel. "This time I will show you certain signs of the coming of God. And then you will understand the place you hold in the world and the task that is required of you." (6) And as the Angel spoke he lifted up his hands with the palms upward, and there appeared above them a little round cloud, that grew denser until it had the likeness of a silver sphere. It was a mirror in the form of a ball, but a mirror not shining uniformly; it was discoloured with greyish patches that had a familiar shape. It circled slowly upon the Angel's hands. It seemed no greater than the compass of a human skull, and yet it was as great as the earth. Indeed it showed the whole earth. It was the earth. The hands of the Angel vanished out of sight, dissolved and vanished, and the spinning world hung free. All about the bishop the velvet darkness broke into glittering points that shaped out the constellations, and nearest to them, so near as to seem only a few million miles away in the great emptiness into which everything had resolved itself, shone the sun, a ball of red-tongued fires. The Angel was but a voice now; the bishop and the Angel were somewhere aloof from and yet accessible to the circling silver sphere. At the time all that happened seemed to happen quite naturally, as things happen in a dream. It was only later, when all this was a matter of memory, that the bishop realized how strange and incomprehensible his vision had been. The sphere was the earth with all its continents and seas, its ships and cities, its country-sides and mountain ranges. It was so small that he could see it all at once, and so great and full that he could see everything in it. He could see great countries like little patches upon it, and at the same time he could see the faces of the men upon the highways, he could see the feelings in men's hearts and the thoughts in their minds. But it did not seem in any way wonderful to the bishop that so he should see those things, or that it was to him that these things were shown. "This is the whole world," he said. "This is the vision of the world," the Angel answered. "It is very wonderful," said the bishop, and stood for a moment marvelling at the compass of his vision. For here was India, here was Samarkand, in the light of the late afternoon; and China and the swarming cities upon her silvery rivers sinking through twilight to the night and throwing a spray and tracery of lantern spots upon the dark; here was Russia under the noontide, and so great a battle of artillery raging on the Dunajec as no man had ever seen before; whole lines of trenches dissolved into clouds of dust and heaps of blood-streaked earth; here close to the waiting streets of Constantinople were the hills of Gallipoli, the grave of British Imperialism, streaming to heaven with the dust and smoke of bursting shells and rifle fire and the smoke and flame of burning brushwood. In the sea of Marmora a big ship crowded with Turkish troops was sinking; and, purple under the clear water, he could see the shape of the British submarine which had torpedoed her and had submerged and was going away. Berlin prepared its frugal meals, still far from famine. He saw the war in Europe as if he saw it on a map, yet every human detail showed. Over hundreds of miles of trenches east and west of Germany he could see shells bursting and the men below dropping, and the stretcher-bearers going back with the wounded. The roads to every front were crowded with reserves and munitions. For a moment a little group of men indifferent to all this struggle, who were landing amidst the Antarctic wilderness, held his attention; and then his eyes went westward to the dark rolling Atlantic across which, as the edge of the night was drawn like a curtain, more and still more ships became visible beating upon their courses eastward or westward under the overtaking day. The wonder increased; the wonder of the single and infinitely multitudinous adventure of mankind. "So God perhaps sees it," he whispered. (7) "Look at this man," said the Angel, and the black shadow of a hand seemed to point. It was a Chinaman sitting with two others in a little low room separated by translucent paper windows from a noisy street of shrill-voiced people. The three had been talking of the ultimatum that Japan had sent that day to China, claiming a priority in many matters over European influences they were by no means sure whether it was a wrong or a benefit that had been done to their country. From that topic they had passed to the discussion of the war, and then of wars and national aggressions and the perpetual thrusting and quarrelling of mankind. The older man had said that so life would always be; it was the will of Heaven. The little, very yellow-faced, emaciated man had agreed with him. But now this younger man, to whose thoughts the Angel had so particularly directed the bishop's attention, was speaking. He did not agree with his companion. "War is not the will of Heaven," he said; "it is the blindness of men." "Man changes," he said, "from day to day and from age to age. The science of the West has taught us that. Man changes and war changes and all things change. China has been the land of flowery peace, and she may yet give peace to all the world. She has put aside that puppet Emperor at Peking, she turns her face to the new learning of the West as a man lays aside his heavy robes, in order that her task may be achieved." The older man spoke, his manner was more than a little incredulous, and yet not altogether contemptuous. "You believe that someday there will be no more war in the world, that a time will come when men will no longer plot and plan against the welfare of men?" "Even that last," said the younger man. "Did any of us dream twenty-five years ago that here in China we should live to see a republic? The age of the republics draws near, when men in every country of the world will look straight up to the rule of Right and the empire of Heaven." ("And God will be King of the World," said the Angel. "Is not that faith exactly the faith that is coming to you?") The two other Chinamen questioned their companion, but without hostility. "This war," said the Chinaman, "will end in a great harvesting of kings." "But Japan--" the older man began. The bishop would have liked to hear more of that conversation, but the dark hand of the Angel motioned him to another part of the world. "Listen to this," said the Angel. He pointed the bishop to where the armies of Britain and Turkey lay in the heat of Mesopotamia. Along the sandy bank of a wide, slow-flowing river rode two horsemen, an Englishman and a Turk. They were returning from the Turkish lines, whither the Englishman had been with a flag of truce. When Englishmen and Turks are thrown together they soon become friends, and in this case matters had been facilitated by the Englishman's command of the Turkish language. He was quite an exceptional Englishman. The Turk had just been remarking cheerfully that it wouldn't please the Germans if they were to discover how amiably he and his charge had got on. "It's a pity we ever ceased to be friends," he said. "You Englishmen aren't like our Christians," he went on. The Englishmen wanted to know why. "You haven't priests in robes. You don't chant and worship crosses and pictures, and quarrel among yourselves." "We worship the same God as you do," said the Englishman. "Then why do we fight?" "That's what we want to know." "Why do you call yourselves Christians? And take part against us? All who worship the One God are brothers." "They ought to be," said the Englishman, and thought. He was struck by what seemed to him an amazingly novel idea. "If it weren't for religions all men would serve God together," he said. "And then there would be no wars--only now and then perhaps just a little honest fighting...." "And see here," said the Angel. "Here close behind this frightful battle, where the German phalanx of guns pounds its way through the Russian hosts. Here is a young German talking to two wounded Russian prisoners, who have stopped to rest by the roadside. He is a German of East Prussia; he knows and thinks a little Russian. And they too are saying, all three of them, that the war is not God's will, but the confusion of mankind. "Here," he said, and the shadow of his hand hovered over the burning-ghats of Benares, where a Brahmin of the new persuasion watched the straight spires of funereal smoke ascend into the glow of the late afternoon, while he talked to an English painter, his friend, of the blind intolerance of race and caste and custom in India. "Or here." The Angel pointed to a group of people who had gathered upon a little beach at the head of a Norwegian fiord. There were three lads, an old man and two women, and they stood about the body of a drowned German sailor which had been washed up that day. For a time they had talked in whispers, but now suddenly the old man spoke aloud. "This is the fourth that has come ashore," he said. "Poor drowned souls! Because men will not serve God." "But folks go to church and pray enough," said one of the women. "They do not serve God," said the old man. "They just pray to him as one nods to a beggar. They do not serve God who is their King. They set up their false kings and emperors, and so all Europe is covered with dead, and the seas wash up these dead to us. Why does the world suffer these things? Why did we Norwegians, who are a free-spirited people, permit the Germans and the Swedes and the English to set up a king over us? Because we lack faith. Kings mean secret counsels, and secret counsels bring war. Sooner or later war will come to us also if we give the soul of our nation in trust to a king.... But things will not always be thus with men. God will not suffer them for ever. A day comes, and it is no distant day, when God himself will rule the earth, and when men will do, not what the king wishes nor what is expedient nor what is customary, but what is manifestly right.".... "But men are saying that now in a thousand places," said the Angel. "Here is something that goes a little beyond that." His pointing hand went southward until they saw the Africanders riding down to Windhuk. Two men, Boer farmers both, rode side by side and talked of the German officer they brought prisoner with them. He had put sheep-dip in the wells of drinking-water; his life was fairly forfeit, and he was not to be killed. "We want no more hate in South Africa," they agreed. "Dutch and English and German must live here now side by side. Men cannot always be killing." "And see his thoughts," said the Angel. The German's mind was one amazement. He had been sure of being shot, he had meant to make a good end, fierce and scornful, a relentless fighter to the last; and these men who might have shot him like a man were going to spare him like a dog. His mind was a tumbled muddle of old and new ideas. He had been brought up in an atmosphere of the foulest and fiercest militarism; he had been trained to relentlessness, ruthlessness and so forth; war was war and the bitterer the better, frightfulness was your way to victory over every enemy. But these people had found a better way. Here were Dutch and English side by side; sixteen years ago they had been at war together and now they wore the same uniform and rode together, and laughed at him for a queer fellow because he was for spitting at them and defying them, and folding his arms and looking level at the executioners' rifles. There were to be no executioners' rifles.... If it was so with Dutch and English, why shouldn't it be so presently with French and Germans? Why someday shouldn't French, German, Dutch and English, Russian and Pole, ride together under this new star of mankind, the Southern Cross, to catch whatever last mischief-maker was left to poison the wells of goodwill? His mind resisted and struggled against these ideas. "Austere," he whispered. "The ennobling tests of war." A trooner rode up alongside, and offered him a drink of water "Just a mouthful," he said apologetically. "We've had to go rather short."... "There's another brain busy here with the same idea," the Angel interrupted. And the bishop found himself looking into the bedroom of a young German attache in Washington, sleepless in the small hours. "Ach!" cried the young man, and sat up in bed and ran his hands through his fair hair. He had been working late upon this detestable business of the Lusitania; the news of her sinking had come to hand two days before, and all America was aflame with it. It might mean war. His task had been to pour out explanations and justifications to the press; to show that it was an act of necessity, to pretend a conviction that the great ship was loaded with munitions, to fight down the hostility and anger that blazed across a continent. He had worked to his limit. He had taken cup after cup of coffee, and had come to bed worked out not two hours ago. Now here he was awake after a nightmare of drowning women and children, trying to comfort his soul by recalling his own arguments. Never once since the war began had he doubted the rightness of the German cause. It seemed only a proof of his nervous exhaustion that he could doubt it now. Germany was the best organized, most cultivated, scientific and liberal nation the earth had ever seen, it was for the good of mankind that she should be the dominant power in the world; his patriotism had had the passion of a mission. The English were indolent, the French decadent, the Russians barbaric, the Americans basely democratic; the rest of the world was the "White man's Burthen"; the clear destiny of mankind was subservience to the good Prussian eagle. Nevertheless--those wet draggled bodies that swirled down in the eddies of the sinking Titan--Ach! He wished it could have been otherwise. He nursed his knees and prayed that there need not be much more of these things before the spirit of the enemy was broken and the great Peace of Germany came upon the world. And suddenly he stopped short in his prayer. Suddenly out of the nothingness and darkness about him came the conviction that God did not listen to his prayers.... Was there any other way? It was the most awful doubt he had ever had, for it smote at the training of all his life. "Could it be possible that after all our old German God is not the proper style and title of the true God? Is our old German God perhaps only the last of a long succession of bloodstained tribal effigies--and not God at all?" For a long time it seemed that the bishop watched the thoughts that gathered in the young attache's mind. Until suddenly he broke into a quotation, into that last cry of the dying Goethe, for "Light. More Light!"... "Leave him at that," said the Angel. "I want you to hear these two young women." The hand came back to England and pointed to where Southend at the mouth of the Thames was all agog with the excitement of an overnight Zeppelin raid. People had got up hours before their usual time in order to look at the wrecked houses before they went up to their work in town. Everybody seemed abroad. Two nurses, not very well trained as nurses go nor very well-educated women, were snatching a little sea air upon the front after an eventful night. They were too excited still to sleep. They were talking of the horror of the moment when they saw the nasty thing "up there," and felt helpless as it dropped its bombs. They had both hated it. "There didn't ought to be such things," said one. "They don't seem needed," said her companion. "Men won't always go on like this--making wars and all such wickedness." "It's 'ow to stop them?" "Science is going to stop them." "Science?" "Yes, science. My young brother--oh, he's a clever one--he says such things! He says that it's science that they won't always go on like this. There's more sense coming into the world and more--my young brother says so. Says it stands to reason; it's Evolution. It's science that men are all brothers; you can prove it. It's science that there oughtn't to be war. Science is ending war now by making it horrible like this, and making it so that no one is safe. Showing it up. Only when nobody is safe will everybody want to set up peace,

dunk

How many times the word 'dunk' appears in the text?

with the tortuousness and weakness of his own character. Every day he perceived that the difficulty of telling Lady Ella of the change in his faith became more mountainous. And every day he procrastinated. If he had told her naturally and simply on the evening of his return from London--before anything material intervened--everything would have been different, everything would have been simpler.... He groaned and rolled over in his bed. There came upon him the acutest remorse and misery. For he saw that amidst these petty immediacies he had lost touch with God. The last month became incredible. He had seen God. He had touched God's hand. God had been given to him, and he had neglected the gift. He was still lost amidst the darkness and loneliness, the chaotic ends and mean shifts, of an Erastian world. For a month now and more, after a vision of God so vivid and real and reassuring that surely no saint nor prophet had ever had a better, he had made no more than vague responsive movements; he had allowed himself to be persuaded into an unreasonable and cowardly delay, and the fetters of association and usage and minor interests were as unbroken as they had been before ever the vision shone. Was it credible that there had ever been such a vision in a life so entirely dictated by immediacy and instinct as his? We are all creatures of the dark stream, we swim in needs and bodily impulses and small vanities; if ever and again a bubble of spiritual imaginativeness glows out of us, it breaks and leaves us where we were. "Louse that I am!" he cried. He still believed in God, without a shadow of doubt; he believed in the God that he had seen, the high courage, the golden intention, the light that had for a moment touched him. But what had he to do with God, he, the loiterer, the little thing? He was little, he was funny. His prevarications with his wife, for example, were comic. There was no other word for him but "funny." He rolled back again and lay staring. "Who will deliver me from the body of this death?" What right has a little bishop in a purple stock and doeskin breeches, who hangs back in his palace from the very call of God, to a phrase so fine and tragic as "the body of this death?" He was the most unreal thing in the universe. He was a base insect giving himself airs. What advantage has a bishop over the Praying Mantis, that cricket which apes the attitude of piety? Does he matter more--to God? "To the God of the Universe, who can tell? To the God of man,--yes." He sat up in bed struck by his own answer, and full of an indescribable hunger for God and an indescribable sense of his complete want of courage to make the one simple appeal that would satisfy that hunger. He tried to pray. "O God!" he cried, "forgive me! Take me!" It seemed to him that he was not really praying but only making believe to pray. It seemed to him that he was not really existing but only seeming to exist. He seemed to himself to be one with figures on a china plate, with figures painted on walls, with the flimsy imagined lives of men in stories of forgotten times. "O God!" he said, "O God," acting a gesture, mimicking appeal. "Anaemic," he said, and was given an idea. He got out of bed, he took his keys from the night-table at the bed head and went to his bureau. He stood with Dale's tonic in his hand. He remained for some time holding it, and feeling a curious indisposition to go on with the thing in his mind. He turned at last with an effort. He carried the little phial to his bedside, and into the tumbler of his water-bottle he let the drops fall, drop by drop, until he had counted twenty. Then holding it to the bulb of his reading lamp he added the water and stood watching the slow pearly eddies in the mixture mingle into an opalescent uniformity. He replaced the water-bottle and stood with the glass in his hand. But he did not drink. He was afraid. He knew that he had only to drink and this world of confusion would grow transparent, would roll back and reveal the great simplicities behind. And he was afraid. He was afraid of that greatness. He was afraid of the great imperatives that he knew would at once take hold of his life. He wanted to muddle on for just a little longer. He wanted to stay just where he was, in his familiar prison-house, with the key of escape in his hand. Before he took the last step into the very presence of truth, he would--think. He put down the glass and lay down upon his bed.... (3) He awoke in a mood of great depression out of a dream of wandering interminably in an endless building of innumerable pillars, pillars so vast and high that the ceiling was lost in darkness. By the scale of these pillars he felt himself scarcely larger than an ant. He was always alone in these wanderings, and always missing something that passed along distant passages, something desirable, something in the nature of a procession or of a ceremony, something of which he was in futile pursuit, of which he heard faint echoes, something luminous of which he seemed at times to see the last fading reflection, across vast halls and wildernesses of shining pavement and through Cyclopaean archways. At last there was neither sound nor gleam, but the utmost solitude, and a darkness and silence and the uttermost profundity of sorrow.... It was bright day. Dunk had just come into the room with his tea, and the tumbler of Dr. Dale's tonic stood untouched upon the night-table. The bishop sat up in bed. He had missed his opportunity. To-day was a busy day, he knew. "No," he said, as Dunk hesitated whether to remove or leave the tumbler. "Leave that." Dunk found room for it upon the tea-tray, and vanished softly with the bishop's evening clothes. The bishop remained motionless facing the day. There stood the draught of decision that he had lacked the decision even to touch. From his bed he could just read the larger items that figured upon the engagement tablet which it was Whippham's business to fill over-night and place upon his table. He had two confirmation services, first the big one in the cathedral and then a second one in the evening at Pringle, various committees and an interview with Chasters. He had not yet finished his addresses for these confirmation services.... The task seemed mountainous--overwhelming. With a gesture of desperation he seized the tumblerful of tonic and drank it off at a gulp. (4) For some moments nothing seemed to happen. Then he began to feel stronger and less wretched, and then came a throbbing and tingling of artery and nerve. He had a sense of adventure, a pleasant fear in the thing that he had done. He got out of bed, leaving his cup of tea untasted, and began to dress. He had the sensation of relief a prisoner may feel who suddenly tries his cell door and finds it open upon sunshine, the outside world and freedom. He went on dressing although he was certain that in a few minutes the world of delusion about him would dissolve, and that he would find himself again in the great freedom of the place of God. This time the transition came much sooner and much more rapidly. This time the phases and quality of the experience were different. He felt once again that luminous confusion between the world in which a human life is imprisoned and a circumambient and interpenetrating world, but this phase passed very rapidly; it did not spread out over nearly half an hour as it had done before, and almost immediately he seemed to plunge away from everything in this life altogether into that outer freedom he sought. And this time there was not even the elemental scenery of the former vision. He stood on nothing; there was nothing below and nothing above him. There was no sense of falling, no terror, but a feeling as though he floated released. There was no light, but as it were a clear darkness about him. Then it was manifest to him that he was not alone, but that with him was that same being that in his former vision had called himself the Angel of God. He knew this without knowing why he knew this, and either he spoke and was answered, or he thought and his thought answered him back. His state of mind on this occasion was altogether different from the first vision of God; before it had been spectacular, but now his perception was altogether super-sensuous. (And nevertheless and all the time it seemed that very faintly he was still in his room.) It was he who was the first to speak. The great Angel whom he felt rather than saw seemed to be waiting for him to speak. "I have come," he said, "because once more I desire to see God." "But you have seen God." "I saw God. God was light, God was truth. And I went back to my life, and God was hidden. God seemed to call me. He called. I heard him, I sought him and I touched his hand. When I went back to my life I was presently lost in perplexity. I could not tell why God had called me nor what I had to do." "And why did you not come here before?" "Doubt and fear. Brother, will you not lay your hand on mine?" The figure in the darkness became distincter. But nothing touched the bishop's seeking hands. "I want to see God and to understand him. I want reassurance. I want conviction. I want to understand all that God asks me to do. The world is full of conflict and confusion and the spirit of war. It is dark and dreadful now with suffering and bloodshed. I want to serve God who could save it, and I do not know how." It seemed to the bishop that now he could distinguish dimly but surely the form and features of the great Angel to whom he talked. For a little while there was silence, and then the Angel spoke. "It was necessary first," said the Angel, "that you should apprehend God and desire him. That was the purport of your first vision. Now, since you require it, I will tell you and show you certain things about him, things that it seems you need to know, things that all men need to know. Know then first that the time is at hand when God will come into the world and rule it, and when men will know what is required of them. This time is close at hand. In a little while God will be made manifest throughout the earth. Men will know him and know that he is King. To you this truth is to be shown--that you may tell it to others." "This is no vision?" said the bishop, "no dream that will pass away?" "Am I not here beside you?" (5) The bishop was anxious to be very clear. Things that had been shapelessly present in his mind now took form and found words for themselves. "The God I saw in my vision--He is not yet manifest in the world?" "He comes. He is in the world, but he is not yet manifested. He whom you saw in your vision will speedily be manifest in the world. To you this vision is given of the things that come. The world is already glowing with God. Mankind is like a smouldering fire that will presently, in quite a little time, burst out into flame. "In your former vision I showed you God," said the Angel. "This time I will show you certain signs of the coming of God. And then you will understand the place you hold in the world and the task that is required of you." (6) And as the Angel spoke he lifted up his hands with the palms upward, and there appeared above them a little round cloud, that grew denser until it had the likeness of a silver sphere. It was a mirror in the form of a ball, but a mirror not shining uniformly; it was discoloured with greyish patches that had a familiar shape. It circled slowly upon the Angel's hands. It seemed no greater than the compass of a human skull, and yet it was as great as the earth. Indeed it showed the whole earth. It was the earth. The hands of the Angel vanished out of sight, dissolved and vanished, and the spinning world hung free. All about the bishop the velvet darkness broke into glittering points that shaped out the constellations, and nearest to them, so near as to seem only a few million miles away in the great emptiness into which everything had resolved itself, shone the sun, a ball of red-tongued fires. The Angel was but a voice now; the bishop and the Angel were somewhere aloof from and yet accessible to the circling silver sphere. At the time all that happened seemed to happen quite naturally, as things happen in a dream. It was only later, when all this was a matter of memory, that the bishop realized how strange and incomprehensible his vision had been. The sphere was the earth with all its continents and seas, its ships and cities, its country-sides and mountain ranges. It was so small that he could see it all at once, and so great and full that he could see everything in it. He could see great countries like little patches upon it, and at the same time he could see the faces of the men upon the highways, he could see the feelings in men's hearts and the thoughts in their minds. But it did not seem in any way wonderful to the bishop that so he should see those things, or that it was to him that these things were shown. "This is the whole world," he said. "This is the vision of the world," the Angel answered. "It is very wonderful," said the bishop, and stood for a moment marvelling at the compass of his vision. For here was India, here was Samarkand, in the light of the late afternoon; and China and the swarming cities upon her silvery rivers sinking through twilight to the night and throwing a spray and tracery of lantern spots upon the dark; here was Russia under the noontide, and so great a battle of artillery raging on the Dunajec as no man had ever seen before; whole lines of trenches dissolved into clouds of dust and heaps of blood-streaked earth; here close to the waiting streets of Constantinople were the hills of Gallipoli, the grave of British Imperialism, streaming to heaven with the dust and smoke of bursting shells and rifle fire and the smoke and flame of burning brushwood. In the sea of Marmora a big ship crowded with Turkish troops was sinking; and, purple under the clear water, he could see the shape of the British submarine which had torpedoed her and had submerged and was going away. Berlin prepared its frugal meals, still far from famine. He saw the war in Europe as if he saw it on a map, yet every human detail showed. Over hundreds of miles of trenches east and west of Germany he could see shells bursting and the men below dropping, and the stretcher-bearers going back with the wounded. The roads to every front were crowded with reserves and munitions. For a moment a little group of men indifferent to all this struggle, who were landing amidst the Antarctic wilderness, held his attention; and then his eyes went westward to the dark rolling Atlantic across which, as the edge of the night was drawn like a curtain, more and still more ships became visible beating upon their courses eastward or westward under the overtaking day. The wonder increased; the wonder of the single and infinitely multitudinous adventure of mankind. "So God perhaps sees it," he whispered. (7) "Look at this man," said the Angel, and the black shadow of a hand seemed to point. It was a Chinaman sitting with two others in a little low room separated by translucent paper windows from a noisy street of shrill-voiced people. The three had been talking of the ultimatum that Japan had sent that day to China, claiming a priority in many matters over European influences they were by no means sure whether it was a wrong or a benefit that had been done to their country. From that topic they had passed to the discussion of the war, and then of wars and national aggressions and the perpetual thrusting and quarrelling of mankind. The older man had said that so life would always be; it was the will of Heaven. The little, very yellow-faced, emaciated man had agreed with him. But now this younger man, to whose thoughts the Angel had so particularly directed the bishop's attention, was speaking. He did not agree with his companion. "War is not the will of Heaven," he said; "it is the blindness of men." "Man changes," he said, "from day to day and from age to age. The science of the West has taught us that. Man changes and war changes and all things change. China has been the land of flowery peace, and she may yet give peace to all the world. She has put aside that puppet Emperor at Peking, she turns her face to the new learning of the West as a man lays aside his heavy robes, in order that her task may be achieved." The older man spoke, his manner was more than a little incredulous, and yet not altogether contemptuous. "You believe that someday there will be no more war in the world, that a time will come when men will no longer plot and plan against the welfare of men?" "Even that last," said the younger man. "Did any of us dream twenty-five years ago that here in China we should live to see a republic? The age of the republics draws near, when men in every country of the world will look straight up to the rule of Right and the empire of Heaven." ("And God will be King of the World," said the Angel. "Is not that faith exactly the faith that is coming to you?") The two other Chinamen questioned their companion, but without hostility. "This war," said the Chinaman, "will end in a great harvesting of kings." "But Japan--" the older man began. The bishop would have liked to hear more of that conversation, but the dark hand of the Angel motioned him to another part of the world. "Listen to this," said the Angel. He pointed the bishop to where the armies of Britain and Turkey lay in the heat of Mesopotamia. Along the sandy bank of a wide, slow-flowing river rode two horsemen, an Englishman and a Turk. They were returning from the Turkish lines, whither the Englishman had been with a flag of truce. When Englishmen and Turks are thrown together they soon become friends, and in this case matters had been facilitated by the Englishman's command of the Turkish language. He was quite an exceptional Englishman. The Turk had just been remarking cheerfully that it wouldn't please the Germans if they were to discover how amiably he and his charge had got on. "It's a pity we ever ceased to be friends," he said. "You Englishmen aren't like our Christians," he went on. The Englishmen wanted to know why. "You haven't priests in robes. You don't chant and worship crosses and pictures, and quarrel among yourselves." "We worship the same God as you do," said the Englishman. "Then why do we fight?" "That's what we want to know." "Why do you call yourselves Christians? And take part against us? All who worship the One God are brothers." "They ought to be," said the Englishman, and thought. He was struck by what seemed to him an amazingly novel idea. "If it weren't for religions all men would serve God together," he said. "And then there would be no wars--only now and then perhaps just a little honest fighting...." "And see here," said the Angel. "Here close behind this frightful battle, where the German phalanx of guns pounds its way through the Russian hosts. Here is a young German talking to two wounded Russian prisoners, who have stopped to rest by the roadside. He is a German of East Prussia; he knows and thinks a little Russian. And they too are saying, all three of them, that the war is not God's will, but the confusion of mankind. "Here," he said, and the shadow of his hand hovered over the burning-ghats of Benares, where a Brahmin of the new persuasion watched the straight spires of funereal smoke ascend into the glow of the late afternoon, while he talked to an English painter, his friend, of the blind intolerance of race and caste and custom in India. "Or here." The Angel pointed to a group of people who had gathered upon a little beach at the head of a Norwegian fiord. There were three lads, an old man and two women, and they stood about the body of a drowned German sailor which had been washed up that day. For a time they had talked in whispers, but now suddenly the old man spoke aloud. "This is the fourth that has come ashore," he said. "Poor drowned souls! Because men will not serve God." "But folks go to church and pray enough," said one of the women. "They do not serve God," said the old man. "They just pray to him as one nods to a beggar. They do not serve God who is their King. They set up their false kings and emperors, and so all Europe is covered with dead, and the seas wash up these dead to us. Why does the world suffer these things? Why did we Norwegians, who are a free-spirited people, permit the Germans and the Swedes and the English to set up a king over us? Because we lack faith. Kings mean secret counsels, and secret counsels bring war. Sooner or later war will come to us also if we give the soul of our nation in trust to a king.... But things will not always be thus with men. God will not suffer them for ever. A day comes, and it is no distant day, when God himself will rule the earth, and when men will do, not what the king wishes nor what is expedient nor what is customary, but what is manifestly right.".... "But men are saying that now in a thousand places," said the Angel. "Here is something that goes a little beyond that." His pointing hand went southward until they saw the Africanders riding down to Windhuk. Two men, Boer farmers both, rode side by side and talked of the German officer they brought prisoner with them. He had put sheep-dip in the wells of drinking-water; his life was fairly forfeit, and he was not to be killed. "We want no more hate in South Africa," they agreed. "Dutch and English and German must live here now side by side. Men cannot always be killing." "And see his thoughts," said the Angel. The German's mind was one amazement. He had been sure of being shot, he had meant to make a good end, fierce and scornful, a relentless fighter to the last; and these men who might have shot him like a man were going to spare him like a dog. His mind was a tumbled muddle of old and new ideas. He had been brought up in an atmosphere of the foulest and fiercest militarism; he had been trained to relentlessness, ruthlessness and so forth; war was war and the bitterer the better, frightfulness was your way to victory over every enemy. But these people had found a better way. Here were Dutch and English side by side; sixteen years ago they had been at war together and now they wore the same uniform and rode together, and laughed at him for a queer fellow because he was for spitting at them and defying them, and folding his arms and looking level at the executioners' rifles. There were to be no executioners' rifles.... If it was so with Dutch and English, why shouldn't it be so presently with French and Germans? Why someday shouldn't French, German, Dutch and English, Russian and Pole, ride together under this new star of mankind, the Southern Cross, to catch whatever last mischief-maker was left to poison the wells of goodwill? His mind resisted and struggled against these ideas. "Austere," he whispered. "The ennobling tests of war." A trooner rode up alongside, and offered him a drink of water "Just a mouthful," he said apologetically. "We've had to go rather short."... "There's another brain busy here with the same idea," the Angel interrupted. And the bishop found himself looking into the bedroom of a young German attache in Washington, sleepless in the small hours. "Ach!" cried the young man, and sat up in bed and ran his hands through his fair hair. He had been working late upon this detestable business of the Lusitania; the news of her sinking had come to hand two days before, and all America was aflame with it. It might mean war. His task had been to pour out explanations and justifications to the press; to show that it was an act of necessity, to pretend a conviction that the great ship was loaded with munitions, to fight down the hostility and anger that blazed across a continent. He had worked to his limit. He had taken cup after cup of coffee, and had come to bed worked out not two hours ago. Now here he was awake after a nightmare of drowning women and children, trying to comfort his soul by recalling his own arguments. Never once since the war began had he doubted the rightness of the German cause. It seemed only a proof of his nervous exhaustion that he could doubt it now. Germany was the best organized, most cultivated, scientific and liberal nation the earth had ever seen, it was for the good of mankind that she should be the dominant power in the world; his patriotism had had the passion of a mission. The English were indolent, the French decadent, the Russians barbaric, the Americans basely democratic; the rest of the world was the "White man's Burthen"; the clear destiny of mankind was subservience to the good Prussian eagle. Nevertheless--those wet draggled bodies that swirled down in the eddies of the sinking Titan--Ach! He wished it could have been otherwise. He nursed his knees and prayed that there need not be much more of these things before the spirit of the enemy was broken and the great Peace of Germany came upon the world. And suddenly he stopped short in his prayer. Suddenly out of the nothingness and darkness about him came the conviction that God did not listen to his prayers.... Was there any other way? It was the most awful doubt he had ever had, for it smote at the training of all his life. "Could it be possible that after all our old German God is not the proper style and title of the true God? Is our old German God perhaps only the last of a long succession of bloodstained tribal effigies--and not God at all?" For a long time it seemed that the bishop watched the thoughts that gathered in the young attache's mind. Until suddenly he broke into a quotation, into that last cry of the dying Goethe, for "Light. More Light!"... "Leave him at that," said the Angel. "I want you to hear these two young women." The hand came back to England and pointed to where Southend at the mouth of the Thames was all agog with the excitement of an overnight Zeppelin raid. People had got up hours before their usual time in order to look at the wrecked houses before they went up to their work in town. Everybody seemed abroad. Two nurses, not very well trained as nurses go nor very well-educated women, were snatching a little sea air upon the front after an eventful night. They were too excited still to sleep. They were talking of the horror of the moment when they saw the nasty thing "up there," and felt helpless as it dropped its bombs. They had both hated it. "There didn't ought to be such things," said one. "They don't seem needed," said her companion. "Men won't always go on like this--making wars and all such wickedness." "It's 'ow to stop them?" "Science is going to stop them." "Science?" "Yes, science. My young brother--oh, he's a clever one--he says such things! He says that it's science that they won't always go on like this. There's more sense coming into the world and more--my young brother says so. Says it stands to reason; it's Evolution. It's science that men are all brothers; you can prove it. It's science that there oughtn't to be war. Science is ending war now by making it horrible like this, and making it so that no one is safe. Showing it up. Only when nobody is safe will everybody want to set up peace,

sorely

How many times the word 'sorely' appears in the text?

with the tortuousness and weakness of his own character. Every day he perceived that the difficulty of telling Lady Ella of the change in his faith became more mountainous. And every day he procrastinated. If he had told her naturally and simply on the evening of his return from London--before anything material intervened--everything would have been different, everything would have been simpler.... He groaned and rolled over in his bed. There came upon him the acutest remorse and misery. For he saw that amidst these petty immediacies he had lost touch with God. The last month became incredible. He had seen God. He had touched God's hand. God had been given to him, and he had neglected the gift. He was still lost amidst the darkness and loneliness, the chaotic ends and mean shifts, of an Erastian world. For a month now and more, after a vision of God so vivid and real and reassuring that surely no saint nor prophet had ever had a better, he had made no more than vague responsive movements; he had allowed himself to be persuaded into an unreasonable and cowardly delay, and the fetters of association and usage and minor interests were as unbroken as they had been before ever the vision shone. Was it credible that there had ever been such a vision in a life so entirely dictated by immediacy and instinct as his? We are all creatures of the dark stream, we swim in needs and bodily impulses and small vanities; if ever and again a bubble of spiritual imaginativeness glows out of us, it breaks and leaves us where we were. "Louse that I am!" he cried. He still believed in God, without a shadow of doubt; he believed in the God that he had seen, the high courage, the golden intention, the light that had for a moment touched him. But what had he to do with God, he, the loiterer, the little thing? He was little, he was funny. His prevarications with his wife, for example, were comic. There was no other word for him but "funny." He rolled back again and lay staring. "Who will deliver me from the body of this death?" What right has a little bishop in a purple stock and doeskin breeches, who hangs back in his palace from the very call of God, to a phrase so fine and tragic as "the body of this death?" He was the most unreal thing in the universe. He was a base insect giving himself airs. What advantage has a bishop over the Praying Mantis, that cricket which apes the attitude of piety? Does he matter more--to God? "To the God of the Universe, who can tell? To the God of man,--yes." He sat up in bed struck by his own answer, and full of an indescribable hunger for God and an indescribable sense of his complete want of courage to make the one simple appeal that would satisfy that hunger. He tried to pray. "O God!" he cried, "forgive me! Take me!" It seemed to him that he was not really praying but only making believe to pray. It seemed to him that he was not really existing but only seeming to exist. He seemed to himself to be one with figures on a china plate, with figures painted on walls, with the flimsy imagined lives of men in stories of forgotten times. "O God!" he said, "O God," acting a gesture, mimicking appeal. "Anaemic," he said, and was given an idea. He got out of bed, he took his keys from the night-table at the bed head and went to his bureau. He stood with Dale's tonic in his hand. He remained for some time holding it, and feeling a curious indisposition to go on with the thing in his mind. He turned at last with an effort. He carried the little phial to his bedside, and into the tumbler of his water-bottle he let the drops fall, drop by drop, until he had counted twenty. Then holding it to the bulb of his reading lamp he added the water and stood watching the slow pearly eddies in the mixture mingle into an opalescent uniformity. He replaced the water-bottle and stood with the glass in his hand. But he did not drink. He was afraid. He knew that he had only to drink and this world of confusion would grow transparent, would roll back and reveal the great simplicities behind. And he was afraid. He was afraid of that greatness. He was afraid of the great imperatives that he knew would at once take hold of his life. He wanted to muddle on for just a little longer. He wanted to stay just where he was, in his familiar prison-house, with the key of escape in his hand. Before he took the last step into the very presence of truth, he would--think. He put down the glass and lay down upon his bed.... (3) He awoke in a mood of great depression out of a dream of wandering interminably in an endless building of innumerable pillars, pillars so vast and high that the ceiling was lost in darkness. By the scale of these pillars he felt himself scarcely larger than an ant. He was always alone in these wanderings, and always missing something that passed along distant passages, something desirable, something in the nature of a procession or of a ceremony, something of which he was in futile pursuit, of which he heard faint echoes, something luminous of which he seemed at times to see the last fading reflection, across vast halls and wildernesses of shining pavement and through Cyclopaean archways. At last there was neither sound nor gleam, but the utmost solitude, and a darkness and silence and the uttermost profundity of sorrow.... It was bright day. Dunk had just come into the room with his tea, and the tumbler of Dr. Dale's tonic stood untouched upon the night-table. The bishop sat up in bed. He had missed his opportunity. To-day was a busy day, he knew. "No," he said, as Dunk hesitated whether to remove or leave the tumbler. "Leave that." Dunk found room for it upon the tea-tray, and vanished softly with the bishop's evening clothes. The bishop remained motionless facing the day. There stood the draught of decision that he had lacked the decision even to touch. From his bed he could just read the larger items that figured upon the engagement tablet which it was Whippham's business to fill over-night and place upon his table. He had two confirmation services, first the big one in the cathedral and then a second one in the evening at Pringle, various committees and an interview with Chasters. He had not yet finished his addresses for these confirmation services.... The task seemed mountainous--overwhelming. With a gesture of desperation he seized the tumblerful of tonic and drank it off at a gulp. (4) For some moments nothing seemed to happen. Then he began to feel stronger and less wretched, and then came a throbbing and tingling of artery and nerve. He had a sense of adventure, a pleasant fear in the thing that he had done. He got out of bed, leaving his cup of tea untasted, and began to dress. He had the sensation of relief a prisoner may feel who suddenly tries his cell door and finds it open upon sunshine, the outside world and freedom. He went on dressing although he was certain that in a few minutes the world of delusion about him would dissolve, and that he would find himself again in the great freedom of the place of God. This time the transition came much sooner and much more rapidly. This time the phases and quality of the experience were different. He felt once again that luminous confusion between the world in which a human life is imprisoned and a circumambient and interpenetrating world, but this phase passed very rapidly; it did not spread out over nearly half an hour as it had done before, and almost immediately he seemed to plunge away from everything in this life altogether into that outer freedom he sought. And this time there was not even the elemental scenery of the former vision. He stood on nothing; there was nothing below and nothing above him. There was no sense of falling, no terror, but a feeling as though he floated released. There was no light, but as it were a clear darkness about him. Then it was manifest to him that he was not alone, but that with him was that same being that in his former vision had called himself the Angel of God. He knew this without knowing why he knew this, and either he spoke and was answered, or he thought and his thought answered him back. His state of mind on this occasion was altogether different from the first vision of God; before it had been spectacular, but now his perception was altogether super-sensuous. (And nevertheless and all the time it seemed that very faintly he was still in his room.) It was he who was the first to speak. The great Angel whom he felt rather than saw seemed to be waiting for him to speak. "I have come," he said, "because once more I desire to see God." "But you have seen God." "I saw God. God was light, God was truth. And I went back to my life, and God was hidden. God seemed to call me. He called. I heard him, I sought him and I touched his hand. When I went back to my life I was presently lost in perplexity. I could not tell why God had called me nor what I had to do." "And why did you not come here before?" "Doubt and fear. Brother, will you not lay your hand on mine?" The figure in the darkness became distincter. But nothing touched the bishop's seeking hands. "I want to see God and to understand him. I want reassurance. I want conviction. I want to understand all that God asks me to do. The world is full of conflict and confusion and the spirit of war. It is dark and dreadful now with suffering and bloodshed. I want to serve God who could save it, and I do not know how." It seemed to the bishop that now he could distinguish dimly but surely the form and features of the great Angel to whom he talked. For a little while there was silence, and then the Angel spoke. "It was necessary first," said the Angel, "that you should apprehend God and desire him. That was the purport of your first vision. Now, since you require it, I will tell you and show you certain things about him, things that it seems you need to know, things that all men need to know. Know then first that the time is at hand when God will come into the world and rule it, and when men will know what is required of them. This time is close at hand. In a little while God will be made manifest throughout the earth. Men will know him and know that he is King. To you this truth is to be shown--that you may tell it to others." "This is no vision?" said the bishop, "no dream that will pass away?" "Am I not here beside you?" (5) The bishop was anxious to be very clear. Things that had been shapelessly present in his mind now took form and found words for themselves. "The God I saw in my vision--He is not yet manifest in the world?" "He comes. He is in the world, but he is not yet manifested. He whom you saw in your vision will speedily be manifest in the world. To you this vision is given of the things that come. The world is already glowing with God. Mankind is like a smouldering fire that will presently, in quite a little time, burst out into flame. "In your former vision I showed you God," said the Angel. "This time I will show you certain signs of the coming of God. And then you will understand the place you hold in the world and the task that is required of you." (6) And as the Angel spoke he lifted up his hands with the palms upward, and there appeared above them a little round cloud, that grew denser until it had the likeness of a silver sphere. It was a mirror in the form of a ball, but a mirror not shining uniformly; it was discoloured with greyish patches that had a familiar shape. It circled slowly upon the Angel's hands. It seemed no greater than the compass of a human skull, and yet it was as great as the earth. Indeed it showed the whole earth. It was the earth. The hands of the Angel vanished out of sight, dissolved and vanished, and the spinning world hung free. All about the bishop the velvet darkness broke into glittering points that shaped out the constellations, and nearest to them, so near as to seem only a few million miles away in the great emptiness into which everything had resolved itself, shone the sun, a ball of red-tongued fires. The Angel was but a voice now; the bishop and the Angel were somewhere aloof from and yet accessible to the circling silver sphere. At the time all that happened seemed to happen quite naturally, as things happen in a dream. It was only later, when all this was a matter of memory, that the bishop realized how strange and incomprehensible his vision had been. The sphere was the earth with all its continents and seas, its ships and cities, its country-sides and mountain ranges. It was so small that he could see it all at once, and so great and full that he could see everything in it. He could see great countries like little patches upon it, and at the same time he could see the faces of the men upon the highways, he could see the feelings in men's hearts and the thoughts in their minds. But it did not seem in any way wonderful to the bishop that so he should see those things, or that it was to him that these things were shown. "This is the whole world," he said. "This is the vision of the world," the Angel answered. "It is very wonderful," said the bishop, and stood for a moment marvelling at the compass of his vision. For here was India, here was Samarkand, in the light of the late afternoon; and China and the swarming cities upon her silvery rivers sinking through twilight to the night and throwing a spray and tracery of lantern spots upon the dark; here was Russia under the noontide, and so great a battle of artillery raging on the Dunajec as no man had ever seen before; whole lines of trenches dissolved into clouds of dust and heaps of blood-streaked earth; here close to the waiting streets of Constantinople were the hills of Gallipoli, the grave of British Imperialism, streaming to heaven with the dust and smoke of bursting shells and rifle fire and the smoke and flame of burning brushwood. In the sea of Marmora a big ship crowded with Turkish troops was sinking; and, purple under the clear water, he could see the shape of the British submarine which had torpedoed her and had submerged and was going away. Berlin prepared its frugal meals, still far from famine. He saw the war in Europe as if he saw it on a map, yet every human detail showed. Over hundreds of miles of trenches east and west of Germany he could see shells bursting and the men below dropping, and the stretcher-bearers going back with the wounded. The roads to every front were crowded with reserves and munitions. For a moment a little group of men indifferent to all this struggle, who were landing amidst the Antarctic wilderness, held his attention; and then his eyes went westward to the dark rolling Atlantic across which, as the edge of the night was drawn like a curtain, more and still more ships became visible beating upon their courses eastward or westward under the overtaking day. The wonder increased; the wonder of the single and infinitely multitudinous adventure of mankind. "So God perhaps sees it," he whispered. (7) "Look at this man," said the Angel, and the black shadow of a hand seemed to point. It was a Chinaman sitting with two others in a little low room separated by translucent paper windows from a noisy street of shrill-voiced people. The three had been talking of the ultimatum that Japan had sent that day to China, claiming a priority in many matters over European influences they were by no means sure whether it was a wrong or a benefit that had been done to their country. From that topic they had passed to the discussion of the war, and then of wars and national aggressions and the perpetual thrusting and quarrelling of mankind. The older man had said that so life would always be; it was the will of Heaven. The little, very yellow-faced, emaciated man had agreed with him. But now this younger man, to whose thoughts the Angel had so particularly directed the bishop's attention, was speaking. He did not agree with his companion. "War is not the will of Heaven," he said; "it is the blindness of men." "Man changes," he said, "from day to day and from age to age. The science of the West has taught us that. Man changes and war changes and all things change. China has been the land of flowery peace, and she may yet give peace to all the world. She has put aside that puppet Emperor at Peking, she turns her face to the new learning of the West as a man lays aside his heavy robes, in order that her task may be achieved." The older man spoke, his manner was more than a little incredulous, and yet not altogether contemptuous. "You believe that someday there will be no more war in the world, that a time will come when men will no longer plot and plan against the welfare of men?" "Even that last," said the younger man. "Did any of us dream twenty-five years ago that here in China we should live to see a republic? The age of the republics draws near, when men in every country of the world will look straight up to the rule of Right and the empire of Heaven." ("And God will be King of the World," said the Angel. "Is not that faith exactly the faith that is coming to you?") The two other Chinamen questioned their companion, but without hostility. "This war," said the Chinaman, "will end in a great harvesting of kings." "But Japan--" the older man began. The bishop would have liked to hear more of that conversation, but the dark hand of the Angel motioned him to another part of the world. "Listen to this," said the Angel. He pointed the bishop to where the armies of Britain and Turkey lay in the heat of Mesopotamia. Along the sandy bank of a wide, slow-flowing river rode two horsemen, an Englishman and a Turk. They were returning from the Turkish lines, whither the Englishman had been with a flag of truce. When Englishmen and Turks are thrown together they soon become friends, and in this case matters had been facilitated by the Englishman's command of the Turkish language. He was quite an exceptional Englishman. The Turk had just been remarking cheerfully that it wouldn't please the Germans if they were to discover how amiably he and his charge had got on. "It's a pity we ever ceased to be friends," he said. "You Englishmen aren't like our Christians," he went on. The Englishmen wanted to know why. "You haven't priests in robes. You don't chant and worship crosses and pictures, and quarrel among yourselves." "We worship the same God as you do," said the Englishman. "Then why do we fight?" "That's what we want to know." "Why do you call yourselves Christians? And take part against us? All who worship the One God are brothers." "They ought to be," said the Englishman, and thought. He was struck by what seemed to him an amazingly novel idea. "If it weren't for religions all men would serve God together," he said. "And then there would be no wars--only now and then perhaps just a little honest fighting...." "And see here," said the Angel. "Here close behind this frightful battle, where the German phalanx of guns pounds its way through the Russian hosts. Here is a young German talking to two wounded Russian prisoners, who have stopped to rest by the roadside. He is a German of East Prussia; he knows and thinks a little Russian. And they too are saying, all three of them, that the war is not God's will, but the confusion of mankind. "Here," he said, and the shadow of his hand hovered over the burning-ghats of Benares, where a Brahmin of the new persuasion watched the straight spires of funereal smoke ascend into the glow of the late afternoon, while he talked to an English painter, his friend, of the blind intolerance of race and caste and custom in India. "Or here." The Angel pointed to a group of people who had gathered upon a little beach at the head of a Norwegian fiord. There were three lads, an old man and two women, and they stood about the body of a drowned German sailor which had been washed up that day. For a time they had talked in whispers, but now suddenly the old man spoke aloud. "This is the fourth that has come ashore," he said. "Poor drowned souls! Because men will not serve God." "But folks go to church and pray enough," said one of the women. "They do not serve God," said the old man. "They just pray to him as one nods to a beggar. They do not serve God who is their King. They set up their false kings and emperors, and so all Europe is covered with dead, and the seas wash up these dead to us. Why does the world suffer these things? Why did we Norwegians, who are a free-spirited people, permit the Germans and the Swedes and the English to set up a king over us? Because we lack faith. Kings mean secret counsels, and secret counsels bring war. Sooner or later war will come to us also if we give the soul of our nation in trust to a king.... But things will not always be thus with men. God will not suffer them for ever. A day comes, and it is no distant day, when God himself will rule the earth, and when men will do, not what the king wishes nor what is expedient nor what is customary, but what is manifestly right.".... "But men are saying that now in a thousand places," said the Angel. "Here is something that goes a little beyond that." His pointing hand went southward until they saw the Africanders riding down to Windhuk. Two men, Boer farmers both, rode side by side and talked of the German officer they brought prisoner with them. He had put sheep-dip in the wells of drinking-water; his life was fairly forfeit, and he was not to be killed. "We want no more hate in South Africa," they agreed. "Dutch and English and German must live here now side by side. Men cannot always be killing." "And see his thoughts," said the Angel. The German's mind was one amazement. He had been sure of being shot, he had meant to make a good end, fierce and scornful, a relentless fighter to the last; and these men who might have shot him like a man were going to spare him like a dog. His mind was a tumbled muddle of old and new ideas. He had been brought up in an atmosphere of the foulest and fiercest militarism; he had been trained to relentlessness, ruthlessness and so forth; war was war and the bitterer the better, frightfulness was your way to victory over every enemy. But these people had found a better way. Here were Dutch and English side by side; sixteen years ago they had been at war together and now they wore the same uniform and rode together, and laughed at him for a queer fellow because he was for spitting at them and defying them, and folding his arms and looking level at the executioners' rifles. There were to be no executioners' rifles.... If it was so with Dutch and English, why shouldn't it be so presently with French and Germans? Why someday shouldn't French, German, Dutch and English, Russian and Pole, ride together under this new star of mankind, the Southern Cross, to catch whatever last mischief-maker was left to poison the wells of goodwill? His mind resisted and struggled against these ideas. "Austere," he whispered. "The ennobling tests of war." A trooner rode up alongside, and offered him a drink of water "Just a mouthful," he said apologetically. "We've had to go rather short."... "There's another brain busy here with the same idea," the Angel interrupted. And the bishop found himself looking into the bedroom of a young German attache in Washington, sleepless in the small hours. "Ach!" cried the young man, and sat up in bed and ran his hands through his fair hair. He had been working late upon this detestable business of the Lusitania; the news of her sinking had come to hand two days before, and all America was aflame with it. It might mean war. His task had been to pour out explanations and justifications to the press; to show that it was an act of necessity, to pretend a conviction that the great ship was loaded with munitions, to fight down the hostility and anger that blazed across a continent. He had worked to his limit. He had taken cup after cup of coffee, and had come to bed worked out not two hours ago. Now here he was awake after a nightmare of drowning women and children, trying to comfort his soul by recalling his own arguments. Never once since the war began had he doubted the rightness of the German cause. It seemed only a proof of his nervous exhaustion that he could doubt it now. Germany was the best organized, most cultivated, scientific and liberal nation the earth had ever seen, it was for the good of mankind that she should be the dominant power in the world; his patriotism had had the passion of a mission. The English were indolent, the French decadent, the Russians barbaric, the Americans basely democratic; the rest of the world was the "White man's Burthen"; the clear destiny of mankind was subservience to the good Prussian eagle. Nevertheless--those wet draggled bodies that swirled down in the eddies of the sinking Titan--Ach! He wished it could have been otherwise. He nursed his knees and prayed that there need not be much more of these things before the spirit of the enemy was broken and the great Peace of Germany came upon the world. And suddenly he stopped short in his prayer. Suddenly out of the nothingness and darkness about him came the conviction that God did not listen to his prayers.... Was there any other way? It was the most awful doubt he had ever had, for it smote at the training of all his life. "Could it be possible that after all our old German God is not the proper style and title of the true God? Is our old German God perhaps only the last of a long succession of bloodstained tribal effigies--and not God at all?" For a long time it seemed that the bishop watched the thoughts that gathered in the young attache's mind. Until suddenly he broke into a quotation, into that last cry of the dying Goethe, for "Light. More Light!"... "Leave him at that," said the Angel. "I want you to hear these two young women." The hand came back to England and pointed to where Southend at the mouth of the Thames was all agog with the excitement of an overnight Zeppelin raid. People had got up hours before their usual time in order to look at the wrecked houses before they went up to their work in town. Everybody seemed abroad. Two nurses, not very well trained as nurses go nor very well-educated women, were snatching a little sea air upon the front after an eventful night. They were too excited still to sleep. They were talking of the horror of the moment when they saw the nasty thing "up there," and felt helpless as it dropped its bombs. They had both hated it. "There didn't ought to be such things," said one. "They don't seem needed," said her companion. "Men won't always go on like this--making wars and all such wickedness." "It's 'ow to stop them?" "Science is going to stop them." "Science?" "Yes, science. My young brother--oh, he's a clever one--he says such things! He says that it's science that they won't always go on like this. There's more sense coming into the world and more--my young brother says so. Says it stands to reason; it's Evolution. It's science that men are all brothers; you can prove it. It's science that there oughtn't to be war. Science is ending war now by making it horrible like this, and making it so that no one is safe. Showing it up. Only when nobody is safe will everybody want to set up peace,

thing

How many times the word 'thing' appears in the text?

with them now the giant figure of Abdul Ghaffar Khan, the first time we have seen him among Gandhi's intimate group. NEHRU In Calcutta it's like civil war. The Muslims rose and there was a bloodbath, and now the Hindus are taking revenge -- and if we can't stop it there'll be no hope for the Hindus left in Pakistan. PATEL ...an eye for an eye making the whole world blind. It is an empty and despairing echo of Gandhi's words. AZAD Aren't there any troops to spare? NEHRU (tense, fragile) Nothing -- nothing. The divisions in Bombay and Delhi can hardly keep the peace now. And each fresh bit of news creates another wave of mad... ness. He has turned and seen Gandhi standing slowly. It has almost stopped him. PATEL Could we cut all news off? I know -- NEHRU Bapu -- please. Where are you going. GANDHI (sounding like an old man) I don't want to hear more... He is moving toward the door. It stops them all. Pyarelal moves tentatively to open the door. PATEL (impatiently) We need your help! GANDHI There is nothing I can give. AZAD Where are you going? Gandhi turns, looks at him bleakly. GANDHI Calcutta. CALCUTTA - EXTERIOR - NIGHT We are high. There are fires, the sounds of spasmodic gunfire, of looting, screams, the roar of police vehicles and occasional sirens. The camera zooms in on a poor quarter of artisan dwellings in narrow streets. Outside one of the houses is a car, an army jeep, policemen, a few soldiers and a group of people. It seems a little island of calm in a sea of wild chaos. On the roof of the house, a figure moves into the light. CLOSER - TAHIB'S ROOF The figure is Gandhi. He peers down at the dark, rioting streets. Azad, Tahib, a Muslim whose house this is, Mirabehn and Pyarelal are with him along Abdul Ghaffar Khan. A police commissioner moves to Gandhi's side, demanding his attention. POLICE COMMISSIONER Sir, please, I don't have the men to protect you -- not in a Muslim house. Not this quarter. GANDHI I am staying with the friend of a friend. There is a sudden commotion just below them and angry shouts: "Death to Muslims!," "Death to Muslims!" Gandhi peers down. His point of view. A surging gang of youths, many carrying torches, and far outnumbering the little group of police and soldiers, are shouting up at the roof. We see three or four black flags and stains of blood on many of them. A few hold knives still wet with blood. A YOUTH There he is! A feral roar goes up at the sight of Gandhi, but he stands unmoving. HINDU YOUTH LEADER (his voice emotional, tearful) Why are you staying at the home of a Muslim! They're murderers! They killed my family! Featuring Gandhi. It is a comment too grave for glibness, and Gandhi is obviously struck by the pain of it. He pauses for a moment, staring down at the youth: GANDHI Because forgiveness is the gift of the brave. He makes it mean the youth. For a second it makes an impact, but then the youth shouts his defiance at him and his message. YOUTH To hell with you, Gandhi!! An angry chorus of acclamation; when it dies GANDHI (to the youth) Go -- do as your mother and father would wish you to do. It is ambiguous, open-ended, meaning anything your mother and father would wish you to do. Tears flush from the boy's eyes and he stares at Gandhi with a kind of hopeless anguish and rage. But the impact is on the youth alone; around him the others begin to take up the chant "Death to Muslims!," "Death to Muslims!" Gandhi turns from the street. He looks at the police commissioner -- at his fatigue, his concern, his manifest respect. Gandhi musters a weary smile. GANDHI I have lived a lifetime. If I had shunned death -- or feared it -- I would not be here. Nor would you be concerned for me. (He lets it sink in then he takes the commissioner's arm and moves back toward the center of the roof.) Leave me -- and take your men. (An understanding touch of the arm.) You have more important things to worry about. The commissioner looks at him, uncertain, not knowing what to do, as the angry chanting continues above the sound of rioting. HOSPITAL - INTERIOR - DAY An old, inadequate hospital -- dark cavernous. Margaret Bourke- White is moving among the densely packed litter of wounded women. She is positioning herself to photograph Gandhi, who is speaking to a woman who cradles a small baby. The corridors behind him are even more packed. The few doctors and nurses hardly have room to move. Featuring Gandhi. Azad and Mirabehn are behind him as he moves on, and behind them, like a giant guardian, Abdul Ghaffar Khan. We hear "Bapu, Bapu" muttered quietly here and there. Gandhi bends to a woman whose face is bandaged and a cruel wound is half-exposed between her mouth and eye. WOMAN Bapu... Allah be with you... There are tears in Gandhi's eyes now. GANDHI And with you. (He touches her wrinkled hand.) Pray... I cannot help you -- pray... pray. And the weight of his helplessness hangs on him. CALCUTTA STREET - EXTERIOR - DAY A streetcar (tram) crashes into a barricade of carts, rickshaws, a couple of old cars, smashing through to breach the barricade, but stopped in the end by the mass of debris. The streetcar is loaded with Indian troops and they break from the stalled vehicle to chase A gang of Hindus -- organized -- runs down the street from the troops, some dragging the bodies of victims with them. We see several Hindu black flags. NEHRU'S OFFICE - INTERIOR - NIGHT He speaks across his desk to a senior police commissioner. The same activity going on in the background. NEHRU (angrily) No! There will not be a Hindu Police and a Muslim Police. There is one police! An aide slips a newspaper on his desk in front of him. He doesn't look at it till the senior commissioner lowers his head and turns, accepting defeat. Then Nehru glances at the paper. In thick headlines: GANDHI: A FAST UNTO DEATH! Nehru doesn't move for a moment. Then he lifts his face slowly to his aide. NEHRU Why must I read news like this in the paper? The aide shakes his head -- there's no answer. Nehru lowers his head again; it is like another burden on a man who already has too many. He grips his temples... a terrible sigh. NEHRU Tell Patel. Arrange a plane. We will go -- Friday. THE AIDE Four days? Nehru thinks on it solemnly, then nods yes. TAHIB'S HOUSE - EXTERIOR - DAY The sounds of rioting and looting on nearby streets, but here a mass of people are gathered. Many youths with black flags. Two black government limousines. Motorcycles. Police and soldiers. They are looking off to AN OUTSIDE STAIRCASE - TAHIB'S HOUSE It runs up the side of the building and is lined with waiting people. Nehru and Patel are climbing the stairs, moving past them almost irritably as they mutter "Nehru, Nehru," "Patel," and make the pranam to the eminent men. In the heat of the city Tahib's rooftop is still Gandhi's "home" and has become a center of activity. Azad clears someone aside and ushers Nehru and Patel under the canopy awning. Nehru pauses as he lowers his head. His point of view. Gandhi lies curled awkwardly on his side of the cot. He is writing, Pyarelal taking the pages as he finishes, both ignoring all the people, the sounds of gunfire and distant shouting, but he looks tired and tightens his jaw occasionally in pain. The camera pans. A doctor sits near the foot of the cot, Abdul Ghaffar Khan beyond him. Near the other edge of the canopied area, Mirabehn sits with Bourke-White. They are whispering quietly, but Mirabehn has stopped on seeing Nehru and she smiles a relieved greeting. She knows Gandhi's feeling for him. Bourke-White stares at him and Patel for a second and then her hand goes slowly, almost reflexively, for her camera. CLOSER ON GANDHI Nehru crosses and kneels so that he is almost at Gandhi's eyeline. Gandhi must take his eyes from his writing to look, and he is almost moved to tears at the sight of Nehru. His hand shakes a little as he holds it out to him. NEHRU Bapu... Gandhi turns to pat their joined hands with his other hand. He does so with effort, and at last he sees Patel. GANDHI Sardar... (He looks him over.) You have gained weight. You must join me in the fast. Patel sits near the head of the cot so the three of them are on a level. Outside the canopied area, Bourke-White is crouched, her camera framing the three of them. PATEL (wittily, warmly) If I fast I die. If you fast people go to all sorts of trouble to keep you alive. Gandhi smiles and reaches to touch hands with him. NEHRU Bapu, forgive me -- I've cheated. I could have come earlier. But your fast has helped. These last days people's minds have begun to turn to this bed -- and away from last night's atrocity. But now it is enough. Gandhi shakes his head. GANDHI All that has happened is that I've grown a little thinner. It is despairingly sincere. But Nehru feels he has an antidote for that despair. The distant sound of an explosion. NEHRU Tomorrow five thousand Muslim students of all ages are marching here in Calcutta -- for peace. (The real point) And five thousand Hindu students are marching with them. It is all organized. Bourke-White captures the sense of elation in his face. From her discreet distance, she lowers the camera, holding it against her mouth, waiting for Gandhi's response. Gandhi nods to Nehru, accepting the news with a sad wistfulness. GANDHI I'm glad -- but it will not be enough. Nehru isn't prepared for this resistance. He glances at Patel, and we see that they recognize that their bland conviction that they could talk him out of the fast was deeply misplaced. Nehru turns back -- this time no confidence, only concern. A forced smile. NEHRU Bapu, you are not so young anymore. Gandhi smiles, pain etched in his eyes. He touches Nehru's hand. GANDHI Don't worry for me -- death will be a deliverance. (There is water in his eyes, but his words have the weight of a man truly determined to die.) I cannot watch the destruction of all I have lived for. Nehru stares at him, feeling the sudden fear that Gandhi means it. Patel, Mirabehn, Azad, Bourke-White are gripped by the same realization. TAHIB'S HOUSE - EXTERIOR - NIGHT An outside broadcast truck is parked among the usual crowd, grown even larger now, and more women among them. The sounds of distant fighting. TAHIB'S ROOF - EXTERIOR - NIGHT The senior technician, in earphones, signals across to Mirabehn. She holds a microphone by Gandhi, who is lying on his side. He seems almost out of touch. MIRABEHN Bapu... Gandhi looks at her, and then the microphone. When he speaks into the microphone his voice is very weak. GANDHI Each night before I sleep, I read a few words from the Gita and the Koran, and the Bible... (we intercut with Bourke-White and those on the roof watching) tonight I ask you to share these thoughts of God with me. And now we go into the streets, intercutting with Gandhi but seeing Hindus listening around loudspeakers on corners, in little eating houses, Muslim shops where people live in the back, and neighbors gathering defensively in groups. GANDHI (the books are there, but he does it from memory of course) I will begin with the Bible where the words of the Lord are, "Love thy neighbor as thyself"... and then our beloved Gita which says, "The world is a garment worn by God, thy neighbor is in truth thyself"... and finally the Holy Koran, "We shall remove all hatred from our hearts and recline on couches face to face, a band of brothers." He leans back, exhausted. Mirabehn is looking at him; she starts to sing softly. MIRABEHN "Lead Kindly Light, amidst the circling gloom..." Gandhi, his eyes closed, takes it up in his weak, croaking voice. GANDHI/MIRABEHN "The night is dark, and I am far from home, Lead thou me on..." TAHIB'S HOUSE - EXTERIOR - DAY Two police motorcycles lead a black limousine to a stop before Tahib's house. The crowd now gathered is very large. More mixed than before but still predominantly of youths, many still with black flags. Nehru gets out of the limousine with a Muslim leader, a tough- looking man who carries himself with the authority and power of a mobster (Suhrawardy). And they start to go up the outside stairs. Suddenly we hear the shout "Death to Gandhi!," "Death to Gandhi!" And Nehru turns, pushing past Suhrawardy fiercely and going back onto the street. He runs at the crowd, where the shout comes once more from the back. His face is wild with anger and shock. NEHRU (hysterically) Who dares say such things! Who?! (And he is running at them and they spread in fear.) Come! Kill me first! Come! Where are you?! Kill me first! The crowd has spread from him all along the street; they stand against the walls of the houses staring at him, terrified to move. We see, just in passing, the frightened, apprehensive faces of Godse, and near him, Apte and Karkare. Nehru stands, staring at them all, his face seething with anger. TAHIB'S ROOF - EXTERIOR - DAY We are featuring a copy of Life Magazine. On the cover is a picture of rioting men fighting and diagonally a cut-out of Gandhi lying on his cot. The caption reads: "An Old Man's Battle." As the magazine starts to be opened, it is suddenly put to one side. Another angle. Mirabehn is rising, leaving the magazine at her feet. She moves to Nehru and Suhrawardy as Azad ushers them into the canopied area. Abdul Ghaffar Khan sits quietly in the background. Mirabehn speaks softly. MIRABEHN His pulse is very irregular -- the kidneys aren't functioning. Nehru looks across at Gandhi. The doctor, who is testing Gandhi's pulse yet again, glances at him -- no encouragement -- and moves away. Nehru moves to the side of the cot and Gandhi smiles weakly and holds out a hand, but he is in pain. NEHRU Bapu, I have brought Mr. Suhrawardy. It was he who called on the Muslims to rise; he is telling them now to go back to their homes, to lay down their arms. Gandhi looks up at Suhrawardy, who nods. Gandhi looks back at Nehru. There is no hint of him changing his mind. NEHRU (personally) Think what you can do by living -- that you cannot do by dying. Gandhi smiles whimsically, he touches him again but there is no change in his attitude. NEHRU (pleadingly) What do you want? GANDHI (a moment) That the fighting will stop -- that you make me believe it will never start again. Nehru looks at him hopelessly. SQUARE IN CALCUTTA - EXTERIOR - DAY A huge crowd, some smoke in distant buildings, some damage near to help us know this is still Calcutta, and all is not yet at peace. The camera sweeps over the crowd, past the loudspeakers on their poles. We see surly knots of belligerent rowdies, mostly young, but not all, hanging on the fringes as we move over the heads of the mass of listening people to a platform where Nehru speaks. Azad, Suhrawardy, and others sit on the floor behind him. We have heard his voice over all this. NEHRU ...Sometimes it is when you are quite without hope and in utter darkness that God comes to the rescue. Gandhiji is dying because of our madness. Put away your "revenge." What will be gained by more killing? Have the courage to do what you know is right. For God's sake, let us embrace like brothers... TAHIB'S ROOF - EXTERIOR - NIGHT Featuring the Muslim leader Suhrawardy, leaning against a wall, watching an action out of shot with evident tension. We hear a little clank of metal. Another angle. There are five men facing Gandhi. They wear black trousers and black knit vests. There are thongs around their arms that make their bulging muscles seem even more powerful. They are Hindu thugs (Goondas). Their clothes are dirty -- and they are too -- but they are laying knives and guns at Gandhi's feet. Mirabehn, Azad, Pyarelal, the doctor and others on the roof watch fascinated, a little frightened. GOONDA LEADER It is our promise. We stop. It is a promise. Gandhi is looking at him, testing, not giving or accepting anything that is mere gesture. GANDHI Go -- try -- God by with you. The Goondas stand. They glance at Suhrawardy; he smiles tautly and they start to leave, but one (Nahari) lingers. Suddenly he moves violently toward Gandhi, taking a flat piece of Indian bread (chapati) from his trousers and tossing it forcefully on Gandhi. NAHARI Eat. Mirabehn and Azad start to move toward him -- the man looks immensely strong and immensely unstable. But Gandhi holds up a shaking hand, stopping them. Nahari's face is knotted in emotion, half anger, half almost a child's fear -- but there is a wild menace in that instability. NAHARI Eat! I am going to hell -- but not with your death on my soul. GANDHI Only God decides who goes to hell... NAHARI (stiffening, aggressive) I -- I killed a child... (Then an anguished defiance) I smashed his head against a wall. Gandhi stares at him, breathless. GANDHI (in a fearful whisper) Why? Why? It is as though the man has told him of some terrible self- inflicted wound. NAHARI (tears now -- and wrath) They killed my son -- my boy! Almost reflexively he holds his hand out to indicate the height of his son. He glares at Suhrawardy and then back at Gandhi. NAHARI The Muslims killed my son... they killed him. He is sobbing, but in his anger it seems almost as though he means to kill Gandhi in retaliation. A long moment, as Gandhi meets his pain and wrath. Then GANDHI I know a way out of hell. Nahari sneers, but there is just a flicker of desperate curiosity. GANDHI Find a child -- a child whose mother and father have been killed. A little boy -- about this high. He raises his hand to the height Nahari has indicated as his son's. GANDHI ...and raise him -- as your own. Nahari has listened. His face almost cracks -- it is a chink of light, but it does not illumine his darkness. GANDHI Only be sure... that he is a Muslim. And that you raise him as one. And now the light falls on Nahari. His face stiffens, he swallows, fighting any show of emotion; then he turns to go. But he takes only a step and he turns back, going to his knees, the sobs breaking again and again from his heaving body as he holds his head to Gandhi's feet in the traditional greeting of Hindu son to Hindu father. A second, and Gandhi reaches out and touches the top of his head. Mirabehn watches. The Goondas watch. Suhrawardy watches. Finally GANDHI (gently, exhaustedly) Go -- go. God bless you... COURTYARD - POLICE STATION - CALCUTTA - EXTERIOR - NIGHT Trucks with riot squads (shields and truncheons) in place, but they are lounging, waiting. There is silence, and air of somnolence. Some of the riot squad lounge in little groups around the courtyard. A distant cough. Featuring a senior riot squad officer dressed and ready for action. He it is who coughed. He coughs again, clearing his throat. A police sergeant stands by him, both are reading the front page of a paper the senior riot squad officer holds. We see two huge lines of headline: GANDHI NEAR DEATH/NEHRU GOES ON FAST. In one of the trucks one of the men offers another a cigarette. A telephone rings sharply, inside. The senior riot squad officer and the sergeant run in as engines start; the men run to their places, lower visors, headlights go on! POLICE STATION OFFICE - INTERIOR - DAY A constable mans the telephone. He listens as the senior riot squad officer and the sergeant run to him tensely. The sound of the great doors opening in the courtyard, more engines revving up. CONSTABLE Yes, sir, yes, sir, (He holds up his hand to the senior officer) "Wait." He glances up at the senior riot squad officer. CONSTABLE (writing, from the phone) Accident, "Christie crossroads," a lorry and a rickshaw. Yes, sir, I have it. He shrugs at the senior riot squad officer and hands the information slip to another constable behind the desk. The sergeant sighs, and moves to the outside door. We hear him bellow, "Stand down." The constable hangs up and sighs heavily. The senior riot squad officer shakes his head, and turns and walks slowly to the door. COURTYARD - POLICE STATION - EXTERIOR - NIGHT The senior riot squad officer and the sergeant stand in the doorway as the engines die. The men relax... the silence returns. A dog barks distantly, disturbed by the noise... A bird caws once or twice. SERGEANT I wouldn't have believed it, Mr. Gupta. SENIOR OFFICER Sergeant, it's a bloody miracle... HIGH SHOT - CALCUTTA - EXTERIOR - NIGHT It lies in silence. TAHIB'S ROOF - EXTERIOR - DAY Mirabehn is bent over Gandhi. He is curled almost in the fetal position, his face looking wan and sunken. For the first time there is silence, no explosions, no distant shouts, no gunfire. MIRABEHN Bapu, there's been no fighting -- anywhere. It has stopped -- the madness has stopped. We see the police commissioner, Suhrawardy, two doctors, Abdul Ghaffar Khan, and some others. Nearer Gandhi, behind Mirabehn, are Nehru, Patel, Azad and Pyarelal. Gandhi turns to Mirabehn, his face shaking, peering into her eyes. GANDHI It is foolish if it is just to save the life of an old man. MIRABEHN No... no. In every temple and mosque they have pledged to die before they lift a hand against each other. His weary eyes look at her; he looks up slowly to Azad. Azad nods "It's true." Then Patel PATEL Everywhere. Gandhi looks at Nehru. Nehru just nods tautly. Gandhi looks down, then lifts his head to Azad. GANDHI Maulana, my friend, could I have some orange juice... Then you and I will take a piece of bread together... The relief brings water to their eyes and grins to their faces. Nehru bends to Gandhi. Gandhi holds his hand out to him, and Nehru clutches it. Then NEHRU You see, Bapu, it is not difficult. I have fasted only a few hours and I accomplished what you could not do in as many days. It is a joke in their way with each other and Gandhi's eyes light, his smile comes. But it is tired. He puts his other hand over Nehru's and Nehru lowers his head to it, crying silently. BIRLA HOUSE - EXTERIOR - DAY As in the opening sequence -- but a few minutes earlier. The crowd is beginning to gather for the evening prayers. We see a tonga or two, a gardener opening the gate to the garden, three policemen standing, talking idly among themselves. BIRLA HOUSE - INTERIOR - DAY Laughter. Gandhi is eating muli; he holds his head back to capture the lemon juice. We hear the click of a camera GANDHI That is how you eat muli. Manu hands him a cloth and he wipes his hands. Another click of a camera. He is not fully recovered, but well on the way. GANDHI (to the photographer) I'm not sure I want to be remembered that way. It is all light and for fun. We get a wide-angle shot now and see that Bourke-White is shooting one of her favorite subjects again. She is enjoying the banter, as is Mirabehn, who is spinning quietly to one side of the room, and Patel, who sits cross-legged like Gandhi on the floor. Pyarelal is working on papers with him but grins at this. BOURKE-WHITE Don't worry, with luck you may not be. And she shoots him again, as he hands the cloth back to Manu. Abha is sitting next to Manu, looking at a collection of pictures of Gandhi, obviously Bourke-White's. PATEL No, he'll be remembered for tempting fate. It is wry, but waspishly chiding. Abha suddenly holds a picture up for Gandhi to see. It's one of him, ears wide, eyes round. ABHA Mickey Mouse. Gandhi taps her on the head with his finger as she smiles. But Bourke-White has looked from Patel to Gandhi, clearly shaken by the implication in Patel's words. BOURKE-WHITE You really are going to Pakistan, then? (Gandhi shrugs, and she chides too) You are a stubborn man. GANDHI (a grin, in the mood of their "flirtation") I'm simply going to prove to Muslims there, and Hindus here, that the only devils in the world are those running around in our own hearts -- and that's where all our battles ought to be fought. Abha has signaled to the cheap watch dangling from his dhoti. He glances at it, and holds his arms out. The two girls help him. BOURKE-WHITE And what kind of a warrior have you been in that warfare? She is photographing his getting-up and leaning on the two girls. GANDHI Not a very good one. That's why I have so much tolerance for the other scoundrels of the world. He moves off, but has a sudden thought and turns to Patel. GANDHI Ask Panditji to -- to consider what we've discussed. Patel nods soberly and Gandhi starts for the door, Bourke- White moving with him. GANDHI (of the photographs) Enough. BOURKE-WHITE (a plea) One more. He has passed her, he's in the doorway. We see the crowd at the end of the garden, where the light of the day is beginning to soften. He turns, teasing in his slightly flirtatious way with women. GANDHI You're a temptress. She shoots him against the door -- the crowd milling distantly, waiting -- then she lowers her camera. BOURKE-WHITE Just an admirer... GANDHI Nothing's more dangerous, especially for an old man. He turns; the last words have betrayed the smile on his face; they have a painful sense of truth about them. Bourke-White watches as he moves into the garden toward the crowd in the distance. She turns to Mirabehn. BOURKE-WHITE There's a sadness in him. It's an observation -- and a question. Mirabehn accedes gravely. MIRABEHN He thinks he's failed. Bourke-White stares at her, then turns to look out at him. BOURKE-WHITE Why? My God, if anything's proved him right, it's what's happened these last months... Mirabehn nods, but she keeps on spinning and tries to sound cynically resigned but her innate emotionalism keeps breaking through in her voice and on her face. MIRABEHN I am blinded by my love of him, but I think when we most needed it, he offered the world a way out of madness. But he doesn't see it... and neither does the world. It is laced with pain. Bourke-White turns and looks out at Gandhi -- so tiny, so weak as he walks between his "props." He has now reached the end of the garden and is moving among the crowd assembled there. THE GARDEN - BIRLA HOUSE - EXTERIOR - TWILIGHT Gandhi is moving forward in the crowd, one hand resting on Manu, the other on Abha. He makes the pranam to someone, the crowd is bowing to him, some speaking, and we also see the crowd from his point of view -- "Bapu," "God bless you," "Thank you -- thank you." He turns to a very old woman, who makes a salaam to him. Gandhi touches her head. GANDHI Allah be with you. Smiling, he turns back. A jostling, the sound of beads falling. MANU (to someone) Brother, Bapu is already late for prayers. Gandhi turns to the person; he makes the pranam. Full shot. Godse is making the pranam to him and he suddenly, wildly draws his gun and fires. The camera closes on Gandhi as he staggers and falls, the red stain of blood seeping through his white shawl. GANDHI Oh, God... oh, God... Manu and Abha bend over him, silent in their first shock. The sound of panic and alarm begins to grow around them, they suddenly scream and begin to cry. MANU/ABHA Bapu! Bapu! FUNERAL PYRE - EXTERIOR - DAY Blackness. Silence. A moment -- we sense the blackness moving -- like dark smoke. The camera is pulling back very slowly and we can tell the blackness is smoke rising from a fire. And now we see that it is a funeral pyre. And all around that pyre a mass of silent humanity. Through the smoke, sitting cross-legged near the rim of the flames, we see Nehru... and Azad and Patel, Mirabehn and Kallenbach, the drawn faces of Lord and Lady Mountbatten, Manu and Abha... THE RIVER - EXTERIOR - DAY A helicopter shot coming slowly up the wide river, low, toward a barge and a mass of people in the distance. And now we are over the barge, and it is covered with flowers. Flowers flow downstream around it. An urn sits on it -- containing Gandhi's ashes -- and Nehru stands near it,

group

How many times the word 'group' appears in the text?

with them now the giant figure of Abdul Ghaffar Khan, the first time we have seen him among Gandhi's intimate group. NEHRU In Calcutta it's like civil war. The Muslims rose and there was a bloodbath, and now the Hindus are taking revenge -- and if we can't stop it there'll be no hope for the Hindus left in Pakistan. PATEL ...an eye for an eye making the whole world blind. It is an empty and despairing echo of Gandhi's words. AZAD Aren't there any troops to spare? NEHRU (tense, fragile) Nothing -- nothing. The divisions in Bombay and Delhi can hardly keep the peace now. And each fresh bit of news creates another wave of mad... ness. He has turned and seen Gandhi standing slowly. It has almost stopped him. PATEL Could we cut all news off? I know -- NEHRU Bapu -- please. Where are you going. GANDHI (sounding like an old man) I don't want to hear more... He is moving toward the door. It stops them all. Pyarelal moves tentatively to open the door. PATEL (impatiently) We need your help! GANDHI There is nothing I can give. AZAD Where are you going? Gandhi turns, looks at him bleakly. GANDHI Calcutta. CALCUTTA - EXTERIOR - NIGHT We are high. There are fires, the sounds of spasmodic gunfire, of looting, screams, the roar of police vehicles and occasional sirens. The camera zooms in on a poor quarter of artisan dwellings in narrow streets. Outside one of the houses is a car, an army jeep, policemen, a few soldiers and a group of people. It seems a little island of calm in a sea of wild chaos. On the roof of the house, a figure moves into the light. CLOSER - TAHIB'S ROOF The figure is Gandhi. He peers down at the dark, rioting streets. Azad, Tahib, a Muslim whose house this is, Mirabehn and Pyarelal are with him along Abdul Ghaffar Khan. A police commissioner moves to Gandhi's side, demanding his attention. POLICE COMMISSIONER Sir, please, I don't have the men to protect you -- not in a Muslim house. Not this quarter. GANDHI I am staying with the friend of a friend. There is a sudden commotion just below them and angry shouts: "Death to Muslims!," "Death to Muslims!" Gandhi peers down. His point of view. A surging gang of youths, many carrying torches, and far outnumbering the little group of police and soldiers, are shouting up at the roof. We see three or four black flags and stains of blood on many of them. A few hold knives still wet with blood. A YOUTH There he is! A feral roar goes up at the sight of Gandhi, but he stands unmoving. HINDU YOUTH LEADER (his voice emotional, tearful) Why are you staying at the home of a Muslim! They're murderers! They killed my family! Featuring Gandhi. It is a comment too grave for glibness, and Gandhi is obviously struck by the pain of it. He pauses for a moment, staring down at the youth: GANDHI Because forgiveness is the gift of the brave. He makes it mean the youth. For a second it makes an impact, but then the youth shouts his defiance at him and his message. YOUTH To hell with you, Gandhi!! An angry chorus of acclamation; when it dies GANDHI (to the youth) Go -- do as your mother and father would wish you to do. It is ambiguous, open-ended, meaning anything your mother and father would wish you to do. Tears flush from the boy's eyes and he stares at Gandhi with a kind of hopeless anguish and rage. But the impact is on the youth alone; around him the others begin to take up the chant "Death to Muslims!," "Death to Muslims!" Gandhi turns from the street. He looks at the police commissioner -- at his fatigue, his concern, his manifest respect. Gandhi musters a weary smile. GANDHI I have lived a lifetime. If I had shunned death -- or feared it -- I would not be here. Nor would you be concerned for me. (He lets it sink in then he takes the commissioner's arm and moves back toward the center of the roof.) Leave me -- and take your men. (An understanding touch of the arm.) You have more important things to worry about. The commissioner looks at him, uncertain, not knowing what to do, as the angry chanting continues above the sound of rioting. HOSPITAL - INTERIOR - DAY An old, inadequate hospital -- dark cavernous. Margaret Bourke- White is moving among the densely packed litter of wounded women. She is positioning herself to photograph Gandhi, who is speaking to a woman who cradles a small baby. The corridors behind him are even more packed. The few doctors and nurses hardly have room to move. Featuring Gandhi. Azad and Mirabehn are behind him as he moves on, and behind them, like a giant guardian, Abdul Ghaffar Khan. We hear "Bapu, Bapu" muttered quietly here and there. Gandhi bends to a woman whose face is bandaged and a cruel wound is half-exposed between her mouth and eye. WOMAN Bapu... Allah be with you... There are tears in Gandhi's eyes now. GANDHI And with you. (He touches her wrinkled hand.) Pray... I cannot help you -- pray... pray. And the weight of his helplessness hangs on him. CALCUTTA STREET - EXTERIOR - DAY A streetcar (tram) crashes into a barricade of carts, rickshaws, a couple of old cars, smashing through to breach the barricade, but stopped in the end by the mass of debris. The streetcar is loaded with Indian troops and they break from the stalled vehicle to chase A gang of Hindus -- organized -- runs down the street from the troops, some dragging the bodies of victims with them. We see several Hindu black flags. NEHRU'S OFFICE - INTERIOR - NIGHT He speaks across his desk to a senior police commissioner. The same activity going on in the background. NEHRU (angrily) No! There will not be a Hindu Police and a Muslim Police. There is one police! An aide slips a newspaper on his desk in front of him. He doesn't look at it till the senior commissioner lowers his head and turns, accepting defeat. Then Nehru glances at the paper. In thick headlines: GANDHI: A FAST UNTO DEATH! Nehru doesn't move for a moment. Then he lifts his face slowly to his aide. NEHRU Why must I read news like this in the paper? The aide shakes his head -- there's no answer. Nehru lowers his head again; it is like another burden on a man who already has too many. He grips his temples... a terrible sigh. NEHRU Tell Patel. Arrange a plane. We will go -- Friday. THE AIDE Four days? Nehru thinks on it solemnly, then nods yes. TAHIB'S HOUSE - EXTERIOR - DAY The sounds of rioting and looting on nearby streets, but here a mass of people are gathered. Many youths with black flags. Two black government limousines. Motorcycles. Police and soldiers. They are looking off to AN OUTSIDE STAIRCASE - TAHIB'S HOUSE It runs up the side of the building and is lined with waiting people. Nehru and Patel are climbing the stairs, moving past them almost irritably as they mutter "Nehru, Nehru," "Patel," and make the pranam to the eminent men. In the heat of the city Tahib's rooftop is still Gandhi's "home" and has become a center of activity. Azad clears someone aside and ushers Nehru and Patel under the canopy awning. Nehru pauses as he lowers his head. His point of view. Gandhi lies curled awkwardly on his side of the cot. He is writing, Pyarelal taking the pages as he finishes, both ignoring all the people, the sounds of gunfire and distant shouting, but he looks tired and tightens his jaw occasionally in pain. The camera pans. A doctor sits near the foot of the cot, Abdul Ghaffar Khan beyond him. Near the other edge of the canopied area, Mirabehn sits with Bourke-White. They are whispering quietly, but Mirabehn has stopped on seeing Nehru and she smiles a relieved greeting. She knows Gandhi's feeling for him. Bourke-White stares at him and Patel for a second and then her hand goes slowly, almost reflexively, for her camera. CLOSER ON GANDHI Nehru crosses and kneels so that he is almost at Gandhi's eyeline. Gandhi must take his eyes from his writing to look, and he is almost moved to tears at the sight of Nehru. His hand shakes a little as he holds it out to him. NEHRU Bapu... Gandhi turns to pat their joined hands with his other hand. He does so with effort, and at last he sees Patel. GANDHI Sardar... (He looks him over.) You have gained weight. You must join me in the fast. Patel sits near the head of the cot so the three of them are on a level. Outside the canopied area, Bourke-White is crouched, her camera framing the three of them. PATEL (wittily, warmly) If I fast I die. If you fast people go to all sorts of trouble to keep you alive. Gandhi smiles and reaches to touch hands with him. NEHRU Bapu, forgive me -- I've cheated. I could have come earlier. But your fast has helped. These last days people's minds have begun to turn to this bed -- and away from last night's atrocity. But now it is enough. Gandhi shakes his head. GANDHI All that has happened is that I've grown a little thinner. It is despairingly sincere. But Nehru feels he has an antidote for that despair. The distant sound of an explosion. NEHRU Tomorrow five thousand Muslim students of all ages are marching here in Calcutta -- for peace. (The real point) And five thousand Hindu students are marching with them. It is all organized. Bourke-White captures the sense of elation in his face. From her discreet distance, she lowers the camera, holding it against her mouth, waiting for Gandhi's response. Gandhi nods to Nehru, accepting the news with a sad wistfulness. GANDHI I'm glad -- but it will not be enough. Nehru isn't prepared for this resistance. He glances at Patel, and we see that they recognize that their bland conviction that they could talk him out of the fast was deeply misplaced. Nehru turns back -- this time no confidence, only concern. A forced smile. NEHRU Bapu, you are not so young anymore. Gandhi smiles, pain etched in his eyes. He touches Nehru's hand. GANDHI Don't worry for me -- death will be a deliverance. (There is water in his eyes, but his words have the weight of a man truly determined to die.) I cannot watch the destruction of all I have lived for. Nehru stares at him, feeling the sudden fear that Gandhi means it. Patel, Mirabehn, Azad, Bourke-White are gripped by the same realization. TAHIB'S HOUSE - EXTERIOR - NIGHT An outside broadcast truck is parked among the usual crowd, grown even larger now, and more women among them. The sounds of distant fighting. TAHIB'S ROOF - EXTERIOR - NIGHT The senior technician, in earphones, signals across to Mirabehn. She holds a microphone by Gandhi, who is lying on his side. He seems almost out of touch. MIRABEHN Bapu... Gandhi looks at her, and then the microphone. When he speaks into the microphone his voice is very weak. GANDHI Each night before I sleep, I read a few words from the Gita and the Koran, and the Bible... (we intercut with Bourke-White and those on the roof watching) tonight I ask you to share these thoughts of God with me. And now we go into the streets, intercutting with Gandhi but seeing Hindus listening around loudspeakers on corners, in little eating houses, Muslim shops where people live in the back, and neighbors gathering defensively in groups. GANDHI (the books are there, but he does it from memory of course) I will begin with the Bible where the words of the Lord are, "Love thy neighbor as thyself"... and then our beloved Gita which says, "The world is a garment worn by God, thy neighbor is in truth thyself"... and finally the Holy Koran, "We shall remove all hatred from our hearts and recline on couches face to face, a band of brothers." He leans back, exhausted. Mirabehn is looking at him; she starts to sing softly. MIRABEHN "Lead Kindly Light, amidst the circling gloom..." Gandhi, his eyes closed, takes it up in his weak, croaking voice. GANDHI/MIRABEHN "The night is dark, and I am far from home, Lead thou me on..." TAHIB'S HOUSE - EXTERIOR - DAY Two police motorcycles lead a black limousine to a stop before Tahib's house. The crowd now gathered is very large. More mixed than before but still predominantly of youths, many still with black flags. Nehru gets out of the limousine with a Muslim leader, a tough- looking man who carries himself with the authority and power of a mobster (Suhrawardy). And they start to go up the outside stairs. Suddenly we hear the shout "Death to Gandhi!," "Death to Gandhi!" And Nehru turns, pushing past Suhrawardy fiercely and going back onto the street. He runs at the crowd, where the shout comes once more from the back. His face is wild with anger and shock. NEHRU (hysterically) Who dares say such things! Who?! (And he is running at them and they spread in fear.) Come! Kill me first! Come! Where are you?! Kill me first! The crowd has spread from him all along the street; they stand against the walls of the houses staring at him, terrified to move. We see, just in passing, the frightened, apprehensive faces of Godse, and near him, Apte and Karkare. Nehru stands, staring at them all, his face seething with anger. TAHIB'S ROOF - EXTERIOR - DAY We are featuring a copy of Life Magazine. On the cover is a picture of rioting men fighting and diagonally a cut-out of Gandhi lying on his cot. The caption reads: "An Old Man's Battle." As the magazine starts to be opened, it is suddenly put to one side. Another angle. Mirabehn is rising, leaving the magazine at her feet. She moves to Nehru and Suhrawardy as Azad ushers them into the canopied area. Abdul Ghaffar Khan sits quietly in the background. Mirabehn speaks softly. MIRABEHN His pulse is very irregular -- the kidneys aren't functioning. Nehru looks across at Gandhi. The doctor, who is testing Gandhi's pulse yet again, glances at him -- no encouragement -- and moves away. Nehru moves to the side of the cot and Gandhi smiles weakly and holds out a hand, but he is in pain. NEHRU Bapu, I have brought Mr. Suhrawardy. It was he who called on the Muslims to rise; he is telling them now to go back to their homes, to lay down their arms. Gandhi looks up at Suhrawardy, who nods. Gandhi looks back at Nehru. There is no hint of him changing his mind. NEHRU (personally) Think what you can do by living -- that you cannot do by dying. Gandhi smiles whimsically, he touches him again but there is no change in his attitude. NEHRU (pleadingly) What do you want? GANDHI (a moment) That the fighting will stop -- that you make me believe it will never start again. Nehru looks at him hopelessly. SQUARE IN CALCUTTA - EXTERIOR - DAY A huge crowd, some smoke in distant buildings, some damage near to help us know this is still Calcutta, and all is not yet at peace. The camera sweeps over the crowd, past the loudspeakers on their poles. We see surly knots of belligerent rowdies, mostly young, but not all, hanging on the fringes as we move over the heads of the mass of listening people to a platform where Nehru speaks. Azad, Suhrawardy, and others sit on the floor behind him. We have heard his voice over all this. NEHRU ...Sometimes it is when you are quite without hope and in utter darkness that God comes to the rescue. Gandhiji is dying because of our madness. Put away your "revenge." What will be gained by more killing? Have the courage to do what you know is right. For God's sake, let us embrace like brothers... TAHIB'S ROOF - EXTERIOR - NIGHT Featuring the Muslim leader Suhrawardy, leaning against a wall, watching an action out of shot with evident tension. We hear a little clank of metal. Another angle. There are five men facing Gandhi. They wear black trousers and black knit vests. There are thongs around their arms that make their bulging muscles seem even more powerful. They are Hindu thugs (Goondas). Their clothes are dirty -- and they are too -- but they are laying knives and guns at Gandhi's feet. Mirabehn, Azad, Pyarelal, the doctor and others on the roof watch fascinated, a little frightened. GOONDA LEADER It is our promise. We stop. It is a promise. Gandhi is looking at him, testing, not giving or accepting anything that is mere gesture. GANDHI Go -- try -- God by with you. The Goondas stand. They glance at Suhrawardy; he smiles tautly and they start to leave, but one (Nahari) lingers. Suddenly he moves violently toward Gandhi, taking a flat piece of Indian bread (chapati) from his trousers and tossing it forcefully on Gandhi. NAHARI Eat. Mirabehn and Azad start to move toward him -- the man looks immensely strong and immensely unstable. But Gandhi holds up a shaking hand, stopping them. Nahari's face is knotted in emotion, half anger, half almost a child's fear -- but there is a wild menace in that instability. NAHARI Eat! I am going to hell -- but not with your death on my soul. GANDHI Only God decides who goes to hell... NAHARI (stiffening, aggressive) I -- I killed a child... (Then an anguished defiance) I smashed his head against a wall. Gandhi stares at him, breathless. GANDHI (in a fearful whisper) Why? Why? It is as though the man has told him of some terrible self- inflicted wound. NAHARI (tears now -- and wrath) They killed my son -- my boy! Almost reflexively he holds his hand out to indicate the height of his son. He glares at Suhrawardy and then back at Gandhi. NAHARI The Muslims killed my son... they killed him. He is sobbing, but in his anger it seems almost as though he means to kill Gandhi in retaliation. A long moment, as Gandhi meets his pain and wrath. Then GANDHI I know a way out of hell. Nahari sneers, but there is just a flicker of desperate curiosity. GANDHI Find a child -- a child whose mother and father have been killed. A little boy -- about this high. He raises his hand to the height Nahari has indicated as his son's. GANDHI ...and raise him -- as your own. Nahari has listened. His face almost cracks -- it is a chink of light, but it does not illumine his darkness. GANDHI Only be sure... that he is a Muslim. And that you raise him as one. And now the light falls on Nahari. His face stiffens, he swallows, fighting any show of emotion; then he turns to go. But he takes only a step and he turns back, going to his knees, the sobs breaking again and again from his heaving body as he holds his head to Gandhi's feet in the traditional greeting of Hindu son to Hindu father. A second, and Gandhi reaches out and touches the top of his head. Mirabehn watches. The Goondas watch. Suhrawardy watches. Finally GANDHI (gently, exhaustedly) Go -- go. God bless you... COURTYARD - POLICE STATION - CALCUTTA - EXTERIOR - NIGHT Trucks with riot squads (shields and truncheons) in place, but they are lounging, waiting. There is silence, and air of somnolence. Some of the riot squad lounge in little groups around the courtyard. A distant cough. Featuring a senior riot squad officer dressed and ready for action. He it is who coughed. He coughs again, clearing his throat. A police sergeant stands by him, both are reading the front page of a paper the senior riot squad officer holds. We see two huge lines of headline: GANDHI NEAR DEATH/NEHRU GOES ON FAST. In one of the trucks one of the men offers another a cigarette. A telephone rings sharply, inside. The senior riot squad officer and the sergeant run in as engines start; the men run to their places, lower visors, headlights go on! POLICE STATION OFFICE - INTERIOR - DAY A constable mans the telephone. He listens as the senior riot squad officer and the sergeant run to him tensely. The sound of the great doors opening in the courtyard, more engines revving up. CONSTABLE Yes, sir, yes, sir, (He holds up his hand to the senior officer) "Wait." He glances up at the senior riot squad officer. CONSTABLE (writing, from the phone) Accident, "Christie crossroads," a lorry and a rickshaw. Yes, sir, I have it. He shrugs at the senior riot squad officer and hands the information slip to another constable behind the desk. The sergeant sighs, and moves to the outside door. We hear him bellow, "Stand down." The constable hangs up and sighs heavily. The senior riot squad officer shakes his head, and turns and walks slowly to the door. COURTYARD - POLICE STATION - EXTERIOR - NIGHT The senior riot squad officer and the sergeant stand in the doorway as the engines die. The men relax... the silence returns. A dog barks distantly, disturbed by the noise... A bird caws once or twice. SERGEANT I wouldn't have believed it, Mr. Gupta. SENIOR OFFICER Sergeant, it's a bloody miracle... HIGH SHOT - CALCUTTA - EXTERIOR - NIGHT It lies in silence. TAHIB'S ROOF - EXTERIOR - DAY Mirabehn is bent over Gandhi. He is curled almost in the fetal position, his face looking wan and sunken. For the first time there is silence, no explosions, no distant shouts, no gunfire. MIRABEHN Bapu, there's been no fighting -- anywhere. It has stopped -- the madness has stopped. We see the police commissioner, Suhrawardy, two doctors, Abdul Ghaffar Khan, and some others. Nearer Gandhi, behind Mirabehn, are Nehru, Patel, Azad and Pyarelal. Gandhi turns to Mirabehn, his face shaking, peering into her eyes. GANDHI It is foolish if it is just to save the life of an old man. MIRABEHN No... no. In every temple and mosque they have pledged to die before they lift a hand against each other. His weary eyes look at her; he looks up slowly to Azad. Azad nods "It's true." Then Patel PATEL Everywhere. Gandhi looks at Nehru. Nehru just nods tautly. Gandhi looks down, then lifts his head to Azad. GANDHI Maulana, my friend, could I have some orange juice... Then you and I will take a piece of bread together... The relief brings water to their eyes and grins to their faces. Nehru bends to Gandhi. Gandhi holds his hand out to him, and Nehru clutches it. Then NEHRU You see, Bapu, it is not difficult. I have fasted only a few hours and I accomplished what you could not do in as many days. It is a joke in their way with each other and Gandhi's eyes light, his smile comes. But it is tired. He puts his other hand over Nehru's and Nehru lowers his head to it, crying silently. BIRLA HOUSE - EXTERIOR - DAY As in the opening sequence -- but a few minutes earlier. The crowd is beginning to gather for the evening prayers. We see a tonga or two, a gardener opening the gate to the garden, three policemen standing, talking idly among themselves. BIRLA HOUSE - INTERIOR - DAY Laughter. Gandhi is eating muli; he holds his head back to capture the lemon juice. We hear the click of a camera GANDHI That is how you eat muli. Manu hands him a cloth and he wipes his hands. Another click of a camera. He is not fully recovered, but well on the way. GANDHI (to the photographer) I'm not sure I want to be remembered that way. It is all light and for fun. We get a wide-angle shot now and see that Bourke-White is shooting one of her favorite subjects again. She is enjoying the banter, as is Mirabehn, who is spinning quietly to one side of the room, and Patel, who sits cross-legged like Gandhi on the floor. Pyarelal is working on papers with him but grins at this. BOURKE-WHITE Don't worry, with luck you may not be. And she shoots him again, as he hands the cloth back to Manu. Abha is sitting next to Manu, looking at a collection of pictures of Gandhi, obviously Bourke-White's. PATEL No, he'll be remembered for tempting fate. It is wry, but waspishly chiding. Abha suddenly holds a picture up for Gandhi to see. It's one of him, ears wide, eyes round. ABHA Mickey Mouse. Gandhi taps her on the head with his finger as she smiles. But Bourke-White has looked from Patel to Gandhi, clearly shaken by the implication in Patel's words. BOURKE-WHITE You really are going to Pakistan, then? (Gandhi shrugs, and she chides too) You are a stubborn man. GANDHI (a grin, in the mood of their "flirtation") I'm simply going to prove to Muslims there, and Hindus here, that the only devils in the world are those running around in our own hearts -- and that's where all our battles ought to be fought. Abha has signaled to the cheap watch dangling from his dhoti. He glances at it, and holds his arms out. The two girls help him. BOURKE-WHITE And what kind of a warrior have you been in that warfare? She is photographing his getting-up and leaning on the two girls. GANDHI Not a very good one. That's why I have so much tolerance for the other scoundrels of the world. He moves off, but has a sudden thought and turns to Patel. GANDHI Ask Panditji to -- to consider what we've discussed. Patel nods soberly and Gandhi starts for the door, Bourke- White moving with him. GANDHI (of the photographs) Enough. BOURKE-WHITE (a plea) One more. He has passed her, he's in the doorway. We see the crowd at the end of the garden, where the light of the day is beginning to soften. He turns, teasing in his slightly flirtatious way with women. GANDHI You're a temptress. She shoots him against the door -- the crowd milling distantly, waiting -- then she lowers her camera. BOURKE-WHITE Just an admirer... GANDHI Nothing's more dangerous, especially for an old man. He turns; the last words have betrayed the smile on his face; they have a painful sense of truth about them. Bourke-White watches as he moves into the garden toward the crowd in the distance. She turns to Mirabehn. BOURKE-WHITE There's a sadness in him. It's an observation -- and a question. Mirabehn accedes gravely. MIRABEHN He thinks he's failed. Bourke-White stares at her, then turns to look out at him. BOURKE-WHITE Why? My God, if anything's proved him right, it's what's happened these last months... Mirabehn nods, but she keeps on spinning and tries to sound cynically resigned but her innate emotionalism keeps breaking through in her voice and on her face. MIRABEHN I am blinded by my love of him, but I think when we most needed it, he offered the world a way out of madness. But he doesn't see it... and neither does the world. It is laced with pain. Bourke-White turns and looks out at Gandhi -- so tiny, so weak as he walks between his "props." He has now reached the end of the garden and is moving among the crowd assembled there. THE GARDEN - BIRLA HOUSE - EXTERIOR - TWILIGHT Gandhi is moving forward in the crowd, one hand resting on Manu, the other on Abha. He makes the pranam to someone, the crowd is bowing to him, some speaking, and we also see the crowd from his point of view -- "Bapu," "God bless you," "Thank you -- thank you." He turns to a very old woman, who makes a salaam to him. Gandhi touches her head. GANDHI Allah be with you. Smiling, he turns back. A jostling, the sound of beads falling. MANU (to someone) Brother, Bapu is already late for prayers. Gandhi turns to the person; he makes the pranam. Full shot. Godse is making the pranam to him and he suddenly, wildly draws his gun and fires. The camera closes on Gandhi as he staggers and falls, the red stain of blood seeping through his white shawl. GANDHI Oh, God... oh, God... Manu and Abha bend over him, silent in their first shock. The sound of panic and alarm begins to grow around them, they suddenly scream and begin to cry. MANU/ABHA Bapu! Bapu! FUNERAL PYRE - EXTERIOR - DAY Blackness. Silence. A moment -- we sense the blackness moving -- like dark smoke. The camera is pulling back very slowly and we can tell the blackness is smoke rising from a fire. And now we see that it is a funeral pyre. And all around that pyre a mass of silent humanity. Through the smoke, sitting cross-legged near the rim of the flames, we see Nehru... and Azad and Patel, Mirabehn and Kallenbach, the drawn faces of Lord and Lady Mountbatten, Manu and Abha... THE RIVER - EXTERIOR - DAY A helicopter shot coming slowly up the wide river, low, toward a barge and a mass of people in the distance. And now we are over the barge, and it is covered with flowers. Flowers flow downstream around it. An urn sits on it -- containing Gandhi's ashes -- and Nehru stands near it,

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with them now the giant figure of Abdul Ghaffar Khan, the first time we have seen him among Gandhi's intimate group. NEHRU In Calcutta it's like civil war. The Muslims rose and there was a bloodbath, and now the Hindus are taking revenge -- and if we can't stop it there'll be no hope for the Hindus left in Pakistan. PATEL ...an eye for an eye making the whole world blind. It is an empty and despairing echo of Gandhi's words. AZAD Aren't there any troops to spare? NEHRU (tense, fragile) Nothing -- nothing. The divisions in Bombay and Delhi can hardly keep the peace now. And each fresh bit of news creates another wave of mad... ness. He has turned and seen Gandhi standing slowly. It has almost stopped him. PATEL Could we cut all news off? I know -- NEHRU Bapu -- please. Where are you going. GANDHI (sounding like an old man) I don't want to hear more... He is moving toward the door. It stops them all. Pyarelal moves tentatively to open the door. PATEL (impatiently) We need your help! GANDHI There is nothing I can give. AZAD Where are you going? Gandhi turns, looks at him bleakly. GANDHI Calcutta. CALCUTTA - EXTERIOR - NIGHT We are high. There are fires, the sounds of spasmodic gunfire, of looting, screams, the roar of police vehicles and occasional sirens. The camera zooms in on a poor quarter of artisan dwellings in narrow streets. Outside one of the houses is a car, an army jeep, policemen, a few soldiers and a group of people. It seems a little island of calm in a sea of wild chaos. On the roof of the house, a figure moves into the light. CLOSER - TAHIB'S ROOF The figure is Gandhi. He peers down at the dark, rioting streets. Azad, Tahib, a Muslim whose house this is, Mirabehn and Pyarelal are with him along Abdul Ghaffar Khan. A police commissioner moves to Gandhi's side, demanding his attention. POLICE COMMISSIONER Sir, please, I don't have the men to protect you -- not in a Muslim house. Not this quarter. GANDHI I am staying with the friend of a friend. There is a sudden commotion just below them and angry shouts: "Death to Muslims!," "Death to Muslims!" Gandhi peers down. His point of view. A surging gang of youths, many carrying torches, and far outnumbering the little group of police and soldiers, are shouting up at the roof. We see three or four black flags and stains of blood on many of them. A few hold knives still wet with blood. A YOUTH There he is! A feral roar goes up at the sight of Gandhi, but he stands unmoving. HINDU YOUTH LEADER (his voice emotional, tearful) Why are you staying at the home of a Muslim! They're murderers! They killed my family! Featuring Gandhi. It is a comment too grave for glibness, and Gandhi is obviously struck by the pain of it. He pauses for a moment, staring down at the youth: GANDHI Because forgiveness is the gift of the brave. He makes it mean the youth. For a second it makes an impact, but then the youth shouts his defiance at him and his message. YOUTH To hell with you, Gandhi!! An angry chorus of acclamation; when it dies GANDHI (to the youth) Go -- do as your mother and father would wish you to do. It is ambiguous, open-ended, meaning anything your mother and father would wish you to do. Tears flush from the boy's eyes and he stares at Gandhi with a kind of hopeless anguish and rage. But the impact is on the youth alone; around him the others begin to take up the chant "Death to Muslims!," "Death to Muslims!" Gandhi turns from the street. He looks at the police commissioner -- at his fatigue, his concern, his manifest respect. Gandhi musters a weary smile. GANDHI I have lived a lifetime. If I had shunned death -- or feared it -- I would not be here. Nor would you be concerned for me. (He lets it sink in then he takes the commissioner's arm and moves back toward the center of the roof.) Leave me -- and take your men. (An understanding touch of the arm.) You have more important things to worry about. The commissioner looks at him, uncertain, not knowing what to do, as the angry chanting continues above the sound of rioting. HOSPITAL - INTERIOR - DAY An old, inadequate hospital -- dark cavernous. Margaret Bourke- White is moving among the densely packed litter of wounded women. She is positioning herself to photograph Gandhi, who is speaking to a woman who cradles a small baby. The corridors behind him are even more packed. The few doctors and nurses hardly have room to move. Featuring Gandhi. Azad and Mirabehn are behind him as he moves on, and behind them, like a giant guardian, Abdul Ghaffar Khan. We hear "Bapu, Bapu" muttered quietly here and there. Gandhi bends to a woman whose face is bandaged and a cruel wound is half-exposed between her mouth and eye. WOMAN Bapu... Allah be with you... There are tears in Gandhi's eyes now. GANDHI And with you. (He touches her wrinkled hand.) Pray... I cannot help you -- pray... pray. And the weight of his helplessness hangs on him. CALCUTTA STREET - EXTERIOR - DAY A streetcar (tram) crashes into a barricade of carts, rickshaws, a couple of old cars, smashing through to breach the barricade, but stopped in the end by the mass of debris. The streetcar is loaded with Indian troops and they break from the stalled vehicle to chase A gang of Hindus -- organized -- runs down the street from the troops, some dragging the bodies of victims with them. We see several Hindu black flags. NEHRU'S OFFICE - INTERIOR - NIGHT He speaks across his desk to a senior police commissioner. The same activity going on in the background. NEHRU (angrily) No! There will not be a Hindu Police and a Muslim Police. There is one police! An aide slips a newspaper on his desk in front of him. He doesn't look at it till the senior commissioner lowers his head and turns, accepting defeat. Then Nehru glances at the paper. In thick headlines: GANDHI: A FAST UNTO DEATH! Nehru doesn't move for a moment. Then he lifts his face slowly to his aide. NEHRU Why must I read news like this in the paper? The aide shakes his head -- there's no answer. Nehru lowers his head again; it is like another burden on a man who already has too many. He grips his temples... a terrible sigh. NEHRU Tell Patel. Arrange a plane. We will go -- Friday. THE AIDE Four days? Nehru thinks on it solemnly, then nods yes. TAHIB'S HOUSE - EXTERIOR - DAY The sounds of rioting and looting on nearby streets, but here a mass of people are gathered. Many youths with black flags. Two black government limousines. Motorcycles. Police and soldiers. They are looking off to AN OUTSIDE STAIRCASE - TAHIB'S HOUSE It runs up the side of the building and is lined with waiting people. Nehru and Patel are climbing the stairs, moving past them almost irritably as they mutter "Nehru, Nehru," "Patel," and make the pranam to the eminent men. In the heat of the city Tahib's rooftop is still Gandhi's "home" and has become a center of activity. Azad clears someone aside and ushers Nehru and Patel under the canopy awning. Nehru pauses as he lowers his head. His point of view. Gandhi lies curled awkwardly on his side of the cot. He is writing, Pyarelal taking the pages as he finishes, both ignoring all the people, the sounds of gunfire and distant shouting, but he looks tired and tightens his jaw occasionally in pain. The camera pans. A doctor sits near the foot of the cot, Abdul Ghaffar Khan beyond him. Near the other edge of the canopied area, Mirabehn sits with Bourke-White. They are whispering quietly, but Mirabehn has stopped on seeing Nehru and she smiles a relieved greeting. She knows Gandhi's feeling for him. Bourke-White stares at him and Patel for a second and then her hand goes slowly, almost reflexively, for her camera. CLOSER ON GANDHI Nehru crosses and kneels so that he is almost at Gandhi's eyeline. Gandhi must take his eyes from his writing to look, and he is almost moved to tears at the sight of Nehru. His hand shakes a little as he holds it out to him. NEHRU Bapu... Gandhi turns to pat their joined hands with his other hand. He does so with effort, and at last he sees Patel. GANDHI Sardar... (He looks him over.) You have gained weight. You must join me in the fast. Patel sits near the head of the cot so the three of them are on a level. Outside the canopied area, Bourke-White is crouched, her camera framing the three of them. PATEL (wittily, warmly) If I fast I die. If you fast people go to all sorts of trouble to keep you alive. Gandhi smiles and reaches to touch hands with him. NEHRU Bapu, forgive me -- I've cheated. I could have come earlier. But your fast has helped. These last days people's minds have begun to turn to this bed -- and away from last night's atrocity. But now it is enough. Gandhi shakes his head. GANDHI All that has happened is that I've grown a little thinner. It is despairingly sincere. But Nehru feels he has an antidote for that despair. The distant sound of an explosion. NEHRU Tomorrow five thousand Muslim students of all ages are marching here in Calcutta -- for peace. (The real point) And five thousand Hindu students are marching with them. It is all organized. Bourke-White captures the sense of elation in his face. From her discreet distance, she lowers the camera, holding it against her mouth, waiting for Gandhi's response. Gandhi nods to Nehru, accepting the news with a sad wistfulness. GANDHI I'm glad -- but it will not be enough. Nehru isn't prepared for this resistance. He glances at Patel, and we see that they recognize that their bland conviction that they could talk him out of the fast was deeply misplaced. Nehru turns back -- this time no confidence, only concern. A forced smile. NEHRU Bapu, you are not so young anymore. Gandhi smiles, pain etched in his eyes. He touches Nehru's hand. GANDHI Don't worry for me -- death will be a deliverance. (There is water in his eyes, but his words have the weight of a man truly determined to die.) I cannot watch the destruction of all I have lived for. Nehru stares at him, feeling the sudden fear that Gandhi means it. Patel, Mirabehn, Azad, Bourke-White are gripped by the same realization. TAHIB'S HOUSE - EXTERIOR - NIGHT An outside broadcast truck is parked among the usual crowd, grown even larger now, and more women among them. The sounds of distant fighting. TAHIB'S ROOF - EXTERIOR - NIGHT The senior technician, in earphones, signals across to Mirabehn. She holds a microphone by Gandhi, who is lying on his side. He seems almost out of touch. MIRABEHN Bapu... Gandhi looks at her, and then the microphone. When he speaks into the microphone his voice is very weak. GANDHI Each night before I sleep, I read a few words from the Gita and the Koran, and the Bible... (we intercut with Bourke-White and those on the roof watching) tonight I ask you to share these thoughts of God with me. And now we go into the streets, intercutting with Gandhi but seeing Hindus listening around loudspeakers on corners, in little eating houses, Muslim shops where people live in the back, and neighbors gathering defensively in groups. GANDHI (the books are there, but he does it from memory of course) I will begin with the Bible where the words of the Lord are, "Love thy neighbor as thyself"... and then our beloved Gita which says, "The world is a garment worn by God, thy neighbor is in truth thyself"... and finally the Holy Koran, "We shall remove all hatred from our hearts and recline on couches face to face, a band of brothers." He leans back, exhausted. Mirabehn is looking at him; she starts to sing softly. MIRABEHN "Lead Kindly Light, amidst the circling gloom..." Gandhi, his eyes closed, takes it up in his weak, croaking voice. GANDHI/MIRABEHN "The night is dark, and I am far from home, Lead thou me on..." TAHIB'S HOUSE - EXTERIOR - DAY Two police motorcycles lead a black limousine to a stop before Tahib's house. The crowd now gathered is very large. More mixed than before but still predominantly of youths, many still with black flags. Nehru gets out of the limousine with a Muslim leader, a tough- looking man who carries himself with the authority and power of a mobster (Suhrawardy). And they start to go up the outside stairs. Suddenly we hear the shout "Death to Gandhi!," "Death to Gandhi!" And Nehru turns, pushing past Suhrawardy fiercely and going back onto the street. He runs at the crowd, where the shout comes once more from the back. His face is wild with anger and shock. NEHRU (hysterically) Who dares say such things! Who?! (And he is running at them and they spread in fear.) Come! Kill me first! Come! Where are you?! Kill me first! The crowd has spread from him all along the street; they stand against the walls of the houses staring at him, terrified to move. We see, just in passing, the frightened, apprehensive faces of Godse, and near him, Apte and Karkare. Nehru stands, staring at them all, his face seething with anger. TAHIB'S ROOF - EXTERIOR - DAY We are featuring a copy of Life Magazine. On the cover is a picture of rioting men fighting and diagonally a cut-out of Gandhi lying on his cot. The caption reads: "An Old Man's Battle." As the magazine starts to be opened, it is suddenly put to one side. Another angle. Mirabehn is rising, leaving the magazine at her feet. She moves to Nehru and Suhrawardy as Azad ushers them into the canopied area. Abdul Ghaffar Khan sits quietly in the background. Mirabehn speaks softly. MIRABEHN His pulse is very irregular -- the kidneys aren't functioning. Nehru looks across at Gandhi. The doctor, who is testing Gandhi's pulse yet again, glances at him -- no encouragement -- and moves away. Nehru moves to the side of the cot and Gandhi smiles weakly and holds out a hand, but he is in pain. NEHRU Bapu, I have brought Mr. Suhrawardy. It was he who called on the Muslims to rise; he is telling them now to go back to their homes, to lay down their arms. Gandhi looks up at Suhrawardy, who nods. Gandhi looks back at Nehru. There is no hint of him changing his mind. NEHRU (personally) Think what you can do by living -- that you cannot do by dying. Gandhi smiles whimsically, he touches him again but there is no change in his attitude. NEHRU (pleadingly) What do you want? GANDHI (a moment) That the fighting will stop -- that you make me believe it will never start again. Nehru looks at him hopelessly. SQUARE IN CALCUTTA - EXTERIOR - DAY A huge crowd, some smoke in distant buildings, some damage near to help us know this is still Calcutta, and all is not yet at peace. The camera sweeps over the crowd, past the loudspeakers on their poles. We see surly knots of belligerent rowdies, mostly young, but not all, hanging on the fringes as we move over the heads of the mass of listening people to a platform where Nehru speaks. Azad, Suhrawardy, and others sit on the floor behind him. We have heard his voice over all this. NEHRU ...Sometimes it is when you are quite without hope and in utter darkness that God comes to the rescue. Gandhiji is dying because of our madness. Put away your "revenge." What will be gained by more killing? Have the courage to do what you know is right. For God's sake, let us embrace like brothers... TAHIB'S ROOF - EXTERIOR - NIGHT Featuring the Muslim leader Suhrawardy, leaning against a wall, watching an action out of shot with evident tension. We hear a little clank of metal. Another angle. There are five men facing Gandhi. They wear black trousers and black knit vests. There are thongs around their arms that make their bulging muscles seem even more powerful. They are Hindu thugs (Goondas). Their clothes are dirty -- and they are too -- but they are laying knives and guns at Gandhi's feet. Mirabehn, Azad, Pyarelal, the doctor and others on the roof watch fascinated, a little frightened. GOONDA LEADER It is our promise. We stop. It is a promise. Gandhi is looking at him, testing, not giving or accepting anything that is mere gesture. GANDHI Go -- try -- God by with you. The Goondas stand. They glance at Suhrawardy; he smiles tautly and they start to leave, but one (Nahari) lingers. Suddenly he moves violently toward Gandhi, taking a flat piece of Indian bread (chapati) from his trousers and tossing it forcefully on Gandhi. NAHARI Eat. Mirabehn and Azad start to move toward him -- the man looks immensely strong and immensely unstable. But Gandhi holds up a shaking hand, stopping them. Nahari's face is knotted in emotion, half anger, half almost a child's fear -- but there is a wild menace in that instability. NAHARI Eat! I am going to hell -- but not with your death on my soul. GANDHI Only God decides who goes to hell... NAHARI (stiffening, aggressive) I -- I killed a child... (Then an anguished defiance) I smashed his head against a wall. Gandhi stares at him, breathless. GANDHI (in a fearful whisper) Why? Why? It is as though the man has told him of some terrible self- inflicted wound. NAHARI (tears now -- and wrath) They killed my son -- my boy! Almost reflexively he holds his hand out to indicate the height of his son. He glares at Suhrawardy and then back at Gandhi. NAHARI The Muslims killed my son... they killed him. He is sobbing, but in his anger it seems almost as though he means to kill Gandhi in retaliation. A long moment, as Gandhi meets his pain and wrath. Then GANDHI I know a way out of hell. Nahari sneers, but there is just a flicker of desperate curiosity. GANDHI Find a child -- a child whose mother and father have been killed. A little boy -- about this high. He raises his hand to the height Nahari has indicated as his son's. GANDHI ...and raise him -- as your own. Nahari has listened. His face almost cracks -- it is a chink of light, but it does not illumine his darkness. GANDHI Only be sure... that he is a Muslim. And that you raise him as one. And now the light falls on Nahari. His face stiffens, he swallows, fighting any show of emotion; then he turns to go. But he takes only a step and he turns back, going to his knees, the sobs breaking again and again from his heaving body as he holds his head to Gandhi's feet in the traditional greeting of Hindu son to Hindu father. A second, and Gandhi reaches out and touches the top of his head. Mirabehn watches. The Goondas watch. Suhrawardy watches. Finally GANDHI (gently, exhaustedly) Go -- go. God bless you... COURTYARD - POLICE STATION - CALCUTTA - EXTERIOR - NIGHT Trucks with riot squads (shields and truncheons) in place, but they are lounging, waiting. There is silence, and air of somnolence. Some of the riot squad lounge in little groups around the courtyard. A distant cough. Featuring a senior riot squad officer dressed and ready for action. He it is who coughed. He coughs again, clearing his throat. A police sergeant stands by him, both are reading the front page of a paper the senior riot squad officer holds. We see two huge lines of headline: GANDHI NEAR DEATH/NEHRU GOES ON FAST. In one of the trucks one of the men offers another a cigarette. A telephone rings sharply, inside. The senior riot squad officer and the sergeant run in as engines start; the men run to their places, lower visors, headlights go on! POLICE STATION OFFICE - INTERIOR - DAY A constable mans the telephone. He listens as the senior riot squad officer and the sergeant run to him tensely. The sound of the great doors opening in the courtyard, more engines revving up. CONSTABLE Yes, sir, yes, sir, (He holds up his hand to the senior officer) "Wait." He glances up at the senior riot squad officer. CONSTABLE (writing, from the phone) Accident, "Christie crossroads," a lorry and a rickshaw. Yes, sir, I have it. He shrugs at the senior riot squad officer and hands the information slip to another constable behind the desk. The sergeant sighs, and moves to the outside door. We hear him bellow, "Stand down." The constable hangs up and sighs heavily. The senior riot squad officer shakes his head, and turns and walks slowly to the door. COURTYARD - POLICE STATION - EXTERIOR - NIGHT The senior riot squad officer and the sergeant stand in the doorway as the engines die. The men relax... the silence returns. A dog barks distantly, disturbed by the noise... A bird caws once or twice. SERGEANT I wouldn't have believed it, Mr. Gupta. SENIOR OFFICER Sergeant, it's a bloody miracle... HIGH SHOT - CALCUTTA - EXTERIOR - NIGHT It lies in silence. TAHIB'S ROOF - EXTERIOR - DAY Mirabehn is bent over Gandhi. He is curled almost in the fetal position, his face looking wan and sunken. For the first time there is silence, no explosions, no distant shouts, no gunfire. MIRABEHN Bapu, there's been no fighting -- anywhere. It has stopped -- the madness has stopped. We see the police commissioner, Suhrawardy, two doctors, Abdul Ghaffar Khan, and some others. Nearer Gandhi, behind Mirabehn, are Nehru, Patel, Azad and Pyarelal. Gandhi turns to Mirabehn, his face shaking, peering into her eyes. GANDHI It is foolish if it is just to save the life of an old man. MIRABEHN No... no. In every temple and mosque they have pledged to die before they lift a hand against each other. His weary eyes look at her; he looks up slowly to Azad. Azad nods "It's true." Then Patel PATEL Everywhere. Gandhi looks at Nehru. Nehru just nods tautly. Gandhi looks down, then lifts his head to Azad. GANDHI Maulana, my friend, could I have some orange juice... Then you and I will take a piece of bread together... The relief brings water to their eyes and grins to their faces. Nehru bends to Gandhi. Gandhi holds his hand out to him, and Nehru clutches it. Then NEHRU You see, Bapu, it is not difficult. I have fasted only a few hours and I accomplished what you could not do in as many days. It is a joke in their way with each other and Gandhi's eyes light, his smile comes. But it is tired. He puts his other hand over Nehru's and Nehru lowers his head to it, crying silently. BIRLA HOUSE - EXTERIOR - DAY As in the opening sequence -- but a few minutes earlier. The crowd is beginning to gather for the evening prayers. We see a tonga or two, a gardener opening the gate to the garden, three policemen standing, talking idly among themselves. BIRLA HOUSE - INTERIOR - DAY Laughter. Gandhi is eating muli; he holds his head back to capture the lemon juice. We hear the click of a camera GANDHI That is how you eat muli. Manu hands him a cloth and he wipes his hands. Another click of a camera. He is not fully recovered, but well on the way. GANDHI (to the photographer) I'm not sure I want to be remembered that way. It is all light and for fun. We get a wide-angle shot now and see that Bourke-White is shooting one of her favorite subjects again. She is enjoying the banter, as is Mirabehn, who is spinning quietly to one side of the room, and Patel, who sits cross-legged like Gandhi on the floor. Pyarelal is working on papers with him but grins at this. BOURKE-WHITE Don't worry, with luck you may not be. And she shoots him again, as he hands the cloth back to Manu. Abha is sitting next to Manu, looking at a collection of pictures of Gandhi, obviously Bourke-White's. PATEL No, he'll be remembered for tempting fate. It is wry, but waspishly chiding. Abha suddenly holds a picture up for Gandhi to see. It's one of him, ears wide, eyes round. ABHA Mickey Mouse. Gandhi taps her on the head with his finger as she smiles. But Bourke-White has looked from Patel to Gandhi, clearly shaken by the implication in Patel's words. BOURKE-WHITE You really are going to Pakistan, then? (Gandhi shrugs, and she chides too) You are a stubborn man. GANDHI (a grin, in the mood of their "flirtation") I'm simply going to prove to Muslims there, and Hindus here, that the only devils in the world are those running around in our own hearts -- and that's where all our battles ought to be fought. Abha has signaled to the cheap watch dangling from his dhoti. He glances at it, and holds his arms out. The two girls help him. BOURKE-WHITE And what kind of a warrior have you been in that warfare? She is photographing his getting-up and leaning on the two girls. GANDHI Not a very good one. That's why I have so much tolerance for the other scoundrels of the world. He moves off, but has a sudden thought and turns to Patel. GANDHI Ask Panditji to -- to consider what we've discussed. Patel nods soberly and Gandhi starts for the door, Bourke- White moving with him. GANDHI (of the photographs) Enough. BOURKE-WHITE (a plea) One more. He has passed her, he's in the doorway. We see the crowd at the end of the garden, where the light of the day is beginning to soften. He turns, teasing in his slightly flirtatious way with women. GANDHI You're a temptress. She shoots him against the door -- the crowd milling distantly, waiting -- then she lowers her camera. BOURKE-WHITE Just an admirer... GANDHI Nothing's more dangerous, especially for an old man. He turns; the last words have betrayed the smile on his face; they have a painful sense of truth about them. Bourke-White watches as he moves into the garden toward the crowd in the distance. She turns to Mirabehn. BOURKE-WHITE There's a sadness in him. It's an observation -- and a question. Mirabehn accedes gravely. MIRABEHN He thinks he's failed. Bourke-White stares at her, then turns to look out at him. BOURKE-WHITE Why? My God, if anything's proved him right, it's what's happened these last months... Mirabehn nods, but she keeps on spinning and tries to sound cynically resigned but her innate emotionalism keeps breaking through in her voice and on her face. MIRABEHN I am blinded by my love of him, but I think when we most needed it, he offered the world a way out of madness. But he doesn't see it... and neither does the world. It is laced with pain. Bourke-White turns and looks out at Gandhi -- so tiny, so weak as he walks between his "props." He has now reached the end of the garden and is moving among the crowd assembled there. THE GARDEN - BIRLA HOUSE - EXTERIOR - TWILIGHT Gandhi is moving forward in the crowd, one hand resting on Manu, the other on Abha. He makes the pranam to someone, the crowd is bowing to him, some speaking, and we also see the crowd from his point of view -- "Bapu," "God bless you," "Thank you -- thank you." He turns to a very old woman, who makes a salaam to him. Gandhi touches her head. GANDHI Allah be with you. Smiling, he turns back. A jostling, the sound of beads falling. MANU (to someone) Brother, Bapu is already late for prayers. Gandhi turns to the person; he makes the pranam. Full shot. Godse is making the pranam to him and he suddenly, wildly draws his gun and fires. The camera closes on Gandhi as he staggers and falls, the red stain of blood seeping through his white shawl. GANDHI Oh, God... oh, God... Manu and Abha bend over him, silent in their first shock. The sound of panic and alarm begins to grow around them, they suddenly scream and begin to cry. MANU/ABHA Bapu! Bapu! FUNERAL PYRE - EXTERIOR - DAY Blackness. Silence. A moment -- we sense the blackness moving -- like dark smoke. The camera is pulling back very slowly and we can tell the blackness is smoke rising from a fire. And now we see that it is a funeral pyre. And all around that pyre a mass of silent humanity. Through the smoke, sitting cross-legged near the rim of the flames, we see Nehru... and Azad and Patel, Mirabehn and Kallenbach, the drawn faces of Lord and Lady Mountbatten, Manu and Abha... THE RIVER - EXTERIOR - DAY A helicopter shot coming slowly up the wide river, low, toward a barge and a mass of people in the distance. And now we are over the barge, and it is covered with flowers. Flowers flow downstream around it. An urn sits on it -- containing Gandhi's ashes -- and Nehru stands near it,

would

How many times the word 'would' appears in the text?

with them now the giant figure of Abdul Ghaffar Khan, the first time we have seen him among Gandhi's intimate group. NEHRU In Calcutta it's like civil war. The Muslims rose and there was a bloodbath, and now the Hindus are taking revenge -- and if we can't stop it there'll be no hope for the Hindus left in Pakistan. PATEL ...an eye for an eye making the whole world blind. It is an empty and despairing echo of Gandhi's words. AZAD Aren't there any troops to spare? NEHRU (tense, fragile) Nothing -- nothing. The divisions in Bombay and Delhi can hardly keep the peace now. And each fresh bit of news creates another wave of mad... ness. He has turned and seen Gandhi standing slowly. It has almost stopped him. PATEL Could we cut all news off? I know -- NEHRU Bapu -- please. Where are you going. GANDHI (sounding like an old man) I don't want to hear more... He is moving toward the door. It stops them all. Pyarelal moves tentatively to open the door. PATEL (impatiently) We need your help! GANDHI There is nothing I can give. AZAD Where are you going? Gandhi turns, looks at him bleakly. GANDHI Calcutta. CALCUTTA - EXTERIOR - NIGHT We are high. There are fires, the sounds of spasmodic gunfire, of looting, screams, the roar of police vehicles and occasional sirens. The camera zooms in on a poor quarter of artisan dwellings in narrow streets. Outside one of the houses is a car, an army jeep, policemen, a few soldiers and a group of people. It seems a little island of calm in a sea of wild chaos. On the roof of the house, a figure moves into the light. CLOSER - TAHIB'S ROOF The figure is Gandhi. He peers down at the dark, rioting streets. Azad, Tahib, a Muslim whose house this is, Mirabehn and Pyarelal are with him along Abdul Ghaffar Khan. A police commissioner moves to Gandhi's side, demanding his attention. POLICE COMMISSIONER Sir, please, I don't have the men to protect you -- not in a Muslim house. Not this quarter. GANDHI I am staying with the friend of a friend. There is a sudden commotion just below them and angry shouts: "Death to Muslims!," "Death to Muslims!" Gandhi peers down. His point of view. A surging gang of youths, many carrying torches, and far outnumbering the little group of police and soldiers, are shouting up at the roof. We see three or four black flags and stains of blood on many of them. A few hold knives still wet with blood. A YOUTH There he is! A feral roar goes up at the sight of Gandhi, but he stands unmoving. HINDU YOUTH LEADER (his voice emotional, tearful) Why are you staying at the home of a Muslim! They're murderers! They killed my family! Featuring Gandhi. It is a comment too grave for glibness, and Gandhi is obviously struck by the pain of it. He pauses for a moment, staring down at the youth: GANDHI Because forgiveness is the gift of the brave. He makes it mean the youth. For a second it makes an impact, but then the youth shouts his defiance at him and his message. YOUTH To hell with you, Gandhi!! An angry chorus of acclamation; when it dies GANDHI (to the youth) Go -- do as your mother and father would wish you to do. It is ambiguous, open-ended, meaning anything your mother and father would wish you to do. Tears flush from the boy's eyes and he stares at Gandhi with a kind of hopeless anguish and rage. But the impact is on the youth alone; around him the others begin to take up the chant "Death to Muslims!," "Death to Muslims!" Gandhi turns from the street. He looks at the police commissioner -- at his fatigue, his concern, his manifest respect. Gandhi musters a weary smile. GANDHI I have lived a lifetime. If I had shunned death -- or feared it -- I would not be here. Nor would you be concerned for me. (He lets it sink in then he takes the commissioner's arm and moves back toward the center of the roof.) Leave me -- and take your men. (An understanding touch of the arm.) You have more important things to worry about. The commissioner looks at him, uncertain, not knowing what to do, as the angry chanting continues above the sound of rioting. HOSPITAL - INTERIOR - DAY An old, inadequate hospital -- dark cavernous. Margaret Bourke- White is moving among the densely packed litter of wounded women. She is positioning herself to photograph Gandhi, who is speaking to a woman who cradles a small baby. The corridors behind him are even more packed. The few doctors and nurses hardly have room to move. Featuring Gandhi. Azad and Mirabehn are behind him as he moves on, and behind them, like a giant guardian, Abdul Ghaffar Khan. We hear "Bapu, Bapu" muttered quietly here and there. Gandhi bends to a woman whose face is bandaged and a cruel wound is half-exposed between her mouth and eye. WOMAN Bapu... Allah be with you... There are tears in Gandhi's eyes now. GANDHI And with you. (He touches her wrinkled hand.) Pray... I cannot help you -- pray... pray. And the weight of his helplessness hangs on him. CALCUTTA STREET - EXTERIOR - DAY A streetcar (tram) crashes into a barricade of carts, rickshaws, a couple of old cars, smashing through to breach the barricade, but stopped in the end by the mass of debris. The streetcar is loaded with Indian troops and they break from the stalled vehicle to chase A gang of Hindus -- organized -- runs down the street from the troops, some dragging the bodies of victims with them. We see several Hindu black flags. NEHRU'S OFFICE - INTERIOR - NIGHT He speaks across his desk to a senior police commissioner. The same activity going on in the background. NEHRU (angrily) No! There will not be a Hindu Police and a Muslim Police. There is one police! An aide slips a newspaper on his desk in front of him. He doesn't look at it till the senior commissioner lowers his head and turns, accepting defeat. Then Nehru glances at the paper. In thick headlines: GANDHI: A FAST UNTO DEATH! Nehru doesn't move for a moment. Then he lifts his face slowly to his aide. NEHRU Why must I read news like this in the paper? The aide shakes his head -- there's no answer. Nehru lowers his head again; it is like another burden on a man who already has too many. He grips his temples... a terrible sigh. NEHRU Tell Patel. Arrange a plane. We will go -- Friday. THE AIDE Four days? Nehru thinks on it solemnly, then nods yes. TAHIB'S HOUSE - EXTERIOR - DAY The sounds of rioting and looting on nearby streets, but here a mass of people are gathered. Many youths with black flags. Two black government limousines. Motorcycles. Police and soldiers. They are looking off to AN OUTSIDE STAIRCASE - TAHIB'S HOUSE It runs up the side of the building and is lined with waiting people. Nehru and Patel are climbing the stairs, moving past them almost irritably as they mutter "Nehru, Nehru," "Patel," and make the pranam to the eminent men. In the heat of the city Tahib's rooftop is still Gandhi's "home" and has become a center of activity. Azad clears someone aside and ushers Nehru and Patel under the canopy awning. Nehru pauses as he lowers his head. His point of view. Gandhi lies curled awkwardly on his side of the cot. He is writing, Pyarelal taking the pages as he finishes, both ignoring all the people, the sounds of gunfire and distant shouting, but he looks tired and tightens his jaw occasionally in pain. The camera pans. A doctor sits near the foot of the cot, Abdul Ghaffar Khan beyond him. Near the other edge of the canopied area, Mirabehn sits with Bourke-White. They are whispering quietly, but Mirabehn has stopped on seeing Nehru and she smiles a relieved greeting. She knows Gandhi's feeling for him. Bourke-White stares at him and Patel for a second and then her hand goes slowly, almost reflexively, for her camera. CLOSER ON GANDHI Nehru crosses and kneels so that he is almost at Gandhi's eyeline. Gandhi must take his eyes from his writing to look, and he is almost moved to tears at the sight of Nehru. His hand shakes a little as he holds it out to him. NEHRU Bapu... Gandhi turns to pat their joined hands with his other hand. He does so with effort, and at last he sees Patel. GANDHI Sardar... (He looks him over.) You have gained weight. You must join me in the fast. Patel sits near the head of the cot so the three of them are on a level. Outside the canopied area, Bourke-White is crouched, her camera framing the three of them. PATEL (wittily, warmly) If I fast I die. If you fast people go to all sorts of trouble to keep you alive. Gandhi smiles and reaches to touch hands with him. NEHRU Bapu, forgive me -- I've cheated. I could have come earlier. But your fast has helped. These last days people's minds have begun to turn to this bed -- and away from last night's atrocity. But now it is enough. Gandhi shakes his head. GANDHI All that has happened is that I've grown a little thinner. It is despairingly sincere. But Nehru feels he has an antidote for that despair. The distant sound of an explosion. NEHRU Tomorrow five thousand Muslim students of all ages are marching here in Calcutta -- for peace. (The real point) And five thousand Hindu students are marching with them. It is all organized. Bourke-White captures the sense of elation in his face. From her discreet distance, she lowers the camera, holding it against her mouth, waiting for Gandhi's response. Gandhi nods to Nehru, accepting the news with a sad wistfulness. GANDHI I'm glad -- but it will not be enough. Nehru isn't prepared for this resistance. He glances at Patel, and we see that they recognize that their bland conviction that they could talk him out of the fast was deeply misplaced. Nehru turns back -- this time no confidence, only concern. A forced smile. NEHRU Bapu, you are not so young anymore. Gandhi smiles, pain etched in his eyes. He touches Nehru's hand. GANDHI Don't worry for me -- death will be a deliverance. (There is water in his eyes, but his words have the weight of a man truly determined to die.) I cannot watch the destruction of all I have lived for. Nehru stares at him, feeling the sudden fear that Gandhi means it. Patel, Mirabehn, Azad, Bourke-White are gripped by the same realization. TAHIB'S HOUSE - EXTERIOR - NIGHT An outside broadcast truck is parked among the usual crowd, grown even larger now, and more women among them. The sounds of distant fighting. TAHIB'S ROOF - EXTERIOR - NIGHT The senior technician, in earphones, signals across to Mirabehn. She holds a microphone by Gandhi, who is lying on his side. He seems almost out of touch. MIRABEHN Bapu... Gandhi looks at her, and then the microphone. When he speaks into the microphone his voice is very weak. GANDHI Each night before I sleep, I read a few words from the Gita and the Koran, and the Bible... (we intercut with Bourke-White and those on the roof watching) tonight I ask you to share these thoughts of God with me. And now we go into the streets, intercutting with Gandhi but seeing Hindus listening around loudspeakers on corners, in little eating houses, Muslim shops where people live in the back, and neighbors gathering defensively in groups. GANDHI (the books are there, but he does it from memory of course) I will begin with the Bible where the words of the Lord are, "Love thy neighbor as thyself"... and then our beloved Gita which says, "The world is a garment worn by God, thy neighbor is in truth thyself"... and finally the Holy Koran, "We shall remove all hatred from our hearts and recline on couches face to face, a band of brothers." He leans back, exhausted. Mirabehn is looking at him; she starts to sing softly. MIRABEHN "Lead Kindly Light, amidst the circling gloom..." Gandhi, his eyes closed, takes it up in his weak, croaking voice. GANDHI/MIRABEHN "The night is dark, and I am far from home, Lead thou me on..." TAHIB'S HOUSE - EXTERIOR - DAY Two police motorcycles lead a black limousine to a stop before Tahib's house. The crowd now gathered is very large. More mixed than before but still predominantly of youths, many still with black flags. Nehru gets out of the limousine with a Muslim leader, a tough- looking man who carries himself with the authority and power of a mobster (Suhrawardy). And they start to go up the outside stairs. Suddenly we hear the shout "Death to Gandhi!," "Death to Gandhi!" And Nehru turns, pushing past Suhrawardy fiercely and going back onto the street. He runs at the crowd, where the shout comes once more from the back. His face is wild with anger and shock. NEHRU (hysterically) Who dares say such things! Who?! (And he is running at them and they spread in fear.) Come! Kill me first! Come! Where are you?! Kill me first! The crowd has spread from him all along the street; they stand against the walls of the houses staring at him, terrified to move. We see, just in passing, the frightened, apprehensive faces of Godse, and near him, Apte and Karkare. Nehru stands, staring at them all, his face seething with anger. TAHIB'S ROOF - EXTERIOR - DAY We are featuring a copy of Life Magazine. On the cover is a picture of rioting men fighting and diagonally a cut-out of Gandhi lying on his cot. The caption reads: "An Old Man's Battle." As the magazine starts to be opened, it is suddenly put to one side. Another angle. Mirabehn is rising, leaving the magazine at her feet. She moves to Nehru and Suhrawardy as Azad ushers them into the canopied area. Abdul Ghaffar Khan sits quietly in the background. Mirabehn speaks softly. MIRABEHN His pulse is very irregular -- the kidneys aren't functioning. Nehru looks across at Gandhi. The doctor, who is testing Gandhi's pulse yet again, glances at him -- no encouragement -- and moves away. Nehru moves to the side of the cot and Gandhi smiles weakly and holds out a hand, but he is in pain. NEHRU Bapu, I have brought Mr. Suhrawardy. It was he who called on the Muslims to rise; he is telling them now to go back to their homes, to lay down their arms. Gandhi looks up at Suhrawardy, who nods. Gandhi looks back at Nehru. There is no hint of him changing his mind. NEHRU (personally) Think what you can do by living -- that you cannot do by dying. Gandhi smiles whimsically, he touches him again but there is no change in his attitude. NEHRU (pleadingly) What do you want? GANDHI (a moment) That the fighting will stop -- that you make me believe it will never start again. Nehru looks at him hopelessly. SQUARE IN CALCUTTA - EXTERIOR - DAY A huge crowd, some smoke in distant buildings, some damage near to help us know this is still Calcutta, and all is not yet at peace. The camera sweeps over the crowd, past the loudspeakers on their poles. We see surly knots of belligerent rowdies, mostly young, but not all, hanging on the fringes as we move over the heads of the mass of listening people to a platform where Nehru speaks. Azad, Suhrawardy, and others sit on the floor behind him. We have heard his voice over all this. NEHRU ...Sometimes it is when you are quite without hope and in utter darkness that God comes to the rescue. Gandhiji is dying because of our madness. Put away your "revenge." What will be gained by more killing? Have the courage to do what you know is right. For God's sake, let us embrace like brothers... TAHIB'S ROOF - EXTERIOR - NIGHT Featuring the Muslim leader Suhrawardy, leaning against a wall, watching an action out of shot with evident tension. We hear a little clank of metal. Another angle. There are five men facing Gandhi. They wear black trousers and black knit vests. There are thongs around their arms that make their bulging muscles seem even more powerful. They are Hindu thugs (Goondas). Their clothes are dirty -- and they are too -- but they are laying knives and guns at Gandhi's feet. Mirabehn, Azad, Pyarelal, the doctor and others on the roof watch fascinated, a little frightened. GOONDA LEADER It is our promise. We stop. It is a promise. Gandhi is looking at him, testing, not giving or accepting anything that is mere gesture. GANDHI Go -- try -- God by with you. The Goondas stand. They glance at Suhrawardy; he smiles tautly and they start to leave, but one (Nahari) lingers. Suddenly he moves violently toward Gandhi, taking a flat piece of Indian bread (chapati) from his trousers and tossing it forcefully on Gandhi. NAHARI Eat. Mirabehn and Azad start to move toward him -- the man looks immensely strong and immensely unstable. But Gandhi holds up a shaking hand, stopping them. Nahari's face is knotted in emotion, half anger, half almost a child's fear -- but there is a wild menace in that instability. NAHARI Eat! I am going to hell -- but not with your death on my soul. GANDHI Only God decides who goes to hell... NAHARI (stiffening, aggressive) I -- I killed a child... (Then an anguished defiance) I smashed his head against a wall. Gandhi stares at him, breathless. GANDHI (in a fearful whisper) Why? Why? It is as though the man has told him of some terrible self- inflicted wound. NAHARI (tears now -- and wrath) They killed my son -- my boy! Almost reflexively he holds his hand out to indicate the height of his son. He glares at Suhrawardy and then back at Gandhi. NAHARI The Muslims killed my son... they killed him. He is sobbing, but in his anger it seems almost as though he means to kill Gandhi in retaliation. A long moment, as Gandhi meets his pain and wrath. Then GANDHI I know a way out of hell. Nahari sneers, but there is just a flicker of desperate curiosity. GANDHI Find a child -- a child whose mother and father have been killed. A little boy -- about this high. He raises his hand to the height Nahari has indicated as his son's. GANDHI ...and raise him -- as your own. Nahari has listened. His face almost cracks -- it is a chink of light, but it does not illumine his darkness. GANDHI Only be sure... that he is a Muslim. And that you raise him as one. And now the light falls on Nahari. His face stiffens, he swallows, fighting any show of emotion; then he turns to go. But he takes only a step and he turns back, going to his knees, the sobs breaking again and again from his heaving body as he holds his head to Gandhi's feet in the traditional greeting of Hindu son to Hindu father. A second, and Gandhi reaches out and touches the top of his head. Mirabehn watches. The Goondas watch. Suhrawardy watches. Finally GANDHI (gently, exhaustedly) Go -- go. God bless you... COURTYARD - POLICE STATION - CALCUTTA - EXTERIOR - NIGHT Trucks with riot squads (shields and truncheons) in place, but they are lounging, waiting. There is silence, and air of somnolence. Some of the riot squad lounge in little groups around the courtyard. A distant cough. Featuring a senior riot squad officer dressed and ready for action. He it is who coughed. He coughs again, clearing his throat. A police sergeant stands by him, both are reading the front page of a paper the senior riot squad officer holds. We see two huge lines of headline: GANDHI NEAR DEATH/NEHRU GOES ON FAST. In one of the trucks one of the men offers another a cigarette. A telephone rings sharply, inside. The senior riot squad officer and the sergeant run in as engines start; the men run to their places, lower visors, headlights go on! POLICE STATION OFFICE - INTERIOR - DAY A constable mans the telephone. He listens as the senior riot squad officer and the sergeant run to him tensely. The sound of the great doors opening in the courtyard, more engines revving up. CONSTABLE Yes, sir, yes, sir, (He holds up his hand to the senior officer) "Wait." He glances up at the senior riot squad officer. CONSTABLE (writing, from the phone) Accident, "Christie crossroads," a lorry and a rickshaw. Yes, sir, I have it. He shrugs at the senior riot squad officer and hands the information slip to another constable behind the desk. The sergeant sighs, and moves to the outside door. We hear him bellow, "Stand down." The constable hangs up and sighs heavily. The senior riot squad officer shakes his head, and turns and walks slowly to the door. COURTYARD - POLICE STATION - EXTERIOR - NIGHT The senior riot squad officer and the sergeant stand in the doorway as the engines die. The men relax... the silence returns. A dog barks distantly, disturbed by the noise... A bird caws once or twice. SERGEANT I wouldn't have believed it, Mr. Gupta. SENIOR OFFICER Sergeant, it's a bloody miracle... HIGH SHOT - CALCUTTA - EXTERIOR - NIGHT It lies in silence. TAHIB'S ROOF - EXTERIOR - DAY Mirabehn is bent over Gandhi. He is curled almost in the fetal position, his face looking wan and sunken. For the first time there is silence, no explosions, no distant shouts, no gunfire. MIRABEHN Bapu, there's been no fighting -- anywhere. It has stopped -- the madness has stopped. We see the police commissioner, Suhrawardy, two doctors, Abdul Ghaffar Khan, and some others. Nearer Gandhi, behind Mirabehn, are Nehru, Patel, Azad and Pyarelal. Gandhi turns to Mirabehn, his face shaking, peering into her eyes. GANDHI It is foolish if it is just to save the life of an old man. MIRABEHN No... no. In every temple and mosque they have pledged to die before they lift a hand against each other. His weary eyes look at her; he looks up slowly to Azad. Azad nods "It's true." Then Patel PATEL Everywhere. Gandhi looks at Nehru. Nehru just nods tautly. Gandhi looks down, then lifts his head to Azad. GANDHI Maulana, my friend, could I have some orange juice... Then you and I will take a piece of bread together... The relief brings water to their eyes and grins to their faces. Nehru bends to Gandhi. Gandhi holds his hand out to him, and Nehru clutches it. Then NEHRU You see, Bapu, it is not difficult. I have fasted only a few hours and I accomplished what you could not do in as many days. It is a joke in their way with each other and Gandhi's eyes light, his smile comes. But it is tired. He puts his other hand over Nehru's and Nehru lowers his head to it, crying silently. BIRLA HOUSE - EXTERIOR - DAY As in the opening sequence -- but a few minutes earlier. The crowd is beginning to gather for the evening prayers. We see a tonga or two, a gardener opening the gate to the garden, three policemen standing, talking idly among themselves. BIRLA HOUSE - INTERIOR - DAY Laughter. Gandhi is eating muli; he holds his head back to capture the lemon juice. We hear the click of a camera GANDHI That is how you eat muli. Manu hands him a cloth and he wipes his hands. Another click of a camera. He is not fully recovered, but well on the way. GANDHI (to the photographer) I'm not sure I want to be remembered that way. It is all light and for fun. We get a wide-angle shot now and see that Bourke-White is shooting one of her favorite subjects again. She is enjoying the banter, as is Mirabehn, who is spinning quietly to one side of the room, and Patel, who sits cross-legged like Gandhi on the floor. Pyarelal is working on papers with him but grins at this. BOURKE-WHITE Don't worry, with luck you may not be. And she shoots him again, as he hands the cloth back to Manu. Abha is sitting next to Manu, looking at a collection of pictures of Gandhi, obviously Bourke-White's. PATEL No, he'll be remembered for tempting fate. It is wry, but waspishly chiding. Abha suddenly holds a picture up for Gandhi to see. It's one of him, ears wide, eyes round. ABHA Mickey Mouse. Gandhi taps her on the head with his finger as she smiles. But Bourke-White has looked from Patel to Gandhi, clearly shaken by the implication in Patel's words. BOURKE-WHITE You really are going to Pakistan, then? (Gandhi shrugs, and she chides too) You are a stubborn man. GANDHI (a grin, in the mood of their "flirtation") I'm simply going to prove to Muslims there, and Hindus here, that the only devils in the world are those running around in our own hearts -- and that's where all our battles ought to be fought. Abha has signaled to the cheap watch dangling from his dhoti. He glances at it, and holds his arms out. The two girls help him. BOURKE-WHITE And what kind of a warrior have you been in that warfare? She is photographing his getting-up and leaning on the two girls. GANDHI Not a very good one. That's why I have so much tolerance for the other scoundrels of the world. He moves off, but has a sudden thought and turns to Patel. GANDHI Ask Panditji to -- to consider what we've discussed. Patel nods soberly and Gandhi starts for the door, Bourke- White moving with him. GANDHI (of the photographs) Enough. BOURKE-WHITE (a plea) One more. He has passed her, he's in the doorway. We see the crowd at the end of the garden, where the light of the day is beginning to soften. He turns, teasing in his slightly flirtatious way with women. GANDHI You're a temptress. She shoots him against the door -- the crowd milling distantly, waiting -- then she lowers her camera. BOURKE-WHITE Just an admirer... GANDHI Nothing's more dangerous, especially for an old man. He turns; the last words have betrayed the smile on his face; they have a painful sense of truth about them. Bourke-White watches as he moves into the garden toward the crowd in the distance. She turns to Mirabehn. BOURKE-WHITE There's a sadness in him. It's an observation -- and a question. Mirabehn accedes gravely. MIRABEHN He thinks he's failed. Bourke-White stares at her, then turns to look out at him. BOURKE-WHITE Why? My God, if anything's proved him right, it's what's happened these last months... Mirabehn nods, but she keeps on spinning and tries to sound cynically resigned but her innate emotionalism keeps breaking through in her voice and on her face. MIRABEHN I am blinded by my love of him, but I think when we most needed it, he offered the world a way out of madness. But he doesn't see it... and neither does the world. It is laced with pain. Bourke-White turns and looks out at Gandhi -- so tiny, so weak as he walks between his "props." He has now reached the end of the garden and is moving among the crowd assembled there. THE GARDEN - BIRLA HOUSE - EXTERIOR - TWILIGHT Gandhi is moving forward in the crowd, one hand resting on Manu, the other on Abha. He makes the pranam to someone, the crowd is bowing to him, some speaking, and we also see the crowd from his point of view -- "Bapu," "God bless you," "Thank you -- thank you." He turns to a very old woman, who makes a salaam to him. Gandhi touches her head. GANDHI Allah be with you. Smiling, he turns back. A jostling, the sound of beads falling. MANU (to someone) Brother, Bapu is already late for prayers. Gandhi turns to the person; he makes the pranam. Full shot. Godse is making the pranam to him and he suddenly, wildly draws his gun and fires. The camera closes on Gandhi as he staggers and falls, the red stain of blood seeping through his white shawl. GANDHI Oh, God... oh, God... Manu and Abha bend over him, silent in their first shock. The sound of panic and alarm begins to grow around them, they suddenly scream and begin to cry. MANU/ABHA Bapu! Bapu! FUNERAL PYRE - EXTERIOR - DAY Blackness. Silence. A moment -- we sense the blackness moving -- like dark smoke. The camera is pulling back very slowly and we can tell the blackness is smoke rising from a fire. And now we see that it is a funeral pyre. And all around that pyre a mass of silent humanity. Through the smoke, sitting cross-legged near the rim of the flames, we see Nehru... and Azad and Patel, Mirabehn and Kallenbach, the drawn faces of Lord and Lady Mountbatten, Manu and Abha... THE RIVER - EXTERIOR - DAY A helicopter shot coming slowly up the wide river, low, toward a barge and a mass of people in the distance. And now we are over the barge, and it is covered with flowers. Flowers flow downstream around it. An urn sits on it -- containing Gandhi's ashes -- and Nehru stands near it,

gang

How many times the word 'gang' appears in the text?

with them now the giant figure of Abdul Ghaffar Khan, the first time we have seen him among Gandhi's intimate group. NEHRU In Calcutta it's like civil war. The Muslims rose and there was a bloodbath, and now the Hindus are taking revenge -- and if we can't stop it there'll be no hope for the Hindus left in Pakistan. PATEL ...an eye for an eye making the whole world blind. It is an empty and despairing echo of Gandhi's words. AZAD Aren't there any troops to spare? NEHRU (tense, fragile) Nothing -- nothing. The divisions in Bombay and Delhi can hardly keep the peace now. And each fresh bit of news creates another wave of mad... ness. He has turned and seen Gandhi standing slowly. It has almost stopped him. PATEL Could we cut all news off? I know -- NEHRU Bapu -- please. Where are you going. GANDHI (sounding like an old man) I don't want to hear more... He is moving toward the door. It stops them all. Pyarelal moves tentatively to open the door. PATEL (impatiently) We need your help! GANDHI There is nothing I can give. AZAD Where are you going? Gandhi turns, looks at him bleakly. GANDHI Calcutta. CALCUTTA - EXTERIOR - NIGHT We are high. There are fires, the sounds of spasmodic gunfire, of looting, screams, the roar of police vehicles and occasional sirens. The camera zooms in on a poor quarter of artisan dwellings in narrow streets. Outside one of the houses is a car, an army jeep, policemen, a few soldiers and a group of people. It seems a little island of calm in a sea of wild chaos. On the roof of the house, a figure moves into the light. CLOSER - TAHIB'S ROOF The figure is Gandhi. He peers down at the dark, rioting streets. Azad, Tahib, a Muslim whose house this is, Mirabehn and Pyarelal are with him along Abdul Ghaffar Khan. A police commissioner moves to Gandhi's side, demanding his attention. POLICE COMMISSIONER Sir, please, I don't have the men to protect you -- not in a Muslim house. Not this quarter. GANDHI I am staying with the friend of a friend. There is a sudden commotion just below them and angry shouts: "Death to Muslims!," "Death to Muslims!" Gandhi peers down. His point of view. A surging gang of youths, many carrying torches, and far outnumbering the little group of police and soldiers, are shouting up at the roof. We see three or four black flags and stains of blood on many of them. A few hold knives still wet with blood. A YOUTH There he is! A feral roar goes up at the sight of Gandhi, but he stands unmoving. HINDU YOUTH LEADER (his voice emotional, tearful) Why are you staying at the home of a Muslim! They're murderers! They killed my family! Featuring Gandhi. It is a comment too grave for glibness, and Gandhi is obviously struck by the pain of it. He pauses for a moment, staring down at the youth: GANDHI Because forgiveness is the gift of the brave. He makes it mean the youth. For a second it makes an impact, but then the youth shouts his defiance at him and his message. YOUTH To hell with you, Gandhi!! An angry chorus of acclamation; when it dies GANDHI (to the youth) Go -- do as your mother and father would wish you to do. It is ambiguous, open-ended, meaning anything your mother and father would wish you to do. Tears flush from the boy's eyes and he stares at Gandhi with a kind of hopeless anguish and rage. But the impact is on the youth alone; around him the others begin to take up the chant "Death to Muslims!," "Death to Muslims!" Gandhi turns from the street. He looks at the police commissioner -- at his fatigue, his concern, his manifest respect. Gandhi musters a weary smile. GANDHI I have lived a lifetime. If I had shunned death -- or feared it -- I would not be here. Nor would you be concerned for me. (He lets it sink in then he takes the commissioner's arm and moves back toward the center of the roof.) Leave me -- and take your men. (An understanding touch of the arm.) You have more important things to worry about. The commissioner looks at him, uncertain, not knowing what to do, as the angry chanting continues above the sound of rioting. HOSPITAL - INTERIOR - DAY An old, inadequate hospital -- dark cavernous. Margaret Bourke- White is moving among the densely packed litter of wounded women. She is positioning herself to photograph Gandhi, who is speaking to a woman who cradles a small baby. The corridors behind him are even more packed. The few doctors and nurses hardly have room to move. Featuring Gandhi. Azad and Mirabehn are behind him as he moves on, and behind them, like a giant guardian, Abdul Ghaffar Khan. We hear "Bapu, Bapu" muttered quietly here and there. Gandhi bends to a woman whose face is bandaged and a cruel wound is half-exposed between her mouth and eye. WOMAN Bapu... Allah be with you... There are tears in Gandhi's eyes now. GANDHI And with you. (He touches her wrinkled hand.) Pray... I cannot help you -- pray... pray. And the weight of his helplessness hangs on him. CALCUTTA STREET - EXTERIOR - DAY A streetcar (tram) crashes into a barricade of carts, rickshaws, a couple of old cars, smashing through to breach the barricade, but stopped in the end by the mass of debris. The streetcar is loaded with Indian troops and they break from the stalled vehicle to chase A gang of Hindus -- organized -- runs down the street from the troops, some dragging the bodies of victims with them. We see several Hindu black flags. NEHRU'S OFFICE - INTERIOR - NIGHT He speaks across his desk to a senior police commissioner. The same activity going on in the background. NEHRU (angrily) No! There will not be a Hindu Police and a Muslim Police. There is one police! An aide slips a newspaper on his desk in front of him. He doesn't look at it till the senior commissioner lowers his head and turns, accepting defeat. Then Nehru glances at the paper. In thick headlines: GANDHI: A FAST UNTO DEATH! Nehru doesn't move for a moment. Then he lifts his face slowly to his aide. NEHRU Why must I read news like this in the paper? The aide shakes his head -- there's no answer. Nehru lowers his head again; it is like another burden on a man who already has too many. He grips his temples... a terrible sigh. NEHRU Tell Patel. Arrange a plane. We will go -- Friday. THE AIDE Four days? Nehru thinks on it solemnly, then nods yes. TAHIB'S HOUSE - EXTERIOR - DAY The sounds of rioting and looting on nearby streets, but here a mass of people are gathered. Many youths with black flags. Two black government limousines. Motorcycles. Police and soldiers. They are looking off to AN OUTSIDE STAIRCASE - TAHIB'S HOUSE It runs up the side of the building and is lined with waiting people. Nehru and Patel are climbing the stairs, moving past them almost irritably as they mutter "Nehru, Nehru," "Patel," and make the pranam to the eminent men. In the heat of the city Tahib's rooftop is still Gandhi's "home" and has become a center of activity. Azad clears someone aside and ushers Nehru and Patel under the canopy awning. Nehru pauses as he lowers his head. His point of view. Gandhi lies curled awkwardly on his side of the cot. He is writing, Pyarelal taking the pages as he finishes, both ignoring all the people, the sounds of gunfire and distant shouting, but he looks tired and tightens his jaw occasionally in pain. The camera pans. A doctor sits near the foot of the cot, Abdul Ghaffar Khan beyond him. Near the other edge of the canopied area, Mirabehn sits with Bourke-White. They are whispering quietly, but Mirabehn has stopped on seeing Nehru and she smiles a relieved greeting. She knows Gandhi's feeling for him. Bourke-White stares at him and Patel for a second and then her hand goes slowly, almost reflexively, for her camera. CLOSER ON GANDHI Nehru crosses and kneels so that he is almost at Gandhi's eyeline. Gandhi must take his eyes from his writing to look, and he is almost moved to tears at the sight of Nehru. His hand shakes a little as he holds it out to him. NEHRU Bapu... Gandhi turns to pat their joined hands with his other hand. He does so with effort, and at last he sees Patel. GANDHI Sardar... (He looks him over.) You have gained weight. You must join me in the fast. Patel sits near the head of the cot so the three of them are on a level. Outside the canopied area, Bourke-White is crouched, her camera framing the three of them. PATEL (wittily, warmly) If I fast I die. If you fast people go to all sorts of trouble to keep you alive. Gandhi smiles and reaches to touch hands with him. NEHRU Bapu, forgive me -- I've cheated. I could have come earlier. But your fast has helped. These last days people's minds have begun to turn to this bed -- and away from last night's atrocity. But now it is enough. Gandhi shakes his head. GANDHI All that has happened is that I've grown a little thinner. It is despairingly sincere. But Nehru feels he has an antidote for that despair. The distant sound of an explosion. NEHRU Tomorrow five thousand Muslim students of all ages are marching here in Calcutta -- for peace. (The real point) And five thousand Hindu students are marching with them. It is all organized. Bourke-White captures the sense of elation in his face. From her discreet distance, she lowers the camera, holding it against her mouth, waiting for Gandhi's response. Gandhi nods to Nehru, accepting the news with a sad wistfulness. GANDHI I'm glad -- but it will not be enough. Nehru isn't prepared for this resistance. He glances at Patel, and we see that they recognize that their bland conviction that they could talk him out of the fast was deeply misplaced. Nehru turns back -- this time no confidence, only concern. A forced smile. NEHRU Bapu, you are not so young anymore. Gandhi smiles, pain etched in his eyes. He touches Nehru's hand. GANDHI Don't worry for me -- death will be a deliverance. (There is water in his eyes, but his words have the weight of a man truly determined to die.) I cannot watch the destruction of all I have lived for. Nehru stares at him, feeling the sudden fear that Gandhi means it. Patel, Mirabehn, Azad, Bourke-White are gripped by the same realization. TAHIB'S HOUSE - EXTERIOR - NIGHT An outside broadcast truck is parked among the usual crowd, grown even larger now, and more women among them. The sounds of distant fighting. TAHIB'S ROOF - EXTERIOR - NIGHT The senior technician, in earphones, signals across to Mirabehn. She holds a microphone by Gandhi, who is lying on his side. He seems almost out of touch. MIRABEHN Bapu... Gandhi looks at her, and then the microphone. When he speaks into the microphone his voice is very weak. GANDHI Each night before I sleep, I read a few words from the Gita and the Koran, and the Bible... (we intercut with Bourke-White and those on the roof watching) tonight I ask you to share these thoughts of God with me. And now we go into the streets, intercutting with Gandhi but seeing Hindus listening around loudspeakers on corners, in little eating houses, Muslim shops where people live in the back, and neighbors gathering defensively in groups. GANDHI (the books are there, but he does it from memory of course) I will begin with the Bible where the words of the Lord are, "Love thy neighbor as thyself"... and then our beloved Gita which says, "The world is a garment worn by God, thy neighbor is in truth thyself"... and finally the Holy Koran, "We shall remove all hatred from our hearts and recline on couches face to face, a band of brothers." He leans back, exhausted. Mirabehn is looking at him; she starts to sing softly. MIRABEHN "Lead Kindly Light, amidst the circling gloom..." Gandhi, his eyes closed, takes it up in his weak, croaking voice. GANDHI/MIRABEHN "The night is dark, and I am far from home, Lead thou me on..." TAHIB'S HOUSE - EXTERIOR - DAY Two police motorcycles lead a black limousine to a stop before Tahib's house. The crowd now gathered is very large. More mixed than before but still predominantly of youths, many still with black flags. Nehru gets out of the limousine with a Muslim leader, a tough- looking man who carries himself with the authority and power of a mobster (Suhrawardy). And they start to go up the outside stairs. Suddenly we hear the shout "Death to Gandhi!," "Death to Gandhi!" And Nehru turns, pushing past Suhrawardy fiercely and going back onto the street. He runs at the crowd, where the shout comes once more from the back. His face is wild with anger and shock. NEHRU (hysterically) Who dares say such things! Who?! (And he is running at them and they spread in fear.) Come! Kill me first! Come! Where are you?! Kill me first! The crowd has spread from him all along the street; they stand against the walls of the houses staring at him, terrified to move. We see, just in passing, the frightened, apprehensive faces of Godse, and near him, Apte and Karkare. Nehru stands, staring at them all, his face seething with anger. TAHIB'S ROOF - EXTERIOR - DAY We are featuring a copy of Life Magazine. On the cover is a picture of rioting men fighting and diagonally a cut-out of Gandhi lying on his cot. The caption reads: "An Old Man's Battle." As the magazine starts to be opened, it is suddenly put to one side. Another angle. Mirabehn is rising, leaving the magazine at her feet. She moves to Nehru and Suhrawardy as Azad ushers them into the canopied area. Abdul Ghaffar Khan sits quietly in the background. Mirabehn speaks softly. MIRABEHN His pulse is very irregular -- the kidneys aren't functioning. Nehru looks across at Gandhi. The doctor, who is testing Gandhi's pulse yet again, glances at him -- no encouragement -- and moves away. Nehru moves to the side of the cot and Gandhi smiles weakly and holds out a hand, but he is in pain. NEHRU Bapu, I have brought Mr. Suhrawardy. It was he who called on the Muslims to rise; he is telling them now to go back to their homes, to lay down their arms. Gandhi looks up at Suhrawardy, who nods. Gandhi looks back at Nehru. There is no hint of him changing his mind. NEHRU (personally) Think what you can do by living -- that you cannot do by dying. Gandhi smiles whimsically, he touches him again but there is no change in his attitude. NEHRU (pleadingly) What do you want? GANDHI (a moment) That the fighting will stop -- that you make me believe it will never start again. Nehru looks at him hopelessly. SQUARE IN CALCUTTA - EXTERIOR - DAY A huge crowd, some smoke in distant buildings, some damage near to help us know this is still Calcutta, and all is not yet at peace. The camera sweeps over the crowd, past the loudspeakers on their poles. We see surly knots of belligerent rowdies, mostly young, but not all, hanging on the fringes as we move over the heads of the mass of listening people to a platform where Nehru speaks. Azad, Suhrawardy, and others sit on the floor behind him. We have heard his voice over all this. NEHRU ...Sometimes it is when you are quite without hope and in utter darkness that God comes to the rescue. Gandhiji is dying because of our madness. Put away your "revenge." What will be gained by more killing? Have the courage to do what you know is right. For God's sake, let us embrace like brothers... TAHIB'S ROOF - EXTERIOR - NIGHT Featuring the Muslim leader Suhrawardy, leaning against a wall, watching an action out of shot with evident tension. We hear a little clank of metal. Another angle. There are five men facing Gandhi. They wear black trousers and black knit vests. There are thongs around their arms that make their bulging muscles seem even more powerful. They are Hindu thugs (Goondas). Their clothes are dirty -- and they are too -- but they are laying knives and guns at Gandhi's feet. Mirabehn, Azad, Pyarelal, the doctor and others on the roof watch fascinated, a little frightened. GOONDA LEADER It is our promise. We stop. It is a promise. Gandhi is looking at him, testing, not giving or accepting anything that is mere gesture. GANDHI Go -- try -- God by with you. The Goondas stand. They glance at Suhrawardy; he smiles tautly and they start to leave, but one (Nahari) lingers. Suddenly he moves violently toward Gandhi, taking a flat piece of Indian bread (chapati) from his trousers and tossing it forcefully on Gandhi. NAHARI Eat. Mirabehn and Azad start to move toward him -- the man looks immensely strong and immensely unstable. But Gandhi holds up a shaking hand, stopping them. Nahari's face is knotted in emotion, half anger, half almost a child's fear -- but there is a wild menace in that instability. NAHARI Eat! I am going to hell -- but not with your death on my soul. GANDHI Only God decides who goes to hell... NAHARI (stiffening, aggressive) I -- I killed a child... (Then an anguished defiance) I smashed his head against a wall. Gandhi stares at him, breathless. GANDHI (in a fearful whisper) Why? Why? It is as though the man has told him of some terrible self- inflicted wound. NAHARI (tears now -- and wrath) They killed my son -- my boy! Almost reflexively he holds his hand out to indicate the height of his son. He glares at Suhrawardy and then back at Gandhi. NAHARI The Muslims killed my son... they killed him. He is sobbing, but in his anger it seems almost as though he means to kill Gandhi in retaliation. A long moment, as Gandhi meets his pain and wrath. Then GANDHI I know a way out of hell. Nahari sneers, but there is just a flicker of desperate curiosity. GANDHI Find a child -- a child whose mother and father have been killed. A little boy -- about this high. He raises his hand to the height Nahari has indicated as his son's. GANDHI ...and raise him -- as your own. Nahari has listened. His face almost cracks -- it is a chink of light, but it does not illumine his darkness. GANDHI Only be sure... that he is a Muslim. And that you raise him as one. And now the light falls on Nahari. His face stiffens, he swallows, fighting any show of emotion; then he turns to go. But he takes only a step and he turns back, going to his knees, the sobs breaking again and again from his heaving body as he holds his head to Gandhi's feet in the traditional greeting of Hindu son to Hindu father. A second, and Gandhi reaches out and touches the top of his head. Mirabehn watches. The Goondas watch. Suhrawardy watches. Finally GANDHI (gently, exhaustedly) Go -- go. God bless you... COURTYARD - POLICE STATION - CALCUTTA - EXTERIOR - NIGHT Trucks with riot squads (shields and truncheons) in place, but they are lounging, waiting. There is silence, and air of somnolence. Some of the riot squad lounge in little groups around the courtyard. A distant cough. Featuring a senior riot squad officer dressed and ready for action. He it is who coughed. He coughs again, clearing his throat. A police sergeant stands by him, both are reading the front page of a paper the senior riot squad officer holds. We see two huge lines of headline: GANDHI NEAR DEATH/NEHRU GOES ON FAST. In one of the trucks one of the men offers another a cigarette. A telephone rings sharply, inside. The senior riot squad officer and the sergeant run in as engines start; the men run to their places, lower visors, headlights go on! POLICE STATION OFFICE - INTERIOR - DAY A constable mans the telephone. He listens as the senior riot squad officer and the sergeant run to him tensely. The sound of the great doors opening in the courtyard, more engines revving up. CONSTABLE Yes, sir, yes, sir, (He holds up his hand to the senior officer) "Wait." He glances up at the senior riot squad officer. CONSTABLE (writing, from the phone) Accident, "Christie crossroads," a lorry and a rickshaw. Yes, sir, I have it. He shrugs at the senior riot squad officer and hands the information slip to another constable behind the desk. The sergeant sighs, and moves to the outside door. We hear him bellow, "Stand down." The constable hangs up and sighs heavily. The senior riot squad officer shakes his head, and turns and walks slowly to the door. COURTYARD - POLICE STATION - EXTERIOR - NIGHT The senior riot squad officer and the sergeant stand in the doorway as the engines die. The men relax... the silence returns. A dog barks distantly, disturbed by the noise... A bird caws once or twice. SERGEANT I wouldn't have believed it, Mr. Gupta. SENIOR OFFICER Sergeant, it's a bloody miracle... HIGH SHOT - CALCUTTA - EXTERIOR - NIGHT It lies in silence. TAHIB'S ROOF - EXTERIOR - DAY Mirabehn is bent over Gandhi. He is curled almost in the fetal position, his face looking wan and sunken. For the first time there is silence, no explosions, no distant shouts, no gunfire. MIRABEHN Bapu, there's been no fighting -- anywhere. It has stopped -- the madness has stopped. We see the police commissioner, Suhrawardy, two doctors, Abdul Ghaffar Khan, and some others. Nearer Gandhi, behind Mirabehn, are Nehru, Patel, Azad and Pyarelal. Gandhi turns to Mirabehn, his face shaking, peering into her eyes. GANDHI It is foolish if it is just to save the life of an old man. MIRABEHN No... no. In every temple and mosque they have pledged to die before they lift a hand against each other. His weary eyes look at her; he looks up slowly to Azad. Azad nods "It's true." Then Patel PATEL Everywhere. Gandhi looks at Nehru. Nehru just nods tautly. Gandhi looks down, then lifts his head to Azad. GANDHI Maulana, my friend, could I have some orange juice... Then you and I will take a piece of bread together... The relief brings water to their eyes and grins to their faces. Nehru bends to Gandhi. Gandhi holds his hand out to him, and Nehru clutches it. Then NEHRU You see, Bapu, it is not difficult. I have fasted only a few hours and I accomplished what you could not do in as many days. It is a joke in their way with each other and Gandhi's eyes light, his smile comes. But it is tired. He puts his other hand over Nehru's and Nehru lowers his head to it, crying silently. BIRLA HOUSE - EXTERIOR - DAY As in the opening sequence -- but a few minutes earlier. The crowd is beginning to gather for the evening prayers. We see a tonga or two, a gardener opening the gate to the garden, three policemen standing, talking idly among themselves. BIRLA HOUSE - INTERIOR - DAY Laughter. Gandhi is eating muli; he holds his head back to capture the lemon juice. We hear the click of a camera GANDHI That is how you eat muli. Manu hands him a cloth and he wipes his hands. Another click of a camera. He is not fully recovered, but well on the way. GANDHI (to the photographer) I'm not sure I want to be remembered that way. It is all light and for fun. We get a wide-angle shot now and see that Bourke-White is shooting one of her favorite subjects again. She is enjoying the banter, as is Mirabehn, who is spinning quietly to one side of the room, and Patel, who sits cross-legged like Gandhi on the floor. Pyarelal is working on papers with him but grins at this. BOURKE-WHITE Don't worry, with luck you may not be. And she shoots him again, as he hands the cloth back to Manu. Abha is sitting next to Manu, looking at a collection of pictures of Gandhi, obviously Bourke-White's. PATEL No, he'll be remembered for tempting fate. It is wry, but waspishly chiding. Abha suddenly holds a picture up for Gandhi to see. It's one of him, ears wide, eyes round. ABHA Mickey Mouse. Gandhi taps her on the head with his finger as she smiles. But Bourke-White has looked from Patel to Gandhi, clearly shaken by the implication in Patel's words. BOURKE-WHITE You really are going to Pakistan, then? (Gandhi shrugs, and she chides too) You are a stubborn man. GANDHI (a grin, in the mood of their "flirtation") I'm simply going to prove to Muslims there, and Hindus here, that the only devils in the world are those running around in our own hearts -- and that's where all our battles ought to be fought. Abha has signaled to the cheap watch dangling from his dhoti. He glances at it, and holds his arms out. The two girls help him. BOURKE-WHITE And what kind of a warrior have you been in that warfare? She is photographing his getting-up and leaning on the two girls. GANDHI Not a very good one. That's why I have so much tolerance for the other scoundrels of the world. He moves off, but has a sudden thought and turns to Patel. GANDHI Ask Panditji to -- to consider what we've discussed. Patel nods soberly and Gandhi starts for the door, Bourke- White moving with him. GANDHI (of the photographs) Enough. BOURKE-WHITE (a plea) One more. He has passed her, he's in the doorway. We see the crowd at the end of the garden, where the light of the day is beginning to soften. He turns, teasing in his slightly flirtatious way with women. GANDHI You're a temptress. She shoots him against the door -- the crowd milling distantly, waiting -- then she lowers her camera. BOURKE-WHITE Just an admirer... GANDHI Nothing's more dangerous, especially for an old man. He turns; the last words have betrayed the smile on his face; they have a painful sense of truth about them. Bourke-White watches as he moves into the garden toward the crowd in the distance. She turns to Mirabehn. BOURKE-WHITE There's a sadness in him. It's an observation -- and a question. Mirabehn accedes gravely. MIRABEHN He thinks he's failed. Bourke-White stares at her, then turns to look out at him. BOURKE-WHITE Why? My God, if anything's proved him right, it's what's happened these last months... Mirabehn nods, but she keeps on spinning and tries to sound cynically resigned but her innate emotionalism keeps breaking through in her voice and on her face. MIRABEHN I am blinded by my love of him, but I think when we most needed it, he offered the world a way out of madness. But he doesn't see it... and neither does the world. It is laced with pain. Bourke-White turns and looks out at Gandhi -- so tiny, so weak as he walks between his "props." He has now reached the end of the garden and is moving among the crowd assembled there. THE GARDEN - BIRLA HOUSE - EXTERIOR - TWILIGHT Gandhi is moving forward in the crowd, one hand resting on Manu, the other on Abha. He makes the pranam to someone, the crowd is bowing to him, some speaking, and we also see the crowd from his point of view -- "Bapu," "God bless you," "Thank you -- thank you." He turns to a very old woman, who makes a salaam to him. Gandhi touches her head. GANDHI Allah be with you. Smiling, he turns back. A jostling, the sound of beads falling. MANU (to someone) Brother, Bapu is already late for prayers. Gandhi turns to the person; he makes the pranam. Full shot. Godse is making the pranam to him and he suddenly, wildly draws his gun and fires. The camera closes on Gandhi as he staggers and falls, the red stain of blood seeping through his white shawl. GANDHI Oh, God... oh, God... Manu and Abha bend over him, silent in their first shock. The sound of panic and alarm begins to grow around them, they suddenly scream and begin to cry. MANU/ABHA Bapu! Bapu! FUNERAL PYRE - EXTERIOR - DAY Blackness. Silence. A moment -- we sense the blackness moving -- like dark smoke. The camera is pulling back very slowly and we can tell the blackness is smoke rising from a fire. And now we see that it is a funeral pyre. And all around that pyre a mass of silent humanity. Through the smoke, sitting cross-legged near the rim of the flames, we see Nehru... and Azad and Patel, Mirabehn and Kallenbach, the drawn faces of Lord and Lady Mountbatten, Manu and Abha... THE RIVER - EXTERIOR - DAY A helicopter shot coming slowly up the wide river, low, toward a barge and a mass of people in the distance. And now we are over the barge, and it is covered with flowers. Flowers flow downstream around it. An urn sits on it -- containing Gandhi's ashes -- and Nehru stands near it,

dear

How many times the word 'dear' appears in the text?

with them now the giant figure of Abdul Ghaffar Khan, the first time we have seen him among Gandhi's intimate group. NEHRU In Calcutta it's like civil war. The Muslims rose and there was a bloodbath, and now the Hindus are taking revenge -- and if we can't stop it there'll be no hope for the Hindus left in Pakistan. PATEL ...an eye for an eye making the whole world blind. It is an empty and despairing echo of Gandhi's words. AZAD Aren't there any troops to spare? NEHRU (tense, fragile) Nothing -- nothing. The divisions in Bombay and Delhi can hardly keep the peace now. And each fresh bit of news creates another wave of mad... ness. He has turned and seen Gandhi standing slowly. It has almost stopped him. PATEL Could we cut all news off? I know -- NEHRU Bapu -- please. Where are you going. GANDHI (sounding like an old man) I don't want to hear more... He is moving toward the door. It stops them all. Pyarelal moves tentatively to open the door. PATEL (impatiently) We need your help! GANDHI There is nothing I can give. AZAD Where are you going? Gandhi turns, looks at him bleakly. GANDHI Calcutta. CALCUTTA - EXTERIOR - NIGHT We are high. There are fires, the sounds of spasmodic gunfire, of looting, screams, the roar of police vehicles and occasional sirens. The camera zooms in on a poor quarter of artisan dwellings in narrow streets. Outside one of the houses is a car, an army jeep, policemen, a few soldiers and a group of people. It seems a little island of calm in a sea of wild chaos. On the roof of the house, a figure moves into the light. CLOSER - TAHIB'S ROOF The figure is Gandhi. He peers down at the dark, rioting streets. Azad, Tahib, a Muslim whose house this is, Mirabehn and Pyarelal are with him along Abdul Ghaffar Khan. A police commissioner moves to Gandhi's side, demanding his attention. POLICE COMMISSIONER Sir, please, I don't have the men to protect you -- not in a Muslim house. Not this quarter. GANDHI I am staying with the friend of a friend. There is a sudden commotion just below them and angry shouts: "Death to Muslims!," "Death to Muslims!" Gandhi peers down. His point of view. A surging gang of youths, many carrying torches, and far outnumbering the little group of police and soldiers, are shouting up at the roof. We see three or four black flags and stains of blood on many of them. A few hold knives still wet with blood. A YOUTH There he is! A feral roar goes up at the sight of Gandhi, but he stands unmoving. HINDU YOUTH LEADER (his voice emotional, tearful) Why are you staying at the home of a Muslim! They're murderers! They killed my family! Featuring Gandhi. It is a comment too grave for glibness, and Gandhi is obviously struck by the pain of it. He pauses for a moment, staring down at the youth: GANDHI Because forgiveness is the gift of the brave. He makes it mean the youth. For a second it makes an impact, but then the youth shouts his defiance at him and his message. YOUTH To hell with you, Gandhi!! An angry chorus of acclamation; when it dies GANDHI (to the youth) Go -- do as your mother and father would wish you to do. It is ambiguous, open-ended, meaning anything your mother and father would wish you to do. Tears flush from the boy's eyes and he stares at Gandhi with a kind of hopeless anguish and rage. But the impact is on the youth alone; around him the others begin to take up the chant "Death to Muslims!," "Death to Muslims!" Gandhi turns from the street. He looks at the police commissioner -- at his fatigue, his concern, his manifest respect. Gandhi musters a weary smile. GANDHI I have lived a lifetime. If I had shunned death -- or feared it -- I would not be here. Nor would you be concerned for me. (He lets it sink in then he takes the commissioner's arm and moves back toward the center of the roof.) Leave me -- and take your men. (An understanding touch of the arm.) You have more important things to worry about. The commissioner looks at him, uncertain, not knowing what to do, as the angry chanting continues above the sound of rioting. HOSPITAL - INTERIOR - DAY An old, inadequate hospital -- dark cavernous. Margaret Bourke- White is moving among the densely packed litter of wounded women. She is positioning herself to photograph Gandhi, who is speaking to a woman who cradles a small baby. The corridors behind him are even more packed. The few doctors and nurses hardly have room to move. Featuring Gandhi. Azad and Mirabehn are behind him as he moves on, and behind them, like a giant guardian, Abdul Ghaffar Khan. We hear "Bapu, Bapu" muttered quietly here and there. Gandhi bends to a woman whose face is bandaged and a cruel wound is half-exposed between her mouth and eye. WOMAN Bapu... Allah be with you... There are tears in Gandhi's eyes now. GANDHI And with you. (He touches her wrinkled hand.) Pray... I cannot help you -- pray... pray. And the weight of his helplessness hangs on him. CALCUTTA STREET - EXTERIOR - DAY A streetcar (tram) crashes into a barricade of carts, rickshaws, a couple of old cars, smashing through to breach the barricade, but stopped in the end by the mass of debris. The streetcar is loaded with Indian troops and they break from the stalled vehicle to chase A gang of Hindus -- organized -- runs down the street from the troops, some dragging the bodies of victims with them. We see several Hindu black flags. NEHRU'S OFFICE - INTERIOR - NIGHT He speaks across his desk to a senior police commissioner. The same activity going on in the background. NEHRU (angrily) No! There will not be a Hindu Police and a Muslim Police. There is one police! An aide slips a newspaper on his desk in front of him. He doesn't look at it till the senior commissioner lowers his head and turns, accepting defeat. Then Nehru glances at the paper. In thick headlines: GANDHI: A FAST UNTO DEATH! Nehru doesn't move for a moment. Then he lifts his face slowly to his aide. NEHRU Why must I read news like this in the paper? The aide shakes his head -- there's no answer. Nehru lowers his head again; it is like another burden on a man who already has too many. He grips his temples... a terrible sigh. NEHRU Tell Patel. Arrange a plane. We will go -- Friday. THE AIDE Four days? Nehru thinks on it solemnly, then nods yes. TAHIB'S HOUSE - EXTERIOR - DAY The sounds of rioting and looting on nearby streets, but here a mass of people are gathered. Many youths with black flags. Two black government limousines. Motorcycles. Police and soldiers. They are looking off to AN OUTSIDE STAIRCASE - TAHIB'S HOUSE It runs up the side of the building and is lined with waiting people. Nehru and Patel are climbing the stairs, moving past them almost irritably as they mutter "Nehru, Nehru," "Patel," and make the pranam to the eminent men. In the heat of the city Tahib's rooftop is still Gandhi's "home" and has become a center of activity. Azad clears someone aside and ushers Nehru and Patel under the canopy awning. Nehru pauses as he lowers his head. His point of view. Gandhi lies curled awkwardly on his side of the cot. He is writing, Pyarelal taking the pages as he finishes, both ignoring all the people, the sounds of gunfire and distant shouting, but he looks tired and tightens his jaw occasionally in pain. The camera pans. A doctor sits near the foot of the cot, Abdul Ghaffar Khan beyond him. Near the other edge of the canopied area, Mirabehn sits with Bourke-White. They are whispering quietly, but Mirabehn has stopped on seeing Nehru and she smiles a relieved greeting. She knows Gandhi's feeling for him. Bourke-White stares at him and Patel for a second and then her hand goes slowly, almost reflexively, for her camera. CLOSER ON GANDHI Nehru crosses and kneels so that he is almost at Gandhi's eyeline. Gandhi must take his eyes from his writing to look, and he is almost moved to tears at the sight of Nehru. His hand shakes a little as he holds it out to him. NEHRU Bapu... Gandhi turns to pat their joined hands with his other hand. He does so with effort, and at last he sees Patel. GANDHI Sardar... (He looks him over.) You have gained weight. You must join me in the fast. Patel sits near the head of the cot so the three of them are on a level. Outside the canopied area, Bourke-White is crouched, her camera framing the three of them. PATEL (wittily, warmly) If I fast I die. If you fast people go to all sorts of trouble to keep you alive. Gandhi smiles and reaches to touch hands with him. NEHRU Bapu, forgive me -- I've cheated. I could have come earlier. But your fast has helped. These last days people's minds have begun to turn to this bed -- and away from last night's atrocity. But now it is enough. Gandhi shakes his head. GANDHI All that has happened is that I've grown a little thinner. It is despairingly sincere. But Nehru feels he has an antidote for that despair. The distant sound of an explosion. NEHRU Tomorrow five thousand Muslim students of all ages are marching here in Calcutta -- for peace. (The real point) And five thousand Hindu students are marching with them. It is all organized. Bourke-White captures the sense of elation in his face. From her discreet distance, she lowers the camera, holding it against her mouth, waiting for Gandhi's response. Gandhi nods to Nehru, accepting the news with a sad wistfulness. GANDHI I'm glad -- but it will not be enough. Nehru isn't prepared for this resistance. He glances at Patel, and we see that they recognize that their bland conviction that they could talk him out of the fast was deeply misplaced. Nehru turns back -- this time no confidence, only concern. A forced smile. NEHRU Bapu, you are not so young anymore. Gandhi smiles, pain etched in his eyes. He touches Nehru's hand. GANDHI Don't worry for me -- death will be a deliverance. (There is water in his eyes, but his words have the weight of a man truly determined to die.) I cannot watch the destruction of all I have lived for. Nehru stares at him, feeling the sudden fear that Gandhi means it. Patel, Mirabehn, Azad, Bourke-White are gripped by the same realization. TAHIB'S HOUSE - EXTERIOR - NIGHT An outside broadcast truck is parked among the usual crowd, grown even larger now, and more women among them. The sounds of distant fighting. TAHIB'S ROOF - EXTERIOR - NIGHT The senior technician, in earphones, signals across to Mirabehn. She holds a microphone by Gandhi, who is lying on his side. He seems almost out of touch. MIRABEHN Bapu... Gandhi looks at her, and then the microphone. When he speaks into the microphone his voice is very weak. GANDHI Each night before I sleep, I read a few words from the Gita and the Koran, and the Bible... (we intercut with Bourke-White and those on the roof watching) tonight I ask you to share these thoughts of God with me. And now we go into the streets, intercutting with Gandhi but seeing Hindus listening around loudspeakers on corners, in little eating houses, Muslim shops where people live in the back, and neighbors gathering defensively in groups. GANDHI (the books are there, but he does it from memory of course) I will begin with the Bible where the words of the Lord are, "Love thy neighbor as thyself"... and then our beloved Gita which says, "The world is a garment worn by God, thy neighbor is in truth thyself"... and finally the Holy Koran, "We shall remove all hatred from our hearts and recline on couches face to face, a band of brothers." He leans back, exhausted. Mirabehn is looking at him; she starts to sing softly. MIRABEHN "Lead Kindly Light, amidst the circling gloom..." Gandhi, his eyes closed, takes it up in his weak, croaking voice. GANDHI/MIRABEHN "The night is dark, and I am far from home, Lead thou me on..." TAHIB'S HOUSE - EXTERIOR - DAY Two police motorcycles lead a black limousine to a stop before Tahib's house. The crowd now gathered is very large. More mixed than before but still predominantly of youths, many still with black flags. Nehru gets out of the limousine with a Muslim leader, a tough- looking man who carries himself with the authority and power of a mobster (Suhrawardy). And they start to go up the outside stairs. Suddenly we hear the shout "Death to Gandhi!," "Death to Gandhi!" And Nehru turns, pushing past Suhrawardy fiercely and going back onto the street. He runs at the crowd, where the shout comes once more from the back. His face is wild with anger and shock. NEHRU (hysterically) Who dares say such things! Who?! (And he is running at them and they spread in fear.) Come! Kill me first! Come! Where are you?! Kill me first! The crowd has spread from him all along the street; they stand against the walls of the houses staring at him, terrified to move. We see, just in passing, the frightened, apprehensive faces of Godse, and near him, Apte and Karkare. Nehru stands, staring at them all, his face seething with anger. TAHIB'S ROOF - EXTERIOR - DAY We are featuring a copy of Life Magazine. On the cover is a picture of rioting men fighting and diagonally a cut-out of Gandhi lying on his cot. The caption reads: "An Old Man's Battle." As the magazine starts to be opened, it is suddenly put to one side. Another angle. Mirabehn is rising, leaving the magazine at her feet. She moves to Nehru and Suhrawardy as Azad ushers them into the canopied area. Abdul Ghaffar Khan sits quietly in the background. Mirabehn speaks softly. MIRABEHN His pulse is very irregular -- the kidneys aren't functioning. Nehru looks across at Gandhi. The doctor, who is testing Gandhi's pulse yet again, glances at him -- no encouragement -- and moves away. Nehru moves to the side of the cot and Gandhi smiles weakly and holds out a hand, but he is in pain. NEHRU Bapu, I have brought Mr. Suhrawardy. It was he who called on the Muslims to rise; he is telling them now to go back to their homes, to lay down their arms. Gandhi looks up at Suhrawardy, who nods. Gandhi looks back at Nehru. There is no hint of him changing his mind. NEHRU (personally) Think what you can do by living -- that you cannot do by dying. Gandhi smiles whimsically, he touches him again but there is no change in his attitude. NEHRU (pleadingly) What do you want? GANDHI (a moment) That the fighting will stop -- that you make me believe it will never start again. Nehru looks at him hopelessly. SQUARE IN CALCUTTA - EXTERIOR - DAY A huge crowd, some smoke in distant buildings, some damage near to help us know this is still Calcutta, and all is not yet at peace. The camera sweeps over the crowd, past the loudspeakers on their poles. We see surly knots of belligerent rowdies, mostly young, but not all, hanging on the fringes as we move over the heads of the mass of listening people to a platform where Nehru speaks. Azad, Suhrawardy, and others sit on the floor behind him. We have heard his voice over all this. NEHRU ...Sometimes it is when you are quite without hope and in utter darkness that God comes to the rescue. Gandhiji is dying because of our madness. Put away your "revenge." What will be gained by more killing? Have the courage to do what you know is right. For God's sake, let us embrace like brothers... TAHIB'S ROOF - EXTERIOR - NIGHT Featuring the Muslim leader Suhrawardy, leaning against a wall, watching an action out of shot with evident tension. We hear a little clank of metal. Another angle. There are five men facing Gandhi. They wear black trousers and black knit vests. There are thongs around their arms that make their bulging muscles seem even more powerful. They are Hindu thugs (Goondas). Their clothes are dirty -- and they are too -- but they are laying knives and guns at Gandhi's feet. Mirabehn, Azad, Pyarelal, the doctor and others on the roof watch fascinated, a little frightened. GOONDA LEADER It is our promise. We stop. It is a promise. Gandhi is looking at him, testing, not giving or accepting anything that is mere gesture. GANDHI Go -- try -- God by with you. The Goondas stand. They glance at Suhrawardy; he smiles tautly and they start to leave, but one (Nahari) lingers. Suddenly he moves violently toward Gandhi, taking a flat piece of Indian bread (chapati) from his trousers and tossing it forcefully on Gandhi. NAHARI Eat. Mirabehn and Azad start to move toward him -- the man looks immensely strong and immensely unstable. But Gandhi holds up a shaking hand, stopping them. Nahari's face is knotted in emotion, half anger, half almost a child's fear -- but there is a wild menace in that instability. NAHARI Eat! I am going to hell -- but not with your death on my soul. GANDHI Only God decides who goes to hell... NAHARI (stiffening, aggressive) I -- I killed a child... (Then an anguished defiance) I smashed his head against a wall. Gandhi stares at him, breathless. GANDHI (in a fearful whisper) Why? Why? It is as though the man has told him of some terrible self- inflicted wound. NAHARI (tears now -- and wrath) They killed my son -- my boy! Almost reflexively he holds his hand out to indicate the height of his son. He glares at Suhrawardy and then back at Gandhi. NAHARI The Muslims killed my son... they killed him. He is sobbing, but in his anger it seems almost as though he means to kill Gandhi in retaliation. A long moment, as Gandhi meets his pain and wrath. Then GANDHI I know a way out of hell. Nahari sneers, but there is just a flicker of desperate curiosity. GANDHI Find a child -- a child whose mother and father have been killed. A little boy -- about this high. He raises his hand to the height Nahari has indicated as his son's. GANDHI ...and raise him -- as your own. Nahari has listened. His face almost cracks -- it is a chink of light, but it does not illumine his darkness. GANDHI Only be sure... that he is a Muslim. And that you raise him as one. And now the light falls on Nahari. His face stiffens, he swallows, fighting any show of emotion; then he turns to go. But he takes only a step and he turns back, going to his knees, the sobs breaking again and again from his heaving body as he holds his head to Gandhi's feet in the traditional greeting of Hindu son to Hindu father. A second, and Gandhi reaches out and touches the top of his head. Mirabehn watches. The Goondas watch. Suhrawardy watches. Finally GANDHI (gently, exhaustedly) Go -- go. God bless you... COURTYARD - POLICE STATION - CALCUTTA - EXTERIOR - NIGHT Trucks with riot squads (shields and truncheons) in place, but they are lounging, waiting. There is silence, and air of somnolence. Some of the riot squad lounge in little groups around the courtyard. A distant cough. Featuring a senior riot squad officer dressed and ready for action. He it is who coughed. He coughs again, clearing his throat. A police sergeant stands by him, both are reading the front page of a paper the senior riot squad officer holds. We see two huge lines of headline: GANDHI NEAR DEATH/NEHRU GOES ON FAST. In one of the trucks one of the men offers another a cigarette. A telephone rings sharply, inside. The senior riot squad officer and the sergeant run in as engines start; the men run to their places, lower visors, headlights go on! POLICE STATION OFFICE - INTERIOR - DAY A constable mans the telephone. He listens as the senior riot squad officer and the sergeant run to him tensely. The sound of the great doors opening in the courtyard, more engines revving up. CONSTABLE Yes, sir, yes, sir, (He holds up his hand to the senior officer) "Wait." He glances up at the senior riot squad officer. CONSTABLE (writing, from the phone) Accident, "Christie crossroads," a lorry and a rickshaw. Yes, sir, I have it. He shrugs at the senior riot squad officer and hands the information slip to another constable behind the desk. The sergeant sighs, and moves to the outside door. We hear him bellow, "Stand down." The constable hangs up and sighs heavily. The senior riot squad officer shakes his head, and turns and walks slowly to the door. COURTYARD - POLICE STATION - EXTERIOR - NIGHT The senior riot squad officer and the sergeant stand in the doorway as the engines die. The men relax... the silence returns. A dog barks distantly, disturbed by the noise... A bird caws once or twice. SERGEANT I wouldn't have believed it, Mr. Gupta. SENIOR OFFICER Sergeant, it's a bloody miracle... HIGH SHOT - CALCUTTA - EXTERIOR - NIGHT It lies in silence. TAHIB'S ROOF - EXTERIOR - DAY Mirabehn is bent over Gandhi. He is curled almost in the fetal position, his face looking wan and sunken. For the first time there is silence, no explosions, no distant shouts, no gunfire. MIRABEHN Bapu, there's been no fighting -- anywhere. It has stopped -- the madness has stopped. We see the police commissioner, Suhrawardy, two doctors, Abdul Ghaffar Khan, and some others. Nearer Gandhi, behind Mirabehn, are Nehru, Patel, Azad and Pyarelal. Gandhi turns to Mirabehn, his face shaking, peering into her eyes. GANDHI It is foolish if it is just to save the life of an old man. MIRABEHN No... no. In every temple and mosque they have pledged to die before they lift a hand against each other. His weary eyes look at her; he looks up slowly to Azad. Azad nods "It's true." Then Patel PATEL Everywhere. Gandhi looks at Nehru. Nehru just nods tautly. Gandhi looks down, then lifts his head to Azad. GANDHI Maulana, my friend, could I have some orange juice... Then you and I will take a piece of bread together... The relief brings water to their eyes and grins to their faces. Nehru bends to Gandhi. Gandhi holds his hand out to him, and Nehru clutches it. Then NEHRU You see, Bapu, it is not difficult. I have fasted only a few hours and I accomplished what you could not do in as many days. It is a joke in their way with each other and Gandhi's eyes light, his smile comes. But it is tired. He puts his other hand over Nehru's and Nehru lowers his head to it, crying silently. BIRLA HOUSE - EXTERIOR - DAY As in the opening sequence -- but a few minutes earlier. The crowd is beginning to gather for the evening prayers. We see a tonga or two, a gardener opening the gate to the garden, three policemen standing, talking idly among themselves. BIRLA HOUSE - INTERIOR - DAY Laughter. Gandhi is eating muli; he holds his head back to capture the lemon juice. We hear the click of a camera GANDHI That is how you eat muli. Manu hands him a cloth and he wipes his hands. Another click of a camera. He is not fully recovered, but well on the way. GANDHI (to the photographer) I'm not sure I want to be remembered that way. It is all light and for fun. We get a wide-angle shot now and see that Bourke-White is shooting one of her favorite subjects again. She is enjoying the banter, as is Mirabehn, who is spinning quietly to one side of the room, and Patel, who sits cross-legged like Gandhi on the floor. Pyarelal is working on papers with him but grins at this. BOURKE-WHITE Don't worry, with luck you may not be. And she shoots him again, as he hands the cloth back to Manu. Abha is sitting next to Manu, looking at a collection of pictures of Gandhi, obviously Bourke-White's. PATEL No, he'll be remembered for tempting fate. It is wry, but waspishly chiding. Abha suddenly holds a picture up for Gandhi to see. It's one of him, ears wide, eyes round. ABHA Mickey Mouse. Gandhi taps her on the head with his finger as she smiles. But Bourke-White has looked from Patel to Gandhi, clearly shaken by the implication in Patel's words. BOURKE-WHITE You really are going to Pakistan, then? (Gandhi shrugs, and she chides too) You are a stubborn man. GANDHI (a grin, in the mood of their "flirtation") I'm simply going to prove to Muslims there, and Hindus here, that the only devils in the world are those running around in our own hearts -- and that's where all our battles ought to be fought. Abha has signaled to the cheap watch dangling from his dhoti. He glances at it, and holds his arms out. The two girls help him. BOURKE-WHITE And what kind of a warrior have you been in that warfare? She is photographing his getting-up and leaning on the two girls. GANDHI Not a very good one. That's why I have so much tolerance for the other scoundrels of the world. He moves off, but has a sudden thought and turns to Patel. GANDHI Ask Panditji to -- to consider what we've discussed. Patel nods soberly and Gandhi starts for the door, Bourke- White moving with him. GANDHI (of the photographs) Enough. BOURKE-WHITE (a plea) One more. He has passed her, he's in the doorway. We see the crowd at the end of the garden, where the light of the day is beginning to soften. He turns, teasing in his slightly flirtatious way with women. GANDHI You're a temptress. She shoots him against the door -- the crowd milling distantly, waiting -- then she lowers her camera. BOURKE-WHITE Just an admirer... GANDHI Nothing's more dangerous, especially for an old man. He turns; the last words have betrayed the smile on his face; they have a painful sense of truth about them. Bourke-White watches as he moves into the garden toward the crowd in the distance. She turns to Mirabehn. BOURKE-WHITE There's a sadness in him. It's an observation -- and a question. Mirabehn accedes gravely. MIRABEHN He thinks he's failed. Bourke-White stares at her, then turns to look out at him. BOURKE-WHITE Why? My God, if anything's proved him right, it's what's happened these last months... Mirabehn nods, but she keeps on spinning and tries to sound cynically resigned but her innate emotionalism keeps breaking through in her voice and on her face. MIRABEHN I am blinded by my love of him, but I think when we most needed it, he offered the world a way out of madness. But he doesn't see it... and neither does the world. It is laced with pain. Bourke-White turns and looks out at Gandhi -- so tiny, so weak as he walks between his "props." He has now reached the end of the garden and is moving among the crowd assembled there. THE GARDEN - BIRLA HOUSE - EXTERIOR - TWILIGHT Gandhi is moving forward in the crowd, one hand resting on Manu, the other on Abha. He makes the pranam to someone, the crowd is bowing to him, some speaking, and we also see the crowd from his point of view -- "Bapu," "God bless you," "Thank you -- thank you." He turns to a very old woman, who makes a salaam to him. Gandhi touches her head. GANDHI Allah be with you. Smiling, he turns back. A jostling, the sound of beads falling. MANU (to someone) Brother, Bapu is already late for prayers. Gandhi turns to the person; he makes the pranam. Full shot. Godse is making the pranam to him and he suddenly, wildly draws his gun and fires. The camera closes on Gandhi as he staggers and falls, the red stain of blood seeping through his white shawl. GANDHI Oh, God... oh, God... Manu and Abha bend over him, silent in their first shock. The sound of panic and alarm begins to grow around them, they suddenly scream and begin to cry. MANU/ABHA Bapu! Bapu! FUNERAL PYRE - EXTERIOR - DAY Blackness. Silence. A moment -- we sense the blackness moving -- like dark smoke. The camera is pulling back very slowly and we can tell the blackness is smoke rising from a fire. And now we see that it is a funeral pyre. And all around that pyre a mass of silent humanity. Through the smoke, sitting cross-legged near the rim of the flames, we see Nehru... and Azad and Patel, Mirabehn and Kallenbach, the drawn faces of Lord and Lady Mountbatten, Manu and Abha... THE RIVER - EXTERIOR - DAY A helicopter shot coming slowly up the wide river, low, toward a barge and a mass of people in the distance. And now we are over the barge, and it is covered with flowers. Flowers flow downstream around it. An urn sits on it -- containing Gandhi's ashes -- and Nehru stands near it,

margaret

How many times the word 'margaret' appears in the text?

with them now the giant figure of Abdul Ghaffar Khan, the first time we have seen him among Gandhi's intimate group. NEHRU In Calcutta it's like civil war. The Muslims rose and there was a bloodbath, and now the Hindus are taking revenge -- and if we can't stop it there'll be no hope for the Hindus left in Pakistan. PATEL ...an eye for an eye making the whole world blind. It is an empty and despairing echo of Gandhi's words. AZAD Aren't there any troops to spare? NEHRU (tense, fragile) Nothing -- nothing. The divisions in Bombay and Delhi can hardly keep the peace now. And each fresh bit of news creates another wave of mad... ness. He has turned and seen Gandhi standing slowly. It has almost stopped him. PATEL Could we cut all news off? I know -- NEHRU Bapu -- please. Where are you going. GANDHI (sounding like an old man) I don't want to hear more... He is moving toward the door. It stops them all. Pyarelal moves tentatively to open the door. PATEL (impatiently) We need your help! GANDHI There is nothing I can give. AZAD Where are you going? Gandhi turns, looks at him bleakly. GANDHI Calcutta. CALCUTTA - EXTERIOR - NIGHT We are high. There are fires, the sounds of spasmodic gunfire, of looting, screams, the roar of police vehicles and occasional sirens. The camera zooms in on a poor quarter of artisan dwellings in narrow streets. Outside one of the houses is a car, an army jeep, policemen, a few soldiers and a group of people. It seems a little island of calm in a sea of wild chaos. On the roof of the house, a figure moves into the light. CLOSER - TAHIB'S ROOF The figure is Gandhi. He peers down at the dark, rioting streets. Azad, Tahib, a Muslim whose house this is, Mirabehn and Pyarelal are with him along Abdul Ghaffar Khan. A police commissioner moves to Gandhi's side, demanding his attention. POLICE COMMISSIONER Sir, please, I don't have the men to protect you -- not in a Muslim house. Not this quarter. GANDHI I am staying with the friend of a friend. There is a sudden commotion just below them and angry shouts: "Death to Muslims!," "Death to Muslims!" Gandhi peers down. His point of view. A surging gang of youths, many carrying torches, and far outnumbering the little group of police and soldiers, are shouting up at the roof. We see three or four black flags and stains of blood on many of them. A few hold knives still wet with blood. A YOUTH There he is! A feral roar goes up at the sight of Gandhi, but he stands unmoving. HINDU YOUTH LEADER (his voice emotional, tearful) Why are you staying at the home of a Muslim! They're murderers! They killed my family! Featuring Gandhi. It is a comment too grave for glibness, and Gandhi is obviously struck by the pain of it. He pauses for a moment, staring down at the youth: GANDHI Because forgiveness is the gift of the brave. He makes it mean the youth. For a second it makes an impact, but then the youth shouts his defiance at him and his message. YOUTH To hell with you, Gandhi!! An angry chorus of acclamation; when it dies GANDHI (to the youth) Go -- do as your mother and father would wish you to do. It is ambiguous, open-ended, meaning anything your mother and father would wish you to do. Tears flush from the boy's eyes and he stares at Gandhi with a kind of hopeless anguish and rage. But the impact is on the youth alone; around him the others begin to take up the chant "Death to Muslims!," "Death to Muslims!" Gandhi turns from the street. He looks at the police commissioner -- at his fatigue, his concern, his manifest respect. Gandhi musters a weary smile. GANDHI I have lived a lifetime. If I had shunned death -- or feared it -- I would not be here. Nor would you be concerned for me. (He lets it sink in then he takes the commissioner's arm and moves back toward the center of the roof.) Leave me -- and take your men. (An understanding touch of the arm.) You have more important things to worry about. The commissioner looks at him, uncertain, not knowing what to do, as the angry chanting continues above the sound of rioting. HOSPITAL - INTERIOR - DAY An old, inadequate hospital -- dark cavernous. Margaret Bourke- White is moving among the densely packed litter of wounded women. She is positioning herself to photograph Gandhi, who is speaking to a woman who cradles a small baby. The corridors behind him are even more packed. The few doctors and nurses hardly have room to move. Featuring Gandhi. Azad and Mirabehn are behind him as he moves on, and behind them, like a giant guardian, Abdul Ghaffar Khan. We hear "Bapu, Bapu" muttered quietly here and there. Gandhi bends to a woman whose face is bandaged and a cruel wound is half-exposed between her mouth and eye. WOMAN Bapu... Allah be with you... There are tears in Gandhi's eyes now. GANDHI And with you. (He touches her wrinkled hand.) Pray... I cannot help you -- pray... pray. And the weight of his helplessness hangs on him. CALCUTTA STREET - EXTERIOR - DAY A streetcar (tram) crashes into a barricade of carts, rickshaws, a couple of old cars, smashing through to breach the barricade, but stopped in the end by the mass of debris. The streetcar is loaded with Indian troops and they break from the stalled vehicle to chase A gang of Hindus -- organized -- runs down the street from the troops, some dragging the bodies of victims with them. We see several Hindu black flags. NEHRU'S OFFICE - INTERIOR - NIGHT He speaks across his desk to a senior police commissioner. The same activity going on in the background. NEHRU (angrily) No! There will not be a Hindu Police and a Muslim Police. There is one police! An aide slips a newspaper on his desk in front of him. He doesn't look at it till the senior commissioner lowers his head and turns, accepting defeat. Then Nehru glances at the paper. In thick headlines: GANDHI: A FAST UNTO DEATH! Nehru doesn't move for a moment. Then he lifts his face slowly to his aide. NEHRU Why must I read news like this in the paper? The aide shakes his head -- there's no answer. Nehru lowers his head again; it is like another burden on a man who already has too many. He grips his temples... a terrible sigh. NEHRU Tell Patel. Arrange a plane. We will go -- Friday. THE AIDE Four days? Nehru thinks on it solemnly, then nods yes. TAHIB'S HOUSE - EXTERIOR - DAY The sounds of rioting and looting on nearby streets, but here a mass of people are gathered. Many youths with black flags. Two black government limousines. Motorcycles. Police and soldiers. They are looking off to AN OUTSIDE STAIRCASE - TAHIB'S HOUSE It runs up the side of the building and is lined with waiting people. Nehru and Patel are climbing the stairs, moving past them almost irritably as they mutter "Nehru, Nehru," "Patel," and make the pranam to the eminent men. In the heat of the city Tahib's rooftop is still Gandhi's "home" and has become a center of activity. Azad clears someone aside and ushers Nehru and Patel under the canopy awning. Nehru pauses as he lowers his head. His point of view. Gandhi lies curled awkwardly on his side of the cot. He is writing, Pyarelal taking the pages as he finishes, both ignoring all the people, the sounds of gunfire and distant shouting, but he looks tired and tightens his jaw occasionally in pain. The camera pans. A doctor sits near the foot of the cot, Abdul Ghaffar Khan beyond him. Near the other edge of the canopied area, Mirabehn sits with Bourke-White. They are whispering quietly, but Mirabehn has stopped on seeing Nehru and she smiles a relieved greeting. She knows Gandhi's feeling for him. Bourke-White stares at him and Patel for a second and then her hand goes slowly, almost reflexively, for her camera. CLOSER ON GANDHI Nehru crosses and kneels so that he is almost at Gandhi's eyeline. Gandhi must take his eyes from his writing to look, and he is almost moved to tears at the sight of Nehru. His hand shakes a little as he holds it out to him. NEHRU Bapu... Gandhi turns to pat their joined hands with his other hand. He does so with effort, and at last he sees Patel. GANDHI Sardar... (He looks him over.) You have gained weight. You must join me in the fast. Patel sits near the head of the cot so the three of them are on a level. Outside the canopied area, Bourke-White is crouched, her camera framing the three of them. PATEL (wittily, warmly) If I fast I die. If you fast people go to all sorts of trouble to keep you alive. Gandhi smiles and reaches to touch hands with him. NEHRU Bapu, forgive me -- I've cheated. I could have come earlier. But your fast has helped. These last days people's minds have begun to turn to this bed -- and away from last night's atrocity. But now it is enough. Gandhi shakes his head. GANDHI All that has happened is that I've grown a little thinner. It is despairingly sincere. But Nehru feels he has an antidote for that despair. The distant sound of an explosion. NEHRU Tomorrow five thousand Muslim students of all ages are marching here in Calcutta -- for peace. (The real point) And five thousand Hindu students are marching with them. It is all organized. Bourke-White captures the sense of elation in his face. From her discreet distance, she lowers the camera, holding it against her mouth, waiting for Gandhi's response. Gandhi nods to Nehru, accepting the news with a sad wistfulness. GANDHI I'm glad -- but it will not be enough. Nehru isn't prepared for this resistance. He glances at Patel, and we see that they recognize that their bland conviction that they could talk him out of the fast was deeply misplaced. Nehru turns back -- this time no confidence, only concern. A forced smile. NEHRU Bapu, you are not so young anymore. Gandhi smiles, pain etched in his eyes. He touches Nehru's hand. GANDHI Don't worry for me -- death will be a deliverance. (There is water in his eyes, but his words have the weight of a man truly determined to die.) I cannot watch the destruction of all I have lived for. Nehru stares at him, feeling the sudden fear that Gandhi means it. Patel, Mirabehn, Azad, Bourke-White are gripped by the same realization. TAHIB'S HOUSE - EXTERIOR - NIGHT An outside broadcast truck is parked among the usual crowd, grown even larger now, and more women among them. The sounds of distant fighting. TAHIB'S ROOF - EXTERIOR - NIGHT The senior technician, in earphones, signals across to Mirabehn. She holds a microphone by Gandhi, who is lying on his side. He seems almost out of touch. MIRABEHN Bapu... Gandhi looks at her, and then the microphone. When he speaks into the microphone his voice is very weak. GANDHI Each night before I sleep, I read a few words from the Gita and the Koran, and the Bible... (we intercut with Bourke-White and those on the roof watching) tonight I ask you to share these thoughts of God with me. And now we go into the streets, intercutting with Gandhi but seeing Hindus listening around loudspeakers on corners, in little eating houses, Muslim shops where people live in the back, and neighbors gathering defensively in groups. GANDHI (the books are there, but he does it from memory of course) I will begin with the Bible where the words of the Lord are, "Love thy neighbor as thyself"... and then our beloved Gita which says, "The world is a garment worn by God, thy neighbor is in truth thyself"... and finally the Holy Koran, "We shall remove all hatred from our hearts and recline on couches face to face, a band of brothers." He leans back, exhausted. Mirabehn is looking at him; she starts to sing softly. MIRABEHN "Lead Kindly Light, amidst the circling gloom..." Gandhi, his eyes closed, takes it up in his weak, croaking voice. GANDHI/MIRABEHN "The night is dark, and I am far from home, Lead thou me on..." TAHIB'S HOUSE - EXTERIOR - DAY Two police motorcycles lead a black limousine to a stop before Tahib's house. The crowd now gathered is very large. More mixed than before but still predominantly of youths, many still with black flags. Nehru gets out of the limousine with a Muslim leader, a tough- looking man who carries himself with the authority and power of a mobster (Suhrawardy). And they start to go up the outside stairs. Suddenly we hear the shout "Death to Gandhi!," "Death to Gandhi!" And Nehru turns, pushing past Suhrawardy fiercely and going back onto the street. He runs at the crowd, where the shout comes once more from the back. His face is wild with anger and shock. NEHRU (hysterically) Who dares say such things! Who?! (And he is running at them and they spread in fear.) Come! Kill me first! Come! Where are you?! Kill me first! The crowd has spread from him all along the street; they stand against the walls of the houses staring at him, terrified to move. We see, just in passing, the frightened, apprehensive faces of Godse, and near him, Apte and Karkare. Nehru stands, staring at them all, his face seething with anger. TAHIB'S ROOF - EXTERIOR - DAY We are featuring a copy of Life Magazine. On the cover is a picture of rioting men fighting and diagonally a cut-out of Gandhi lying on his cot. The caption reads: "An Old Man's Battle." As the magazine starts to be opened, it is suddenly put to one side. Another angle. Mirabehn is rising, leaving the magazine at her feet. She moves to Nehru and Suhrawardy as Azad ushers them into the canopied area. Abdul Ghaffar Khan sits quietly in the background. Mirabehn speaks softly. MIRABEHN His pulse is very irregular -- the kidneys aren't functioning. Nehru looks across at Gandhi. The doctor, who is testing Gandhi's pulse yet again, glances at him -- no encouragement -- and moves away. Nehru moves to the side of the cot and Gandhi smiles weakly and holds out a hand, but he is in pain. NEHRU Bapu, I have brought Mr. Suhrawardy. It was he who called on the Muslims to rise; he is telling them now to go back to their homes, to lay down their arms. Gandhi looks up at Suhrawardy, who nods. Gandhi looks back at Nehru. There is no hint of him changing his mind. NEHRU (personally) Think what you can do by living -- that you cannot do by dying. Gandhi smiles whimsically, he touches him again but there is no change in his attitude. NEHRU (pleadingly) What do you want? GANDHI (a moment) That the fighting will stop -- that you make me believe it will never start again. Nehru looks at him hopelessly. SQUARE IN CALCUTTA - EXTERIOR - DAY A huge crowd, some smoke in distant buildings, some damage near to help us know this is still Calcutta, and all is not yet at peace. The camera sweeps over the crowd, past the loudspeakers on their poles. We see surly knots of belligerent rowdies, mostly young, but not all, hanging on the fringes as we move over the heads of the mass of listening people to a platform where Nehru speaks. Azad, Suhrawardy, and others sit on the floor behind him. We have heard his voice over all this. NEHRU ...Sometimes it is when you are quite without hope and in utter darkness that God comes to the rescue. Gandhiji is dying because of our madness. Put away your "revenge." What will be gained by more killing? Have the courage to do what you know is right. For God's sake, let us embrace like brothers... TAHIB'S ROOF - EXTERIOR - NIGHT Featuring the Muslim leader Suhrawardy, leaning against a wall, watching an action out of shot with evident tension. We hear a little clank of metal. Another angle. There are five men facing Gandhi. They wear black trousers and black knit vests. There are thongs around their arms that make their bulging muscles seem even more powerful. They are Hindu thugs (Goondas). Their clothes are dirty -- and they are too -- but they are laying knives and guns at Gandhi's feet. Mirabehn, Azad, Pyarelal, the doctor and others on the roof watch fascinated, a little frightened. GOONDA LEADER It is our promise. We stop. It is a promise. Gandhi is looking at him, testing, not giving or accepting anything that is mere gesture. GANDHI Go -- try -- God by with you. The Goondas stand. They glance at Suhrawardy; he smiles tautly and they start to leave, but one (Nahari) lingers. Suddenly he moves violently toward Gandhi, taking a flat piece of Indian bread (chapati) from his trousers and tossing it forcefully on Gandhi. NAHARI Eat. Mirabehn and Azad start to move toward him -- the man looks immensely strong and immensely unstable. But Gandhi holds up a shaking hand, stopping them. Nahari's face is knotted in emotion, half anger, half almost a child's fear -- but there is a wild menace in that instability. NAHARI Eat! I am going to hell -- but not with your death on my soul. GANDHI Only God decides who goes to hell... NAHARI (stiffening, aggressive) I -- I killed a child... (Then an anguished defiance) I smashed his head against a wall. Gandhi stares at him, breathless. GANDHI (in a fearful whisper) Why? Why? It is as though the man has told him of some terrible self- inflicted wound. NAHARI (tears now -- and wrath) They killed my son -- my boy! Almost reflexively he holds his hand out to indicate the height of his son. He glares at Suhrawardy and then back at Gandhi. NAHARI The Muslims killed my son... they killed him. He is sobbing, but in his anger it seems almost as though he means to kill Gandhi in retaliation. A long moment, as Gandhi meets his pain and wrath. Then GANDHI I know a way out of hell. Nahari sneers, but there is just a flicker of desperate curiosity. GANDHI Find a child -- a child whose mother and father have been killed. A little boy -- about this high. He raises his hand to the height Nahari has indicated as his son's. GANDHI ...and raise him -- as your own. Nahari has listened. His face almost cracks -- it is a chink of light, but it does not illumine his darkness. GANDHI Only be sure... that he is a Muslim. And that you raise him as one. And now the light falls on Nahari. His face stiffens, he swallows, fighting any show of emotion; then he turns to go. But he takes only a step and he turns back, going to his knees, the sobs breaking again and again from his heaving body as he holds his head to Gandhi's feet in the traditional greeting of Hindu son to Hindu father. A second, and Gandhi reaches out and touches the top of his head. Mirabehn watches. The Goondas watch. Suhrawardy watches. Finally GANDHI (gently, exhaustedly) Go -- go. God bless you... COURTYARD - POLICE STATION - CALCUTTA - EXTERIOR - NIGHT Trucks with riot squads (shields and truncheons) in place, but they are lounging, waiting. There is silence, and air of somnolence. Some of the riot squad lounge in little groups around the courtyard. A distant cough. Featuring a senior riot squad officer dressed and ready for action. He it is who coughed. He coughs again, clearing his throat. A police sergeant stands by him, both are reading the front page of a paper the senior riot squad officer holds. We see two huge lines of headline: GANDHI NEAR DEATH/NEHRU GOES ON FAST. In one of the trucks one of the men offers another a cigarette. A telephone rings sharply, inside. The senior riot squad officer and the sergeant run in as engines start; the men run to their places, lower visors, headlights go on! POLICE STATION OFFICE - INTERIOR - DAY A constable mans the telephone. He listens as the senior riot squad officer and the sergeant run to him tensely. The sound of the great doors opening in the courtyard, more engines revving up. CONSTABLE Yes, sir, yes, sir, (He holds up his hand to the senior officer) "Wait." He glances up at the senior riot squad officer. CONSTABLE (writing, from the phone) Accident, "Christie crossroads," a lorry and a rickshaw. Yes, sir, I have it. He shrugs at the senior riot squad officer and hands the information slip to another constable behind the desk. The sergeant sighs, and moves to the outside door. We hear him bellow, "Stand down." The constable hangs up and sighs heavily. The senior riot squad officer shakes his head, and turns and walks slowly to the door. COURTYARD - POLICE STATION - EXTERIOR - NIGHT The senior riot squad officer and the sergeant stand in the doorway as the engines die. The men relax... the silence returns. A dog barks distantly, disturbed by the noise... A bird caws once or twice. SERGEANT I wouldn't have believed it, Mr. Gupta. SENIOR OFFICER Sergeant, it's a bloody miracle... HIGH SHOT - CALCUTTA - EXTERIOR - NIGHT It lies in silence. TAHIB'S ROOF - EXTERIOR - DAY Mirabehn is bent over Gandhi. He is curled almost in the fetal position, his face looking wan and sunken. For the first time there is silence, no explosions, no distant shouts, no gunfire. MIRABEHN Bapu, there's been no fighting -- anywhere. It has stopped -- the madness has stopped. We see the police commissioner, Suhrawardy, two doctors, Abdul Ghaffar Khan, and some others. Nearer Gandhi, behind Mirabehn, are Nehru, Patel, Azad and Pyarelal. Gandhi turns to Mirabehn, his face shaking, peering into her eyes. GANDHI It is foolish if it is just to save the life of an old man. MIRABEHN No... no. In every temple and mosque they have pledged to die before they lift a hand against each other. His weary eyes look at her; he looks up slowly to Azad. Azad nods "It's true." Then Patel PATEL Everywhere. Gandhi looks at Nehru. Nehru just nods tautly. Gandhi looks down, then lifts his head to Azad. GANDHI Maulana, my friend, could I have some orange juice... Then you and I will take a piece of bread together... The relief brings water to their eyes and grins to their faces. Nehru bends to Gandhi. Gandhi holds his hand out to him, and Nehru clutches it. Then NEHRU You see, Bapu, it is not difficult. I have fasted only a few hours and I accomplished what you could not do in as many days. It is a joke in their way with each other and Gandhi's eyes light, his smile comes. But it is tired. He puts his other hand over Nehru's and Nehru lowers his head to it, crying silently. BIRLA HOUSE - EXTERIOR - DAY As in the opening sequence -- but a few minutes earlier. The crowd is beginning to gather for the evening prayers. We see a tonga or two, a gardener opening the gate to the garden, three policemen standing, talking idly among themselves. BIRLA HOUSE - INTERIOR - DAY Laughter. Gandhi is eating muli; he holds his head back to capture the lemon juice. We hear the click of a camera GANDHI That is how you eat muli. Manu hands him a cloth and he wipes his hands. Another click of a camera. He is not fully recovered, but well on the way. GANDHI (to the photographer) I'm not sure I want to be remembered that way. It is all light and for fun. We get a wide-angle shot now and see that Bourke-White is shooting one of her favorite subjects again. She is enjoying the banter, as is Mirabehn, who is spinning quietly to one side of the room, and Patel, who sits cross-legged like Gandhi on the floor. Pyarelal is working on papers with him but grins at this. BOURKE-WHITE Don't worry, with luck you may not be. And she shoots him again, as he hands the cloth back to Manu. Abha is sitting next to Manu, looking at a collection of pictures of Gandhi, obviously Bourke-White's. PATEL No, he'll be remembered for tempting fate. It is wry, but waspishly chiding. Abha suddenly holds a picture up for Gandhi to see. It's one of him, ears wide, eyes round. ABHA Mickey Mouse. Gandhi taps her on the head with his finger as she smiles. But Bourke-White has looked from Patel to Gandhi, clearly shaken by the implication in Patel's words. BOURKE-WHITE You really are going to Pakistan, then? (Gandhi shrugs, and she chides too) You are a stubborn man. GANDHI (a grin, in the mood of their "flirtation") I'm simply going to prove to Muslims there, and Hindus here, that the only devils in the world are those running around in our own hearts -- and that's where all our battles ought to be fought. Abha has signaled to the cheap watch dangling from his dhoti. He glances at it, and holds his arms out. The two girls help him. BOURKE-WHITE And what kind of a warrior have you been in that warfare? She is photographing his getting-up and leaning on the two girls. GANDHI Not a very good one. That's why I have so much tolerance for the other scoundrels of the world. He moves off, but has a sudden thought and turns to Patel. GANDHI Ask Panditji to -- to consider what we've discussed. Patel nods soberly and Gandhi starts for the door, Bourke- White moving with him. GANDHI (of the photographs) Enough. BOURKE-WHITE (a plea) One more. He has passed her, he's in the doorway. We see the crowd at the end of the garden, where the light of the day is beginning to soften. He turns, teasing in his slightly flirtatious way with women. GANDHI You're a temptress. She shoots him against the door -- the crowd milling distantly, waiting -- then she lowers her camera. BOURKE-WHITE Just an admirer... GANDHI Nothing's more dangerous, especially for an old man. He turns; the last words have betrayed the smile on his face; they have a painful sense of truth about them. Bourke-White watches as he moves into the garden toward the crowd in the distance. She turns to Mirabehn. BOURKE-WHITE There's a sadness in him. It's an observation -- and a question. Mirabehn accedes gravely. MIRABEHN He thinks he's failed. Bourke-White stares at her, then turns to look out at him. BOURKE-WHITE Why? My God, if anything's proved him right, it's what's happened these last months... Mirabehn nods, but she keeps on spinning and tries to sound cynically resigned but her innate emotionalism keeps breaking through in her voice and on her face. MIRABEHN I am blinded by my love of him, but I think when we most needed it, he offered the world a way out of madness. But he doesn't see it... and neither does the world. It is laced with pain. Bourke-White turns and looks out at Gandhi -- so tiny, so weak as he walks between his "props." He has now reached the end of the garden and is moving among the crowd assembled there. THE GARDEN - BIRLA HOUSE - EXTERIOR - TWILIGHT Gandhi is moving forward in the crowd, one hand resting on Manu, the other on Abha. He makes the pranam to someone, the crowd is bowing to him, some speaking, and we also see the crowd from his point of view -- "Bapu," "God bless you," "Thank you -- thank you." He turns to a very old woman, who makes a salaam to him. Gandhi touches her head. GANDHI Allah be with you. Smiling, he turns back. A jostling, the sound of beads falling. MANU (to someone) Brother, Bapu is already late for prayers. Gandhi turns to the person; he makes the pranam. Full shot. Godse is making the pranam to him and he suddenly, wildly draws his gun and fires. The camera closes on Gandhi as he staggers and falls, the red stain of blood seeping through his white shawl. GANDHI Oh, God... oh, God... Manu and Abha bend over him, silent in their first shock. The sound of panic and alarm begins to grow around them, they suddenly scream and begin to cry. MANU/ABHA Bapu! Bapu! FUNERAL PYRE - EXTERIOR - DAY Blackness. Silence. A moment -- we sense the blackness moving -- like dark smoke. The camera is pulling back very slowly and we can tell the blackness is smoke rising from a fire. And now we see that it is a funeral pyre. And all around that pyre a mass of silent humanity. Through the smoke, sitting cross-legged near the rim of the flames, we see Nehru... and Azad and Patel, Mirabehn and Kallenbach, the drawn faces of Lord and Lady Mountbatten, Manu and Abha... THE RIVER - EXTERIOR - DAY A helicopter shot coming slowly up the wide river, low, toward a barge and a mass of people in the distance. And now we are over the barge, and it is covered with flowers. Flowers flow downstream around it. An urn sits on it -- containing Gandhi's ashes -- and Nehru stands near it,

absolute

How many times the word 'absolute' appears in the text?

with them now the giant figure of Abdul Ghaffar Khan, the first time we have seen him among Gandhi's intimate group. NEHRU In Calcutta it's like civil war. The Muslims rose and there was a bloodbath, and now the Hindus are taking revenge -- and if we can't stop it there'll be no hope for the Hindus left in Pakistan. PATEL ...an eye for an eye making the whole world blind. It is an empty and despairing echo of Gandhi's words. AZAD Aren't there any troops to spare? NEHRU (tense, fragile) Nothing -- nothing. The divisions in Bombay and Delhi can hardly keep the peace now. And each fresh bit of news creates another wave of mad... ness. He has turned and seen Gandhi standing slowly. It has almost stopped him. PATEL Could we cut all news off? I know -- NEHRU Bapu -- please. Where are you going. GANDHI (sounding like an old man) I don't want to hear more... He is moving toward the door. It stops them all. Pyarelal moves tentatively to open the door. PATEL (impatiently) We need your help! GANDHI There is nothing I can give. AZAD Where are you going? Gandhi turns, looks at him bleakly. GANDHI Calcutta. CALCUTTA - EXTERIOR - NIGHT We are high. There are fires, the sounds of spasmodic gunfire, of looting, screams, the roar of police vehicles and occasional sirens. The camera zooms in on a poor quarter of artisan dwellings in narrow streets. Outside one of the houses is a car, an army jeep, policemen, a few soldiers and a group of people. It seems a little island of calm in a sea of wild chaos. On the roof of the house, a figure moves into the light. CLOSER - TAHIB'S ROOF The figure is Gandhi. He peers down at the dark, rioting streets. Azad, Tahib, a Muslim whose house this is, Mirabehn and Pyarelal are with him along Abdul Ghaffar Khan. A police commissioner moves to Gandhi's side, demanding his attention. POLICE COMMISSIONER Sir, please, I don't have the men to protect you -- not in a Muslim house. Not this quarter. GANDHI I am staying with the friend of a friend. There is a sudden commotion just below them and angry shouts: "Death to Muslims!," "Death to Muslims!" Gandhi peers down. His point of view. A surging gang of youths, many carrying torches, and far outnumbering the little group of police and soldiers, are shouting up at the roof. We see three or four black flags and stains of blood on many of them. A few hold knives still wet with blood. A YOUTH There he is! A feral roar goes up at the sight of Gandhi, but he stands unmoving. HINDU YOUTH LEADER (his voice emotional, tearful) Why are you staying at the home of a Muslim! They're murderers! They killed my family! Featuring Gandhi. It is a comment too grave for glibness, and Gandhi is obviously struck by the pain of it. He pauses for a moment, staring down at the youth: GANDHI Because forgiveness is the gift of the brave. He makes it mean the youth. For a second it makes an impact, but then the youth shouts his defiance at him and his message. YOUTH To hell with you, Gandhi!! An angry chorus of acclamation; when it dies GANDHI (to the youth) Go -- do as your mother and father would wish you to do. It is ambiguous, open-ended, meaning anything your mother and father would wish you to do. Tears flush from the boy's eyes and he stares at Gandhi with a kind of hopeless anguish and rage. But the impact is on the youth alone; around him the others begin to take up the chant "Death to Muslims!," "Death to Muslims!" Gandhi turns from the street. He looks at the police commissioner -- at his fatigue, his concern, his manifest respect. Gandhi musters a weary smile. GANDHI I have lived a lifetime. If I had shunned death -- or feared it -- I would not be here. Nor would you be concerned for me. (He lets it sink in then he takes the commissioner's arm and moves back toward the center of the roof.) Leave me -- and take your men. (An understanding touch of the arm.) You have more important things to worry about. The commissioner looks at him, uncertain, not knowing what to do, as the angry chanting continues above the sound of rioting. HOSPITAL - INTERIOR - DAY An old, inadequate hospital -- dark cavernous. Margaret Bourke- White is moving among the densely packed litter of wounded women. She is positioning herself to photograph Gandhi, who is speaking to a woman who cradles a small baby. The corridors behind him are even more packed. The few doctors and nurses hardly have room to move. Featuring Gandhi. Azad and Mirabehn are behind him as he moves on, and behind them, like a giant guardian, Abdul Ghaffar Khan. We hear "Bapu, Bapu" muttered quietly here and there. Gandhi bends to a woman whose face is bandaged and a cruel wound is half-exposed between her mouth and eye. WOMAN Bapu... Allah be with you... There are tears in Gandhi's eyes now. GANDHI And with you. (He touches her wrinkled hand.) Pray... I cannot help you -- pray... pray. And the weight of his helplessness hangs on him. CALCUTTA STREET - EXTERIOR - DAY A streetcar (tram) crashes into a barricade of carts, rickshaws, a couple of old cars, smashing through to breach the barricade, but stopped in the end by the mass of debris. The streetcar is loaded with Indian troops and they break from the stalled vehicle to chase A gang of Hindus -- organized -- runs down the street from the troops, some dragging the bodies of victims with them. We see several Hindu black flags. NEHRU'S OFFICE - INTERIOR - NIGHT He speaks across his desk to a senior police commissioner. The same activity going on in the background. NEHRU (angrily) No! There will not be a Hindu Police and a Muslim Police. There is one police! An aide slips a newspaper on his desk in front of him. He doesn't look at it till the senior commissioner lowers his head and turns, accepting defeat. Then Nehru glances at the paper. In thick headlines: GANDHI: A FAST UNTO DEATH! Nehru doesn't move for a moment. Then he lifts his face slowly to his aide. NEHRU Why must I read news like this in the paper? The aide shakes his head -- there's no answer. Nehru lowers his head again; it is like another burden on a man who already has too many. He grips his temples... a terrible sigh. NEHRU Tell Patel. Arrange a plane. We will go -- Friday. THE AIDE Four days? Nehru thinks on it solemnly, then nods yes. TAHIB'S HOUSE - EXTERIOR - DAY The sounds of rioting and looting on nearby streets, but here a mass of people are gathered. Many youths with black flags. Two black government limousines. Motorcycles. Police and soldiers. They are looking off to AN OUTSIDE STAIRCASE - TAHIB'S HOUSE It runs up the side of the building and is lined with waiting people. Nehru and Patel are climbing the stairs, moving past them almost irritably as they mutter "Nehru, Nehru," "Patel," and make the pranam to the eminent men. In the heat of the city Tahib's rooftop is still Gandhi's "home" and has become a center of activity. Azad clears someone aside and ushers Nehru and Patel under the canopy awning. Nehru pauses as he lowers his head. His point of view. Gandhi lies curled awkwardly on his side of the cot. He is writing, Pyarelal taking the pages as he finishes, both ignoring all the people, the sounds of gunfire and distant shouting, but he looks tired and tightens his jaw occasionally in pain. The camera pans. A doctor sits near the foot of the cot, Abdul Ghaffar Khan beyond him. Near the other edge of the canopied area, Mirabehn sits with Bourke-White. They are whispering quietly, but Mirabehn has stopped on seeing Nehru and she smiles a relieved greeting. She knows Gandhi's feeling for him. Bourke-White stares at him and Patel for a second and then her hand goes slowly, almost reflexively, for her camera. CLOSER ON GANDHI Nehru crosses and kneels so that he is almost at Gandhi's eyeline. Gandhi must take his eyes from his writing to look, and he is almost moved to tears at the sight of Nehru. His hand shakes a little as he holds it out to him. NEHRU Bapu... Gandhi turns to pat their joined hands with his other hand. He does so with effort, and at last he sees Patel. GANDHI Sardar... (He looks him over.) You have gained weight. You must join me in the fast. Patel sits near the head of the cot so the three of them are on a level. Outside the canopied area, Bourke-White is crouched, her camera framing the three of them. PATEL (wittily, warmly) If I fast I die. If you fast people go to all sorts of trouble to keep you alive. Gandhi smiles and reaches to touch hands with him. NEHRU Bapu, forgive me -- I've cheated. I could have come earlier. But your fast has helped. These last days people's minds have begun to turn to this bed -- and away from last night's atrocity. But now it is enough. Gandhi shakes his head. GANDHI All that has happened is that I've grown a little thinner. It is despairingly sincere. But Nehru feels he has an antidote for that despair. The distant sound of an explosion. NEHRU Tomorrow five thousand Muslim students of all ages are marching here in Calcutta -- for peace. (The real point) And five thousand Hindu students are marching with them. It is all organized. Bourke-White captures the sense of elation in his face. From her discreet distance, she lowers the camera, holding it against her mouth, waiting for Gandhi's response. Gandhi nods to Nehru, accepting the news with a sad wistfulness. GANDHI I'm glad -- but it will not be enough. Nehru isn't prepared for this resistance. He glances at Patel, and we see that they recognize that their bland conviction that they could talk him out of the fast was deeply misplaced. Nehru turns back -- this time no confidence, only concern. A forced smile. NEHRU Bapu, you are not so young anymore. Gandhi smiles, pain etched in his eyes. He touches Nehru's hand. GANDHI Don't worry for me -- death will be a deliverance. (There is water in his eyes, but his words have the weight of a man truly determined to die.) I cannot watch the destruction of all I have lived for. Nehru stares at him, feeling the sudden fear that Gandhi means it. Patel, Mirabehn, Azad, Bourke-White are gripped by the same realization. TAHIB'S HOUSE - EXTERIOR - NIGHT An outside broadcast truck is parked among the usual crowd, grown even larger now, and more women among them. The sounds of distant fighting. TAHIB'S ROOF - EXTERIOR - NIGHT The senior technician, in earphones, signals across to Mirabehn. She holds a microphone by Gandhi, who is lying on his side. He seems almost out of touch. MIRABEHN Bapu... Gandhi looks at her, and then the microphone. When he speaks into the microphone his voice is very weak. GANDHI Each night before I sleep, I read a few words from the Gita and the Koran, and the Bible... (we intercut with Bourke-White and those on the roof watching) tonight I ask you to share these thoughts of God with me. And now we go into the streets, intercutting with Gandhi but seeing Hindus listening around loudspeakers on corners, in little eating houses, Muslim shops where people live in the back, and neighbors gathering defensively in groups. GANDHI (the books are there, but he does it from memory of course) I will begin with the Bible where the words of the Lord are, "Love thy neighbor as thyself"... and then our beloved Gita which says, "The world is a garment worn by God, thy neighbor is in truth thyself"... and finally the Holy Koran, "We shall remove all hatred from our hearts and recline on couches face to face, a band of brothers." He leans back, exhausted. Mirabehn is looking at him; she starts to sing softly. MIRABEHN "Lead Kindly Light, amidst the circling gloom..." Gandhi, his eyes closed, takes it up in his weak, croaking voice. GANDHI/MIRABEHN "The night is dark, and I am far from home, Lead thou me on..." TAHIB'S HOUSE - EXTERIOR - DAY Two police motorcycles lead a black limousine to a stop before Tahib's house. The crowd now gathered is very large. More mixed than before but still predominantly of youths, many still with black flags. Nehru gets out of the limousine with a Muslim leader, a tough- looking man who carries himself with the authority and power of a mobster (Suhrawardy). And they start to go up the outside stairs. Suddenly we hear the shout "Death to Gandhi!," "Death to Gandhi!" And Nehru turns, pushing past Suhrawardy fiercely and going back onto the street. He runs at the crowd, where the shout comes once more from the back. His face is wild with anger and shock. NEHRU (hysterically) Who dares say such things! Who?! (And he is running at them and they spread in fear.) Come! Kill me first! Come! Where are you?! Kill me first! The crowd has spread from him all along the street; they stand against the walls of the houses staring at him, terrified to move. We see, just in passing, the frightened, apprehensive faces of Godse, and near him, Apte and Karkare. Nehru stands, staring at them all, his face seething with anger. TAHIB'S ROOF - EXTERIOR - DAY We are featuring a copy of Life Magazine. On the cover is a picture of rioting men fighting and diagonally a cut-out of Gandhi lying on his cot. The caption reads: "An Old Man's Battle." As the magazine starts to be opened, it is suddenly put to one side. Another angle. Mirabehn is rising, leaving the magazine at her feet. She moves to Nehru and Suhrawardy as Azad ushers them into the canopied area. Abdul Ghaffar Khan sits quietly in the background. Mirabehn speaks softly. MIRABEHN His pulse is very irregular -- the kidneys aren't functioning. Nehru looks across at Gandhi. The doctor, who is testing Gandhi's pulse yet again, glances at him -- no encouragement -- and moves away. Nehru moves to the side of the cot and Gandhi smiles weakly and holds out a hand, but he is in pain. NEHRU Bapu, I have brought Mr. Suhrawardy. It was he who called on the Muslims to rise; he is telling them now to go back to their homes, to lay down their arms. Gandhi looks up at Suhrawardy, who nods. Gandhi looks back at Nehru. There is no hint of him changing his mind. NEHRU (personally) Think what you can do by living -- that you cannot do by dying. Gandhi smiles whimsically, he touches him again but there is no change in his attitude. NEHRU (pleadingly) What do you want? GANDHI (a moment) That the fighting will stop -- that you make me believe it will never start again. Nehru looks at him hopelessly. SQUARE IN CALCUTTA - EXTERIOR - DAY A huge crowd, some smoke in distant buildings, some damage near to help us know this is still Calcutta, and all is not yet at peace. The camera sweeps over the crowd, past the loudspeakers on their poles. We see surly knots of belligerent rowdies, mostly young, but not all, hanging on the fringes as we move over the heads of the mass of listening people to a platform where Nehru speaks. Azad, Suhrawardy, and others sit on the floor behind him. We have heard his voice over all this. NEHRU ...Sometimes it is when you are quite without hope and in utter darkness that God comes to the rescue. Gandhiji is dying because of our madness. Put away your "revenge." What will be gained by more killing? Have the courage to do what you know is right. For God's sake, let us embrace like brothers... TAHIB'S ROOF - EXTERIOR - NIGHT Featuring the Muslim leader Suhrawardy, leaning against a wall, watching an action out of shot with evident tension. We hear a little clank of metal. Another angle. There are five men facing Gandhi. They wear black trousers and black knit vests. There are thongs around their arms that make their bulging muscles seem even more powerful. They are Hindu thugs (Goondas). Their clothes are dirty -- and they are too -- but they are laying knives and guns at Gandhi's feet. Mirabehn, Azad, Pyarelal, the doctor and others on the roof watch fascinated, a little frightened. GOONDA LEADER It is our promise. We stop. It is a promise. Gandhi is looking at him, testing, not giving or accepting anything that is mere gesture. GANDHI Go -- try -- God by with you. The Goondas stand. They glance at Suhrawardy; he smiles tautly and they start to leave, but one (Nahari) lingers. Suddenly he moves violently toward Gandhi, taking a flat piece of Indian bread (chapati) from his trousers and tossing it forcefully on Gandhi. NAHARI Eat. Mirabehn and Azad start to move toward him -- the man looks immensely strong and immensely unstable. But Gandhi holds up a shaking hand, stopping them. Nahari's face is knotted in emotion, half anger, half almost a child's fear -- but there is a wild menace in that instability. NAHARI Eat! I am going to hell -- but not with your death on my soul. GANDHI Only God decides who goes to hell... NAHARI (stiffening, aggressive) I -- I killed a child... (Then an anguished defiance) I smashed his head against a wall. Gandhi stares at him, breathless. GANDHI (in a fearful whisper) Why? Why? It is as though the man has told him of some terrible self- inflicted wound. NAHARI (tears now -- and wrath) They killed my son -- my boy! Almost reflexively he holds his hand out to indicate the height of his son. He glares at Suhrawardy and then back at Gandhi. NAHARI The Muslims killed my son... they killed him. He is sobbing, but in his anger it seems almost as though he means to kill Gandhi in retaliation. A long moment, as Gandhi meets his pain and wrath. Then GANDHI I know a way out of hell. Nahari sneers, but there is just a flicker of desperate curiosity. GANDHI Find a child -- a child whose mother and father have been killed. A little boy -- about this high. He raises his hand to the height Nahari has indicated as his son's. GANDHI ...and raise him -- as your own. Nahari has listened. His face almost cracks -- it is a chink of light, but it does not illumine his darkness. GANDHI Only be sure... that he is a Muslim. And that you raise him as one. And now the light falls on Nahari. His face stiffens, he swallows, fighting any show of emotion; then he turns to go. But he takes only a step and he turns back, going to his knees, the sobs breaking again and again from his heaving body as he holds his head to Gandhi's feet in the traditional greeting of Hindu son to Hindu father. A second, and Gandhi reaches out and touches the top of his head. Mirabehn watches. The Goondas watch. Suhrawardy watches. Finally GANDHI (gently, exhaustedly) Go -- go. God bless you... COURTYARD - POLICE STATION - CALCUTTA - EXTERIOR - NIGHT Trucks with riot squads (shields and truncheons) in place, but they are lounging, waiting. There is silence, and air of somnolence. Some of the riot squad lounge in little groups around the courtyard. A distant cough. Featuring a senior riot squad officer dressed and ready for action. He it is who coughed. He coughs again, clearing his throat. A police sergeant stands by him, both are reading the front page of a paper the senior riot squad officer holds. We see two huge lines of headline: GANDHI NEAR DEATH/NEHRU GOES ON FAST. In one of the trucks one of the men offers another a cigarette. A telephone rings sharply, inside. The senior riot squad officer and the sergeant run in as engines start; the men run to their places, lower visors, headlights go on! POLICE STATION OFFICE - INTERIOR - DAY A constable mans the telephone. He listens as the senior riot squad officer and the sergeant run to him tensely. The sound of the great doors opening in the courtyard, more engines revving up. CONSTABLE Yes, sir, yes, sir, (He holds up his hand to the senior officer) "Wait." He glances up at the senior riot squad officer. CONSTABLE (writing, from the phone) Accident, "Christie crossroads," a lorry and a rickshaw. Yes, sir, I have it. He shrugs at the senior riot squad officer and hands the information slip to another constable behind the desk. The sergeant sighs, and moves to the outside door. We hear him bellow, "Stand down." The constable hangs up and sighs heavily. The senior riot squad officer shakes his head, and turns and walks slowly to the door. COURTYARD - POLICE STATION - EXTERIOR - NIGHT The senior riot squad officer and the sergeant stand in the doorway as the engines die. The men relax... the silence returns. A dog barks distantly, disturbed by the noise... A bird caws once or twice. SERGEANT I wouldn't have believed it, Mr. Gupta. SENIOR OFFICER Sergeant, it's a bloody miracle... HIGH SHOT - CALCUTTA - EXTERIOR - NIGHT It lies in silence. TAHIB'S ROOF - EXTERIOR - DAY Mirabehn is bent over Gandhi. He is curled almost in the fetal position, his face looking wan and sunken. For the first time there is silence, no explosions, no distant shouts, no gunfire. MIRABEHN Bapu, there's been no fighting -- anywhere. It has stopped -- the madness has stopped. We see the police commissioner, Suhrawardy, two doctors, Abdul Ghaffar Khan, and some others. Nearer Gandhi, behind Mirabehn, are Nehru, Patel, Azad and Pyarelal. Gandhi turns to Mirabehn, his face shaking, peering into her eyes. GANDHI It is foolish if it is just to save the life of an old man. MIRABEHN No... no. In every temple and mosque they have pledged to die before they lift a hand against each other. His weary eyes look at her; he looks up slowly to Azad. Azad nods "It's true." Then Patel PATEL Everywhere. Gandhi looks at Nehru. Nehru just nods tautly. Gandhi looks down, then lifts his head to Azad. GANDHI Maulana, my friend, could I have some orange juice... Then you and I will take a piece of bread together... The relief brings water to their eyes and grins to their faces. Nehru bends to Gandhi. Gandhi holds his hand out to him, and Nehru clutches it. Then NEHRU You see, Bapu, it is not difficult. I have fasted only a few hours and I accomplished what you could not do in as many days. It is a joke in their way with each other and Gandhi's eyes light, his smile comes. But it is tired. He puts his other hand over Nehru's and Nehru lowers his head to it, crying silently. BIRLA HOUSE - EXTERIOR - DAY As in the opening sequence -- but a few minutes earlier. The crowd is beginning to gather for the evening prayers. We see a tonga or two, a gardener opening the gate to the garden, three policemen standing, talking idly among themselves. BIRLA HOUSE - INTERIOR - DAY Laughter. Gandhi is eating muli; he holds his head back to capture the lemon juice. We hear the click of a camera GANDHI That is how you eat muli. Manu hands him a cloth and he wipes his hands. Another click of a camera. He is not fully recovered, but well on the way. GANDHI (to the photographer) I'm not sure I want to be remembered that way. It is all light and for fun. We get a wide-angle shot now and see that Bourke-White is shooting one of her favorite subjects again. She is enjoying the banter, as is Mirabehn, who is spinning quietly to one side of the room, and Patel, who sits cross-legged like Gandhi on the floor. Pyarelal is working on papers with him but grins at this. BOURKE-WHITE Don't worry, with luck you may not be. And she shoots him again, as he hands the cloth back to Manu. Abha is sitting next to Manu, looking at a collection of pictures of Gandhi, obviously Bourke-White's. PATEL No, he'll be remembered for tempting fate. It is wry, but waspishly chiding. Abha suddenly holds a picture up for Gandhi to see. It's one of him, ears wide, eyes round. ABHA Mickey Mouse. Gandhi taps her on the head with his finger as she smiles. But Bourke-White has looked from Patel to Gandhi, clearly shaken by the implication in Patel's words. BOURKE-WHITE You really are going to Pakistan, then? (Gandhi shrugs, and she chides too) You are a stubborn man. GANDHI (a grin, in the mood of their "flirtation") I'm simply going to prove to Muslims there, and Hindus here, that the only devils in the world are those running around in our own hearts -- and that's where all our battles ought to be fought. Abha has signaled to the cheap watch dangling from his dhoti. He glances at it, and holds his arms out. The two girls help him. BOURKE-WHITE And what kind of a warrior have you been in that warfare? She is photographing his getting-up and leaning on the two girls. GANDHI Not a very good one. That's why I have so much tolerance for the other scoundrels of the world. He moves off, but has a sudden thought and turns to Patel. GANDHI Ask Panditji to -- to consider what we've discussed. Patel nods soberly and Gandhi starts for the door, Bourke- White moving with him. GANDHI (of the photographs) Enough. BOURKE-WHITE (a plea) One more. He has passed her, he's in the doorway. We see the crowd at the end of the garden, where the light of the day is beginning to soften. He turns, teasing in his slightly flirtatious way with women. GANDHI You're a temptress. She shoots him against the door -- the crowd milling distantly, waiting -- then she lowers her camera. BOURKE-WHITE Just an admirer... GANDHI Nothing's more dangerous, especially for an old man. He turns; the last words have betrayed the smile on his face; they have a painful sense of truth about them. Bourke-White watches as he moves into the garden toward the crowd in the distance. She turns to Mirabehn. BOURKE-WHITE There's a sadness in him. It's an observation -- and a question. Mirabehn accedes gravely. MIRABEHN He thinks he's failed. Bourke-White stares at her, then turns to look out at him. BOURKE-WHITE Why? My God, if anything's proved him right, it's what's happened these last months... Mirabehn nods, but she keeps on spinning and tries to sound cynically resigned but her innate emotionalism keeps breaking through in her voice and on her face. MIRABEHN I am blinded by my love of him, but I think when we most needed it, he offered the world a way out of madness. But he doesn't see it... and neither does the world. It is laced with pain. Bourke-White turns and looks out at Gandhi -- so tiny, so weak as he walks between his "props." He has now reached the end of the garden and is moving among the crowd assembled there. THE GARDEN - BIRLA HOUSE - EXTERIOR - TWILIGHT Gandhi is moving forward in the crowd, one hand resting on Manu, the other on Abha. He makes the pranam to someone, the crowd is bowing to him, some speaking, and we also see the crowd from his point of view -- "Bapu," "God bless you," "Thank you -- thank you." He turns to a very old woman, who makes a salaam to him. Gandhi touches her head. GANDHI Allah be with you. Smiling, he turns back. A jostling, the sound of beads falling. MANU (to someone) Brother, Bapu is already late for prayers. Gandhi turns to the person; he makes the pranam. Full shot. Godse is making the pranam to him and he suddenly, wildly draws his gun and fires. The camera closes on Gandhi as he staggers and falls, the red stain of blood seeping through his white shawl. GANDHI Oh, God... oh, God... Manu and Abha bend over him, silent in their first shock. The sound of panic and alarm begins to grow around them, they suddenly scream and begin to cry. MANU/ABHA Bapu! Bapu! FUNERAL PYRE - EXTERIOR - DAY Blackness. Silence. A moment -- we sense the blackness moving -- like dark smoke. The camera is pulling back very slowly and we can tell the blackness is smoke rising from a fire. And now we see that it is a funeral pyre. And all around that pyre a mass of silent humanity. Through the smoke, sitting cross-legged near the rim of the flames, we see Nehru... and Azad and Patel, Mirabehn and Kallenbach, the drawn faces of Lord and Lady Mountbatten, Manu and Abha... THE RIVER - EXTERIOR - DAY A helicopter shot coming slowly up the wide river, low, toward a barge and a mass of people in the distance. And now we are over the barge, and it is covered with flowers. Flowers flow downstream around it. An urn sits on it -- containing Gandhi's ashes -- and Nehru stands near it,

demanding

How many times the word 'demanding' appears in the text?

with them now the giant figure of Abdul Ghaffar Khan, the first time we have seen him among Gandhi's intimate group. NEHRU In Calcutta it's like civil war. The Muslims rose and there was a bloodbath, and now the Hindus are taking revenge -- and if we can't stop it there'll be no hope for the Hindus left in Pakistan. PATEL ...an eye for an eye making the whole world blind. It is an empty and despairing echo of Gandhi's words. AZAD Aren't there any troops to spare? NEHRU (tense, fragile) Nothing -- nothing. The divisions in Bombay and Delhi can hardly keep the peace now. And each fresh bit of news creates another wave of mad... ness. He has turned and seen Gandhi standing slowly. It has almost stopped him. PATEL Could we cut all news off? I know -- NEHRU Bapu -- please. Where are you going. GANDHI (sounding like an old man) I don't want to hear more... He is moving toward the door. It stops them all. Pyarelal moves tentatively to open the door. PATEL (impatiently) We need your help! GANDHI There is nothing I can give. AZAD Where are you going? Gandhi turns, looks at him bleakly. GANDHI Calcutta. CALCUTTA - EXTERIOR - NIGHT We are high. There are fires, the sounds of spasmodic gunfire, of looting, screams, the roar of police vehicles and occasional sirens. The camera zooms in on a poor quarter of artisan dwellings in narrow streets. Outside one of the houses is a car, an army jeep, policemen, a few soldiers and a group of people. It seems a little island of calm in a sea of wild chaos. On the roof of the house, a figure moves into the light. CLOSER - TAHIB'S ROOF The figure is Gandhi. He peers down at the dark, rioting streets. Azad, Tahib, a Muslim whose house this is, Mirabehn and Pyarelal are with him along Abdul Ghaffar Khan. A police commissioner moves to Gandhi's side, demanding his attention. POLICE COMMISSIONER Sir, please, I don't have the men to protect you -- not in a Muslim house. Not this quarter. GANDHI I am staying with the friend of a friend. There is a sudden commotion just below them and angry shouts: "Death to Muslims!," "Death to Muslims!" Gandhi peers down. His point of view. A surging gang of youths, many carrying torches, and far outnumbering the little group of police and soldiers, are shouting up at the roof. We see three or four black flags and stains of blood on many of them. A few hold knives still wet with blood. A YOUTH There he is! A feral roar goes up at the sight of Gandhi, but he stands unmoving. HINDU YOUTH LEADER (his voice emotional, tearful) Why are you staying at the home of a Muslim! They're murderers! They killed my family! Featuring Gandhi. It is a comment too grave for glibness, and Gandhi is obviously struck by the pain of it. He pauses for a moment, staring down at the youth: GANDHI Because forgiveness is the gift of the brave. He makes it mean the youth. For a second it makes an impact, but then the youth shouts his defiance at him and his message. YOUTH To hell with you, Gandhi!! An angry chorus of acclamation; when it dies GANDHI (to the youth) Go -- do as your mother and father would wish you to do. It is ambiguous, open-ended, meaning anything your mother and father would wish you to do. Tears flush from the boy's eyes and he stares at Gandhi with a kind of hopeless anguish and rage. But the impact is on the youth alone; around him the others begin to take up the chant "Death to Muslims!," "Death to Muslims!" Gandhi turns from the street. He looks at the police commissioner -- at his fatigue, his concern, his manifest respect. Gandhi musters a weary smile. GANDHI I have lived a lifetime. If I had shunned death -- or feared it -- I would not be here. Nor would you be concerned for me. (He lets it sink in then he takes the commissioner's arm and moves back toward the center of the roof.) Leave me -- and take your men. (An understanding touch of the arm.) You have more important things to worry about. The commissioner looks at him, uncertain, not knowing what to do, as the angry chanting continues above the sound of rioting. HOSPITAL - INTERIOR - DAY An old, inadequate hospital -- dark cavernous. Margaret Bourke- White is moving among the densely packed litter of wounded women. She is positioning herself to photograph Gandhi, who is speaking to a woman who cradles a small baby. The corridors behind him are even more packed. The few doctors and nurses hardly have room to move. Featuring Gandhi. Azad and Mirabehn are behind him as he moves on, and behind them, like a giant guardian, Abdul Ghaffar Khan. We hear "Bapu, Bapu" muttered quietly here and there. Gandhi bends to a woman whose face is bandaged and a cruel wound is half-exposed between her mouth and eye. WOMAN Bapu... Allah be with you... There are tears in Gandhi's eyes now. GANDHI And with you. (He touches her wrinkled hand.) Pray... I cannot help you -- pray... pray. And the weight of his helplessness hangs on him. CALCUTTA STREET - EXTERIOR - DAY A streetcar (tram) crashes into a barricade of carts, rickshaws, a couple of old cars, smashing through to breach the barricade, but stopped in the end by the mass of debris. The streetcar is loaded with Indian troops and they break from the stalled vehicle to chase A gang of Hindus -- organized -- runs down the street from the troops, some dragging the bodies of victims with them. We see several Hindu black flags. NEHRU'S OFFICE - INTERIOR - NIGHT He speaks across his desk to a senior police commissioner. The same activity going on in the background. NEHRU (angrily) No! There will not be a Hindu Police and a Muslim Police. There is one police! An aide slips a newspaper on his desk in front of him. He doesn't look at it till the senior commissioner lowers his head and turns, accepting defeat. Then Nehru glances at the paper. In thick headlines: GANDHI: A FAST UNTO DEATH! Nehru doesn't move for a moment. Then he lifts his face slowly to his aide. NEHRU Why must I read news like this in the paper? The aide shakes his head -- there's no answer. Nehru lowers his head again; it is like another burden on a man who already has too many. He grips his temples... a terrible sigh. NEHRU Tell Patel. Arrange a plane. We will go -- Friday. THE AIDE Four days? Nehru thinks on it solemnly, then nods yes. TAHIB'S HOUSE - EXTERIOR - DAY The sounds of rioting and looting on nearby streets, but here a mass of people are gathered. Many youths with black flags. Two black government limousines. Motorcycles. Police and soldiers. They are looking off to AN OUTSIDE STAIRCASE - TAHIB'S HOUSE It runs up the side of the building and is lined with waiting people. Nehru and Patel are climbing the stairs, moving past them almost irritably as they mutter "Nehru, Nehru," "Patel," and make the pranam to the eminent men. In the heat of the city Tahib's rooftop is still Gandhi's "home" and has become a center of activity. Azad clears someone aside and ushers Nehru and Patel under the canopy awning. Nehru pauses as he lowers his head. His point of view. Gandhi lies curled awkwardly on his side of the cot. He is writing, Pyarelal taking the pages as he finishes, both ignoring all the people, the sounds of gunfire and distant shouting, but he looks tired and tightens his jaw occasionally in pain. The camera pans. A doctor sits near the foot of the cot, Abdul Ghaffar Khan beyond him. Near the other edge of the canopied area, Mirabehn sits with Bourke-White. They are whispering quietly, but Mirabehn has stopped on seeing Nehru and she smiles a relieved greeting. She knows Gandhi's feeling for him. Bourke-White stares at him and Patel for a second and then her hand goes slowly, almost reflexively, for her camera. CLOSER ON GANDHI Nehru crosses and kneels so that he is almost at Gandhi's eyeline. Gandhi must take his eyes from his writing to look, and he is almost moved to tears at the sight of Nehru. His hand shakes a little as he holds it out to him. NEHRU Bapu... Gandhi turns to pat their joined hands with his other hand. He does so with effort, and at last he sees Patel. GANDHI Sardar... (He looks him over.) You have gained weight. You must join me in the fast. Patel sits near the head of the cot so the three of them are on a level. Outside the canopied area, Bourke-White is crouched, her camera framing the three of them. PATEL (wittily, warmly) If I fast I die. If you fast people go to all sorts of trouble to keep you alive. Gandhi smiles and reaches to touch hands with him. NEHRU Bapu, forgive me -- I've cheated. I could have come earlier. But your fast has helped. These last days people's minds have begun to turn to this bed -- and away from last night's atrocity. But now it is enough. Gandhi shakes his head. GANDHI All that has happened is that I've grown a little thinner. It is despairingly sincere. But Nehru feels he has an antidote for that despair. The distant sound of an explosion. NEHRU Tomorrow five thousand Muslim students of all ages are marching here in Calcutta -- for peace. (The real point) And five thousand Hindu students are marching with them. It is all organized. Bourke-White captures the sense of elation in his face. From her discreet distance, she lowers the camera, holding it against her mouth, waiting for Gandhi's response. Gandhi nods to Nehru, accepting the news with a sad wistfulness. GANDHI I'm glad -- but it will not be enough. Nehru isn't prepared for this resistance. He glances at Patel, and we see that they recognize that their bland conviction that they could talk him out of the fast was deeply misplaced. Nehru turns back -- this time no confidence, only concern. A forced smile. NEHRU Bapu, you are not so young anymore. Gandhi smiles, pain etched in his eyes. He touches Nehru's hand. GANDHI Don't worry for me -- death will be a deliverance. (There is water in his eyes, but his words have the weight of a man truly determined to die.) I cannot watch the destruction of all I have lived for. Nehru stares at him, feeling the sudden fear that Gandhi means it. Patel, Mirabehn, Azad, Bourke-White are gripped by the same realization. TAHIB'S HOUSE - EXTERIOR - NIGHT An outside broadcast truck is parked among the usual crowd, grown even larger now, and more women among them. The sounds of distant fighting. TAHIB'S ROOF - EXTERIOR - NIGHT The senior technician, in earphones, signals across to Mirabehn. She holds a microphone by Gandhi, who is lying on his side. He seems almost out of touch. MIRABEHN Bapu... Gandhi looks at her, and then the microphone. When he speaks into the microphone his voice is very weak. GANDHI Each night before I sleep, I read a few words from the Gita and the Koran, and the Bible... (we intercut with Bourke-White and those on the roof watching) tonight I ask you to share these thoughts of God with me. And now we go into the streets, intercutting with Gandhi but seeing Hindus listening around loudspeakers on corners, in little eating houses, Muslim shops where people live in the back, and neighbors gathering defensively in groups. GANDHI (the books are there, but he does it from memory of course) I will begin with the Bible where the words of the Lord are, "Love thy neighbor as thyself"... and then our beloved Gita which says, "The world is a garment worn by God, thy neighbor is in truth thyself"... and finally the Holy Koran, "We shall remove all hatred from our hearts and recline on couches face to face, a band of brothers." He leans back, exhausted. Mirabehn is looking at him; she starts to sing softly. MIRABEHN "Lead Kindly Light, amidst the circling gloom..." Gandhi, his eyes closed, takes it up in his weak, croaking voice. GANDHI/MIRABEHN "The night is dark, and I am far from home, Lead thou me on..." TAHIB'S HOUSE - EXTERIOR - DAY Two police motorcycles lead a black limousine to a stop before Tahib's house. The crowd now gathered is very large. More mixed than before but still predominantly of youths, many still with black flags. Nehru gets out of the limousine with a Muslim leader, a tough- looking man who carries himself with the authority and power of a mobster (Suhrawardy). And they start to go up the outside stairs. Suddenly we hear the shout "Death to Gandhi!," "Death to Gandhi!" And Nehru turns, pushing past Suhrawardy fiercely and going back onto the street. He runs at the crowd, where the shout comes once more from the back. His face is wild with anger and shock. NEHRU (hysterically) Who dares say such things! Who?! (And he is running at them and they spread in fear.) Come! Kill me first! Come! Where are you?! Kill me first! The crowd has spread from him all along the street; they stand against the walls of the houses staring at him, terrified to move. We see, just in passing, the frightened, apprehensive faces of Godse, and near him, Apte and Karkare. Nehru stands, staring at them all, his face seething with anger. TAHIB'S ROOF - EXTERIOR - DAY We are featuring a copy of Life Magazine. On the cover is a picture of rioting men fighting and diagonally a cut-out of Gandhi lying on his cot. The caption reads: "An Old Man's Battle." As the magazine starts to be opened, it is suddenly put to one side. Another angle. Mirabehn is rising, leaving the magazine at her feet. She moves to Nehru and Suhrawardy as Azad ushers them into the canopied area. Abdul Ghaffar Khan sits quietly in the background. Mirabehn speaks softly. MIRABEHN His pulse is very irregular -- the kidneys aren't functioning. Nehru looks across at Gandhi. The doctor, who is testing Gandhi's pulse yet again, glances at him -- no encouragement -- and moves away. Nehru moves to the side of the cot and Gandhi smiles weakly and holds out a hand, but he is in pain. NEHRU Bapu, I have brought Mr. Suhrawardy. It was he who called on the Muslims to rise; he is telling them now to go back to their homes, to lay down their arms. Gandhi looks up at Suhrawardy, who nods. Gandhi looks back at Nehru. There is no hint of him changing his mind. NEHRU (personally) Think what you can do by living -- that you cannot do by dying. Gandhi smiles whimsically, he touches him again but there is no change in his attitude. NEHRU (pleadingly) What do you want? GANDHI (a moment) That the fighting will stop -- that you make me believe it will never start again. Nehru looks at him hopelessly. SQUARE IN CALCUTTA - EXTERIOR - DAY A huge crowd, some smoke in distant buildings, some damage near to help us know this is still Calcutta, and all is not yet at peace. The camera sweeps over the crowd, past the loudspeakers on their poles. We see surly knots of belligerent rowdies, mostly young, but not all, hanging on the fringes as we move over the heads of the mass of listening people to a platform where Nehru speaks. Azad, Suhrawardy, and others sit on the floor behind him. We have heard his voice over all this. NEHRU ...Sometimes it is when you are quite without hope and in utter darkness that God comes to the rescue. Gandhiji is dying because of our madness. Put away your "revenge." What will be gained by more killing? Have the courage to do what you know is right. For God's sake, let us embrace like brothers... TAHIB'S ROOF - EXTERIOR - NIGHT Featuring the Muslim leader Suhrawardy, leaning against a wall, watching an action out of shot with evident tension. We hear a little clank of metal. Another angle. There are five men facing Gandhi. They wear black trousers and black knit vests. There are thongs around their arms that make their bulging muscles seem even more powerful. They are Hindu thugs (Goondas). Their clothes are dirty -- and they are too -- but they are laying knives and guns at Gandhi's feet. Mirabehn, Azad, Pyarelal, the doctor and others on the roof watch fascinated, a little frightened. GOONDA LEADER It is our promise. We stop. It is a promise. Gandhi is looking at him, testing, not giving or accepting anything that is mere gesture. GANDHI Go -- try -- God by with you. The Goondas stand. They glance at Suhrawardy; he smiles tautly and they start to leave, but one (Nahari) lingers. Suddenly he moves violently toward Gandhi, taking a flat piece of Indian bread (chapati) from his trousers and tossing it forcefully on Gandhi. NAHARI Eat. Mirabehn and Azad start to move toward him -- the man looks immensely strong and immensely unstable. But Gandhi holds up a shaking hand, stopping them. Nahari's face is knotted in emotion, half anger, half almost a child's fear -- but there is a wild menace in that instability. NAHARI Eat! I am going to hell -- but not with your death on my soul. GANDHI Only God decides who goes to hell... NAHARI (stiffening, aggressive) I -- I killed a child... (Then an anguished defiance) I smashed his head against a wall. Gandhi stares at him, breathless. GANDHI (in a fearful whisper) Why? Why? It is as though the man has told him of some terrible self- inflicted wound. NAHARI (tears now -- and wrath) They killed my son -- my boy! Almost reflexively he holds his hand out to indicate the height of his son. He glares at Suhrawardy and then back at Gandhi. NAHARI The Muslims killed my son... they killed him. He is sobbing, but in his anger it seems almost as though he means to kill Gandhi in retaliation. A long moment, as Gandhi meets his pain and wrath. Then GANDHI I know a way out of hell. Nahari sneers, but there is just a flicker of desperate curiosity. GANDHI Find a child -- a child whose mother and father have been killed. A little boy -- about this high. He raises his hand to the height Nahari has indicated as his son's. GANDHI ...and raise him -- as your own. Nahari has listened. His face almost cracks -- it is a chink of light, but it does not illumine his darkness. GANDHI Only be sure... that he is a Muslim. And that you raise him as one. And now the light falls on Nahari. His face stiffens, he swallows, fighting any show of emotion; then he turns to go. But he takes only a step and he turns back, going to his knees, the sobs breaking again and again from his heaving body as he holds his head to Gandhi's feet in the traditional greeting of Hindu son to Hindu father. A second, and Gandhi reaches out and touches the top of his head. Mirabehn watches. The Goondas watch. Suhrawardy watches. Finally GANDHI (gently, exhaustedly) Go -- go. God bless you... COURTYARD - POLICE STATION - CALCUTTA - EXTERIOR - NIGHT Trucks with riot squads (shields and truncheons) in place, but they are lounging, waiting. There is silence, and air of somnolence. Some of the riot squad lounge in little groups around the courtyard. A distant cough. Featuring a senior riot squad officer dressed and ready for action. He it is who coughed. He coughs again, clearing his throat. A police sergeant stands by him, both are reading the front page of a paper the senior riot squad officer holds. We see two huge lines of headline: GANDHI NEAR DEATH/NEHRU GOES ON FAST. In one of the trucks one of the men offers another a cigarette. A telephone rings sharply, inside. The senior riot squad officer and the sergeant run in as engines start; the men run to their places, lower visors, headlights go on! POLICE STATION OFFICE - INTERIOR - DAY A constable mans the telephone. He listens as the senior riot squad officer and the sergeant run to him tensely. The sound of the great doors opening in the courtyard, more engines revving up. CONSTABLE Yes, sir, yes, sir, (He holds up his hand to the senior officer) "Wait." He glances up at the senior riot squad officer. CONSTABLE (writing, from the phone) Accident, "Christie crossroads," a lorry and a rickshaw. Yes, sir, I have it. He shrugs at the senior riot squad officer and hands the information slip to another constable behind the desk. The sergeant sighs, and moves to the outside door. We hear him bellow, "Stand down." The constable hangs up and sighs heavily. The senior riot squad officer shakes his head, and turns and walks slowly to the door. COURTYARD - POLICE STATION - EXTERIOR - NIGHT The senior riot squad officer and the sergeant stand in the doorway as the engines die. The men relax... the silence returns. A dog barks distantly, disturbed by the noise... A bird caws once or twice. SERGEANT I wouldn't have believed it, Mr. Gupta. SENIOR OFFICER Sergeant, it's a bloody miracle... HIGH SHOT - CALCUTTA - EXTERIOR - NIGHT It lies in silence. TAHIB'S ROOF - EXTERIOR - DAY Mirabehn is bent over Gandhi. He is curled almost in the fetal position, his face looking wan and sunken. For the first time there is silence, no explosions, no distant shouts, no gunfire. MIRABEHN Bapu, there's been no fighting -- anywhere. It has stopped -- the madness has stopped. We see the police commissioner, Suhrawardy, two doctors, Abdul Ghaffar Khan, and some others. Nearer Gandhi, behind Mirabehn, are Nehru, Patel, Azad and Pyarelal. Gandhi turns to Mirabehn, his face shaking, peering into her eyes. GANDHI It is foolish if it is just to save the life of an old man. MIRABEHN No... no. In every temple and mosque they have pledged to die before they lift a hand against each other. His weary eyes look at her; he looks up slowly to Azad. Azad nods "It's true." Then Patel PATEL Everywhere. Gandhi looks at Nehru. Nehru just nods tautly. Gandhi looks down, then lifts his head to Azad. GANDHI Maulana, my friend, could I have some orange juice... Then you and I will take a piece of bread together... The relief brings water to their eyes and grins to their faces. Nehru bends to Gandhi. Gandhi holds his hand out to him, and Nehru clutches it. Then NEHRU You see, Bapu, it is not difficult. I have fasted only a few hours and I accomplished what you could not do in as many days. It is a joke in their way with each other and Gandhi's eyes light, his smile comes. But it is tired. He puts his other hand over Nehru's and Nehru lowers his head to it, crying silently. BIRLA HOUSE - EXTERIOR - DAY As in the opening sequence -- but a few minutes earlier. The crowd is beginning to gather for the evening prayers. We see a tonga or two, a gardener opening the gate to the garden, three policemen standing, talking idly among themselves. BIRLA HOUSE - INTERIOR - DAY Laughter. Gandhi is eating muli; he holds his head back to capture the lemon juice. We hear the click of a camera GANDHI That is how you eat muli. Manu hands him a cloth and he wipes his hands. Another click of a camera. He is not fully recovered, but well on the way. GANDHI (to the photographer) I'm not sure I want to be remembered that way. It is all light and for fun. We get a wide-angle shot now and see that Bourke-White is shooting one of her favorite subjects again. She is enjoying the banter, as is Mirabehn, who is spinning quietly to one side of the room, and Patel, who sits cross-legged like Gandhi on the floor. Pyarelal is working on papers with him but grins at this. BOURKE-WHITE Don't worry, with luck you may not be. And she shoots him again, as he hands the cloth back to Manu. Abha is sitting next to Manu, looking at a collection of pictures of Gandhi, obviously Bourke-White's. PATEL No, he'll be remembered for tempting fate. It is wry, but waspishly chiding. Abha suddenly holds a picture up for Gandhi to see. It's one of him, ears wide, eyes round. ABHA Mickey Mouse. Gandhi taps her on the head with his finger as she smiles. But Bourke-White has looked from Patel to Gandhi, clearly shaken by the implication in Patel's words. BOURKE-WHITE You really are going to Pakistan, then? (Gandhi shrugs, and she chides too) You are a stubborn man. GANDHI (a grin, in the mood of their "flirtation") I'm simply going to prove to Muslims there, and Hindus here, that the only devils in the world are those running around in our own hearts -- and that's where all our battles ought to be fought. Abha has signaled to the cheap watch dangling from his dhoti. He glances at it, and holds his arms out. The two girls help him. BOURKE-WHITE And what kind of a warrior have you been in that warfare? She is photographing his getting-up and leaning on the two girls. GANDHI Not a very good one. That's why I have so much tolerance for the other scoundrels of the world. He moves off, but has a sudden thought and turns to Patel. GANDHI Ask Panditji to -- to consider what we've discussed. Patel nods soberly and Gandhi starts for the door, Bourke- White moving with him. GANDHI (of the photographs) Enough. BOURKE-WHITE (a plea) One more. He has passed her, he's in the doorway. We see the crowd at the end of the garden, where the light of the day is beginning to soften. He turns, teasing in his slightly flirtatious way with women. GANDHI You're a temptress. She shoots him against the door -- the crowd milling distantly, waiting -- then she lowers her camera. BOURKE-WHITE Just an admirer... GANDHI Nothing's more dangerous, especially for an old man. He turns; the last words have betrayed the smile on his face; they have a painful sense of truth about them. Bourke-White watches as he moves into the garden toward the crowd in the distance. She turns to Mirabehn. BOURKE-WHITE There's a sadness in him. It's an observation -- and a question. Mirabehn accedes gravely. MIRABEHN He thinks he's failed. Bourke-White stares at her, then turns to look out at him. BOURKE-WHITE Why? My God, if anything's proved him right, it's what's happened these last months... Mirabehn nods, but she keeps on spinning and tries to sound cynically resigned but her innate emotionalism keeps breaking through in her voice and on her face. MIRABEHN I am blinded by my love of him, but I think when we most needed it, he offered the world a way out of madness. But he doesn't see it... and neither does the world. It is laced with pain. Bourke-White turns and looks out at Gandhi -- so tiny, so weak as he walks between his "props." He has now reached the end of the garden and is moving among the crowd assembled there. THE GARDEN - BIRLA HOUSE - EXTERIOR - TWILIGHT Gandhi is moving forward in the crowd, one hand resting on Manu, the other on Abha. He makes the pranam to someone, the crowd is bowing to him, some speaking, and we also see the crowd from his point of view -- "Bapu," "God bless you," "Thank you -- thank you." He turns to a very old woman, who makes a salaam to him. Gandhi touches her head. GANDHI Allah be with you. Smiling, he turns back. A jostling, the sound of beads falling. MANU (to someone) Brother, Bapu is already late for prayers. Gandhi turns to the person; he makes the pranam. Full shot. Godse is making the pranam to him and he suddenly, wildly draws his gun and fires. The camera closes on Gandhi as he staggers and falls, the red stain of blood seeping through his white shawl. GANDHI Oh, God... oh, God... Manu and Abha bend over him, silent in their first shock. The sound of panic and alarm begins to grow around them, they suddenly scream and begin to cry. MANU/ABHA Bapu! Bapu! FUNERAL PYRE - EXTERIOR - DAY Blackness. Silence. A moment -- we sense the blackness moving -- like dark smoke. The camera is pulling back very slowly and we can tell the blackness is smoke rising from a fire. And now we see that it is a funeral pyre. And all around that pyre a mass of silent humanity. Through the smoke, sitting cross-legged near the rim of the flames, we see Nehru... and Azad and Patel, Mirabehn and Kallenbach, the drawn faces of Lord and Lady Mountbatten, Manu and Abha... THE RIVER - EXTERIOR - DAY A helicopter shot coming slowly up the wide river, low, toward a barge and a mass of people in the distance. And now we are over the barge, and it is covered with flowers. Flowers flow downstream around it. An urn sits on it -- containing Gandhi's ashes -- and Nehru stands near it,

muslims

How many times the word 'muslims' appears in the text?

with them now the giant figure of Abdul Ghaffar Khan, the first time we have seen him among Gandhi's intimate group. NEHRU In Calcutta it's like civil war. The Muslims rose and there was a bloodbath, and now the Hindus are taking revenge -- and if we can't stop it there'll be no hope for the Hindus left in Pakistan. PATEL ...an eye for an eye making the whole world blind. It is an empty and despairing echo of Gandhi's words. AZAD Aren't there any troops to spare? NEHRU (tense, fragile) Nothing -- nothing. The divisions in Bombay and Delhi can hardly keep the peace now. And each fresh bit of news creates another wave of mad... ness. He has turned and seen Gandhi standing slowly. It has almost stopped him. PATEL Could we cut all news off? I know -- NEHRU Bapu -- please. Where are you going. GANDHI (sounding like an old man) I don't want to hear more... He is moving toward the door. It stops them all. Pyarelal moves tentatively to open the door. PATEL (impatiently) We need your help! GANDHI There is nothing I can give. AZAD Where are you going? Gandhi turns, looks at him bleakly. GANDHI Calcutta. CALCUTTA - EXTERIOR - NIGHT We are high. There are fires, the sounds of spasmodic gunfire, of looting, screams, the roar of police vehicles and occasional sirens. The camera zooms in on a poor quarter of artisan dwellings in narrow streets. Outside one of the houses is a car, an army jeep, policemen, a few soldiers and a group of people. It seems a little island of calm in a sea of wild chaos. On the roof of the house, a figure moves into the light. CLOSER - TAHIB'S ROOF The figure is Gandhi. He peers down at the dark, rioting streets. Azad, Tahib, a Muslim whose house this is, Mirabehn and Pyarelal are with him along Abdul Ghaffar Khan. A police commissioner moves to Gandhi's side, demanding his attention. POLICE COMMISSIONER Sir, please, I don't have the men to protect you -- not in a Muslim house. Not this quarter. GANDHI I am staying with the friend of a friend. There is a sudden commotion just below them and angry shouts: "Death to Muslims!," "Death to Muslims!" Gandhi peers down. His point of view. A surging gang of youths, many carrying torches, and far outnumbering the little group of police and soldiers, are shouting up at the roof. We see three or four black flags and stains of blood on many of them. A few hold knives still wet with blood. A YOUTH There he is! A feral roar goes up at the sight of Gandhi, but he stands unmoving. HINDU YOUTH LEADER (his voice emotional, tearful) Why are you staying at the home of a Muslim! They're murderers! They killed my family! Featuring Gandhi. It is a comment too grave for glibness, and Gandhi is obviously struck by the pain of it. He pauses for a moment, staring down at the youth: GANDHI Because forgiveness is the gift of the brave. He makes it mean the youth. For a second it makes an impact, but then the youth shouts his defiance at him and his message. YOUTH To hell with you, Gandhi!! An angry chorus of acclamation; when it dies GANDHI (to the youth) Go -- do as your mother and father would wish you to do. It is ambiguous, open-ended, meaning anything your mother and father would wish you to do. Tears flush from the boy's eyes and he stares at Gandhi with a kind of hopeless anguish and rage. But the impact is on the youth alone; around him the others begin to take up the chant "Death to Muslims!," "Death to Muslims!" Gandhi turns from the street. He looks at the police commissioner -- at his fatigue, his concern, his manifest respect. Gandhi musters a weary smile. GANDHI I have lived a lifetime. If I had shunned death -- or feared it -- I would not be here. Nor would you be concerned for me. (He lets it sink in then he takes the commissioner's arm and moves back toward the center of the roof.) Leave me -- and take your men. (An understanding touch of the arm.) You have more important things to worry about. The commissioner looks at him, uncertain, not knowing what to do, as the angry chanting continues above the sound of rioting. HOSPITAL - INTERIOR - DAY An old, inadequate hospital -- dark cavernous. Margaret Bourke- White is moving among the densely packed litter of wounded women. She is positioning herself to photograph Gandhi, who is speaking to a woman who cradles a small baby. The corridors behind him are even more packed. The few doctors and nurses hardly have room to move. Featuring Gandhi. Azad and Mirabehn are behind him as he moves on, and behind them, like a giant guardian, Abdul Ghaffar Khan. We hear "Bapu, Bapu" muttered quietly here and there. Gandhi bends to a woman whose face is bandaged and a cruel wound is half-exposed between her mouth and eye. WOMAN Bapu... Allah be with you... There are tears in Gandhi's eyes now. GANDHI And with you. (He touches her wrinkled hand.) Pray... I cannot help you -- pray... pray. And the weight of his helplessness hangs on him. CALCUTTA STREET - EXTERIOR - DAY A streetcar (tram) crashes into a barricade of carts, rickshaws, a couple of old cars, smashing through to breach the barricade, but stopped in the end by the mass of debris. The streetcar is loaded with Indian troops and they break from the stalled vehicle to chase A gang of Hindus -- organized -- runs down the street from the troops, some dragging the bodies of victims with them. We see several Hindu black flags. NEHRU'S OFFICE - INTERIOR - NIGHT He speaks across his desk to a senior police commissioner. The same activity going on in the background. NEHRU (angrily) No! There will not be a Hindu Police and a Muslim Police. There is one police! An aide slips a newspaper on his desk in front of him. He doesn't look at it till the senior commissioner lowers his head and turns, accepting defeat. Then Nehru glances at the paper. In thick headlines: GANDHI: A FAST UNTO DEATH! Nehru doesn't move for a moment. Then he lifts his face slowly to his aide. NEHRU Why must I read news like this in the paper? The aide shakes his head -- there's no answer. Nehru lowers his head again; it is like another burden on a man who already has too many. He grips his temples... a terrible sigh. NEHRU Tell Patel. Arrange a plane. We will go -- Friday. THE AIDE Four days? Nehru thinks on it solemnly, then nods yes. TAHIB'S HOUSE - EXTERIOR - DAY The sounds of rioting and looting on nearby streets, but here a mass of people are gathered. Many youths with black flags. Two black government limousines. Motorcycles. Police and soldiers. They are looking off to AN OUTSIDE STAIRCASE - TAHIB'S HOUSE It runs up the side of the building and is lined with waiting people. Nehru and Patel are climbing the stairs, moving past them almost irritably as they mutter "Nehru, Nehru," "Patel," and make the pranam to the eminent men. In the heat of the city Tahib's rooftop is still Gandhi's "home" and has become a center of activity. Azad clears someone aside and ushers Nehru and Patel under the canopy awning. Nehru pauses as he lowers his head. His point of view. Gandhi lies curled awkwardly on his side of the cot. He is writing, Pyarelal taking the pages as he finishes, both ignoring all the people, the sounds of gunfire and distant shouting, but he looks tired and tightens his jaw occasionally in pain. The camera pans. A doctor sits near the foot of the cot, Abdul Ghaffar Khan beyond him. Near the other edge of the canopied area, Mirabehn sits with Bourke-White. They are whispering quietly, but Mirabehn has stopped on seeing Nehru and she smiles a relieved greeting. She knows Gandhi's feeling for him. Bourke-White stares at him and Patel for a second and then her hand goes slowly, almost reflexively, for her camera. CLOSER ON GANDHI Nehru crosses and kneels so that he is almost at Gandhi's eyeline. Gandhi must take his eyes from his writing to look, and he is almost moved to tears at the sight of Nehru. His hand shakes a little as he holds it out to him. NEHRU Bapu... Gandhi turns to pat their joined hands with his other hand. He does so with effort, and at last he sees Patel. GANDHI Sardar... (He looks him over.) You have gained weight. You must join me in the fast. Patel sits near the head of the cot so the three of them are on a level. Outside the canopied area, Bourke-White is crouched, her camera framing the three of them. PATEL (wittily, warmly) If I fast I die. If you fast people go to all sorts of trouble to keep you alive. Gandhi smiles and reaches to touch hands with him. NEHRU Bapu, forgive me -- I've cheated. I could have come earlier. But your fast has helped. These last days people's minds have begun to turn to this bed -- and away from last night's atrocity. But now it is enough. Gandhi shakes his head. GANDHI All that has happened is that I've grown a little thinner. It is despairingly sincere. But Nehru feels he has an antidote for that despair. The distant sound of an explosion. NEHRU Tomorrow five thousand Muslim students of all ages are marching here in Calcutta -- for peace. (The real point) And five thousand Hindu students are marching with them. It is all organized. Bourke-White captures the sense of elation in his face. From her discreet distance, she lowers the camera, holding it against her mouth, waiting for Gandhi's response. Gandhi nods to Nehru, accepting the news with a sad wistfulness. GANDHI I'm glad -- but it will not be enough. Nehru isn't prepared for this resistance. He glances at Patel, and we see that they recognize that their bland conviction that they could talk him out of the fast was deeply misplaced. Nehru turns back -- this time no confidence, only concern. A forced smile. NEHRU Bapu, you are not so young anymore. Gandhi smiles, pain etched in his eyes. He touches Nehru's hand. GANDHI Don't worry for me -- death will be a deliverance. (There is water in his eyes, but his words have the weight of a man truly determined to die.) I cannot watch the destruction of all I have lived for. Nehru stares at him, feeling the sudden fear that Gandhi means it. Patel, Mirabehn, Azad, Bourke-White are gripped by the same realization. TAHIB'S HOUSE - EXTERIOR - NIGHT An outside broadcast truck is parked among the usual crowd, grown even larger now, and more women among them. The sounds of distant fighting. TAHIB'S ROOF - EXTERIOR - NIGHT The senior technician, in earphones, signals across to Mirabehn. She holds a microphone by Gandhi, who is lying on his side. He seems almost out of touch. MIRABEHN Bapu... Gandhi looks at her, and then the microphone. When he speaks into the microphone his voice is very weak. GANDHI Each night before I sleep, I read a few words from the Gita and the Koran, and the Bible... (we intercut with Bourke-White and those on the roof watching) tonight I ask you to share these thoughts of God with me. And now we go into the streets, intercutting with Gandhi but seeing Hindus listening around loudspeakers on corners, in little eating houses, Muslim shops where people live in the back, and neighbors gathering defensively in groups. GANDHI (the books are there, but he does it from memory of course) I will begin with the Bible where the words of the Lord are, "Love thy neighbor as thyself"... and then our beloved Gita which says, "The world is a garment worn by God, thy neighbor is in truth thyself"... and finally the Holy Koran, "We shall remove all hatred from our hearts and recline on couches face to face, a band of brothers." He leans back, exhausted. Mirabehn is looking at him; she starts to sing softly. MIRABEHN "Lead Kindly Light, amidst the circling gloom..." Gandhi, his eyes closed, takes it up in his weak, croaking voice. GANDHI/MIRABEHN "The night is dark, and I am far from home, Lead thou me on..." TAHIB'S HOUSE - EXTERIOR - DAY Two police motorcycles lead a black limousine to a stop before Tahib's house. The crowd now gathered is very large. More mixed than before but still predominantly of youths, many still with black flags. Nehru gets out of the limousine with a Muslim leader, a tough- looking man who carries himself with the authority and power of a mobster (Suhrawardy). And they start to go up the outside stairs. Suddenly we hear the shout "Death to Gandhi!," "Death to Gandhi!" And Nehru turns, pushing past Suhrawardy fiercely and going back onto the street. He runs at the crowd, where the shout comes once more from the back. His face is wild with anger and shock. NEHRU (hysterically) Who dares say such things! Who?! (And he is running at them and they spread in fear.) Come! Kill me first! Come! Where are you?! Kill me first! The crowd has spread from him all along the street; they stand against the walls of the houses staring at him, terrified to move. We see, just in passing, the frightened, apprehensive faces of Godse, and near him, Apte and Karkare. Nehru stands, staring at them all, his face seething with anger. TAHIB'S ROOF - EXTERIOR - DAY We are featuring a copy of Life Magazine. On the cover is a picture of rioting men fighting and diagonally a cut-out of Gandhi lying on his cot. The caption reads: "An Old Man's Battle." As the magazine starts to be opened, it is suddenly put to one side. Another angle. Mirabehn is rising, leaving the magazine at her feet. She moves to Nehru and Suhrawardy as Azad ushers them into the canopied area. Abdul Ghaffar Khan sits quietly in the background. Mirabehn speaks softly. MIRABEHN His pulse is very irregular -- the kidneys aren't functioning. Nehru looks across at Gandhi. The doctor, who is testing Gandhi's pulse yet again, glances at him -- no encouragement -- and moves away. Nehru moves to the side of the cot and Gandhi smiles weakly and holds out a hand, but he is in pain. NEHRU Bapu, I have brought Mr. Suhrawardy. It was he who called on the Muslims to rise; he is telling them now to go back to their homes, to lay down their arms. Gandhi looks up at Suhrawardy, who nods. Gandhi looks back at Nehru. There is no hint of him changing his mind. NEHRU (personally) Think what you can do by living -- that you cannot do by dying. Gandhi smiles whimsically, he touches him again but there is no change in his attitude. NEHRU (pleadingly) What do you want? GANDHI (a moment) That the fighting will stop -- that you make me believe it will never start again. Nehru looks at him hopelessly. SQUARE IN CALCUTTA - EXTERIOR - DAY A huge crowd, some smoke in distant buildings, some damage near to help us know this is still Calcutta, and all is not yet at peace. The camera sweeps over the crowd, past the loudspeakers on their poles. We see surly knots of belligerent rowdies, mostly young, but not all, hanging on the fringes as we move over the heads of the mass of listening people to a platform where Nehru speaks. Azad, Suhrawardy, and others sit on the floor behind him. We have heard his voice over all this. NEHRU ...Sometimes it is when you are quite without hope and in utter darkness that God comes to the rescue. Gandhiji is dying because of our madness. Put away your "revenge." What will be gained by more killing? Have the courage to do what you know is right. For God's sake, let us embrace like brothers... TAHIB'S ROOF - EXTERIOR - NIGHT Featuring the Muslim leader Suhrawardy, leaning against a wall, watching an action out of shot with evident tension. We hear a little clank of metal. Another angle. There are five men facing Gandhi. They wear black trousers and black knit vests. There are thongs around their arms that make their bulging muscles seem even more powerful. They are Hindu thugs (Goondas). Their clothes are dirty -- and they are too -- but they are laying knives and guns at Gandhi's feet. Mirabehn, Azad, Pyarelal, the doctor and others on the roof watch fascinated, a little frightened. GOONDA LEADER It is our promise. We stop. It is a promise. Gandhi is looking at him, testing, not giving or accepting anything that is mere gesture. GANDHI Go -- try -- God by with you. The Goondas stand. They glance at Suhrawardy; he smiles tautly and they start to leave, but one (Nahari) lingers. Suddenly he moves violently toward Gandhi, taking a flat piece of Indian bread (chapati) from his trousers and tossing it forcefully on Gandhi. NAHARI Eat. Mirabehn and Azad start to move toward him -- the man looks immensely strong and immensely unstable. But Gandhi holds up a shaking hand, stopping them. Nahari's face is knotted in emotion, half anger, half almost a child's fear -- but there is a wild menace in that instability. NAHARI Eat! I am going to hell -- but not with your death on my soul. GANDHI Only God decides who goes to hell... NAHARI (stiffening, aggressive) I -- I killed a child... (Then an anguished defiance) I smashed his head against a wall. Gandhi stares at him, breathless. GANDHI (in a fearful whisper) Why? Why? It is as though the man has told him of some terrible self- inflicted wound. NAHARI (tears now -- and wrath) They killed my son -- my boy! Almost reflexively he holds his hand out to indicate the height of his son. He glares at Suhrawardy and then back at Gandhi. NAHARI The Muslims killed my son... they killed him. He is sobbing, but in his anger it seems almost as though he means to kill Gandhi in retaliation. A long moment, as Gandhi meets his pain and wrath. Then GANDHI I know a way out of hell. Nahari sneers, but there is just a flicker of desperate curiosity. GANDHI Find a child -- a child whose mother and father have been killed. A little boy -- about this high. He raises his hand to the height Nahari has indicated as his son's. GANDHI ...and raise him -- as your own. Nahari has listened. His face almost cracks -- it is a chink of light, but it does not illumine his darkness. GANDHI Only be sure... that he is a Muslim. And that you raise him as one. And now the light falls on Nahari. His face stiffens, he swallows, fighting any show of emotion; then he turns to go. But he takes only a step and he turns back, going to his knees, the sobs breaking again and again from his heaving body as he holds his head to Gandhi's feet in the traditional greeting of Hindu son to Hindu father. A second, and Gandhi reaches out and touches the top of his head. Mirabehn watches. The Goondas watch. Suhrawardy watches. Finally GANDHI (gently, exhaustedly) Go -- go. God bless you... COURTYARD - POLICE STATION - CALCUTTA - EXTERIOR - NIGHT Trucks with riot squads (shields and truncheons) in place, but they are lounging, waiting. There is silence, and air of somnolence. Some of the riot squad lounge in little groups around the courtyard. A distant cough. Featuring a senior riot squad officer dressed and ready for action. He it is who coughed. He coughs again, clearing his throat. A police sergeant stands by him, both are reading the front page of a paper the senior riot squad officer holds. We see two huge lines of headline: GANDHI NEAR DEATH/NEHRU GOES ON FAST. In one of the trucks one of the men offers another a cigarette. A telephone rings sharply, inside. The senior riot squad officer and the sergeant run in as engines start; the men run to their places, lower visors, headlights go on! POLICE STATION OFFICE - INTERIOR - DAY A constable mans the telephone. He listens as the senior riot squad officer and the sergeant run to him tensely. The sound of the great doors opening in the courtyard, more engines revving up. CONSTABLE Yes, sir, yes, sir, (He holds up his hand to the senior officer) "Wait." He glances up at the senior riot squad officer. CONSTABLE (writing, from the phone) Accident, "Christie crossroads," a lorry and a rickshaw. Yes, sir, I have it. He shrugs at the senior riot squad officer and hands the information slip to another constable behind the desk. The sergeant sighs, and moves to the outside door. We hear him bellow, "Stand down." The constable hangs up and sighs heavily. The senior riot squad officer shakes his head, and turns and walks slowly to the door. COURTYARD - POLICE STATION - EXTERIOR - NIGHT The senior riot squad officer and the sergeant stand in the doorway as the engines die. The men relax... the silence returns. A dog barks distantly, disturbed by the noise... A bird caws once or twice. SERGEANT I wouldn't have believed it, Mr. Gupta. SENIOR OFFICER Sergeant, it's a bloody miracle... HIGH SHOT - CALCUTTA - EXTERIOR - NIGHT It lies in silence. TAHIB'S ROOF - EXTERIOR - DAY Mirabehn is bent over Gandhi. He is curled almost in the fetal position, his face looking wan and sunken. For the first time there is silence, no explosions, no distant shouts, no gunfire. MIRABEHN Bapu, there's been no fighting -- anywhere. It has stopped -- the madness has stopped. We see the police commissioner, Suhrawardy, two doctors, Abdul Ghaffar Khan, and some others. Nearer Gandhi, behind Mirabehn, are Nehru, Patel, Azad and Pyarelal. Gandhi turns to Mirabehn, his face shaking, peering into her eyes. GANDHI It is foolish if it is just to save the life of an old man. MIRABEHN No... no. In every temple and mosque they have pledged to die before they lift a hand against each other. His weary eyes look at her; he looks up slowly to Azad. Azad nods "It's true." Then Patel PATEL Everywhere. Gandhi looks at Nehru. Nehru just nods tautly. Gandhi looks down, then lifts his head to Azad. GANDHI Maulana, my friend, could I have some orange juice... Then you and I will take a piece of bread together... The relief brings water to their eyes and grins to their faces. Nehru bends to Gandhi. Gandhi holds his hand out to him, and Nehru clutches it. Then NEHRU You see, Bapu, it is not difficult. I have fasted only a few hours and I accomplished what you could not do in as many days. It is a joke in their way with each other and Gandhi's eyes light, his smile comes. But it is tired. He puts his other hand over Nehru's and Nehru lowers his head to it, crying silently. BIRLA HOUSE - EXTERIOR - DAY As in the opening sequence -- but a few minutes earlier. The crowd is beginning to gather for the evening prayers. We see a tonga or two, a gardener opening the gate to the garden, three policemen standing, talking idly among themselves. BIRLA HOUSE - INTERIOR - DAY Laughter. Gandhi is eating muli; he holds his head back to capture the lemon juice. We hear the click of a camera GANDHI That is how you eat muli. Manu hands him a cloth and he wipes his hands. Another click of a camera. He is not fully recovered, but well on the way. GANDHI (to the photographer) I'm not sure I want to be remembered that way. It is all light and for fun. We get a wide-angle shot now and see that Bourke-White is shooting one of her favorite subjects again. She is enjoying the banter, as is Mirabehn, who is spinning quietly to one side of the room, and Patel, who sits cross-legged like Gandhi on the floor. Pyarelal is working on papers with him but grins at this. BOURKE-WHITE Don't worry, with luck you may not be. And she shoots him again, as he hands the cloth back to Manu. Abha is sitting next to Manu, looking at a collection of pictures of Gandhi, obviously Bourke-White's. PATEL No, he'll be remembered for tempting fate. It is wry, but waspishly chiding. Abha suddenly holds a picture up for Gandhi to see. It's one of him, ears wide, eyes round. ABHA Mickey Mouse. Gandhi taps her on the head with his finger as she smiles. But Bourke-White has looked from Patel to Gandhi, clearly shaken by the implication in Patel's words. BOURKE-WHITE You really are going to Pakistan, then? (Gandhi shrugs, and she chides too) You are a stubborn man. GANDHI (a grin, in the mood of their "flirtation") I'm simply going to prove to Muslims there, and Hindus here, that the only devils in the world are those running around in our own hearts -- and that's where all our battles ought to be fought. Abha has signaled to the cheap watch dangling from his dhoti. He glances at it, and holds his arms out. The two girls help him. BOURKE-WHITE And what kind of a warrior have you been in that warfare? She is photographing his getting-up and leaning on the two girls. GANDHI Not a very good one. That's why I have so much tolerance for the other scoundrels of the world. He moves off, but has a sudden thought and turns to Patel. GANDHI Ask Panditji to -- to consider what we've discussed. Patel nods soberly and Gandhi starts for the door, Bourke- White moving with him. GANDHI (of the photographs) Enough. BOURKE-WHITE (a plea) One more. He has passed her, he's in the doorway. We see the crowd at the end of the garden, where the light of the day is beginning to soften. He turns, teasing in his slightly flirtatious way with women. GANDHI You're a temptress. She shoots him against the door -- the crowd milling distantly, waiting -- then she lowers her camera. BOURKE-WHITE Just an admirer... GANDHI Nothing's more dangerous, especially for an old man. He turns; the last words have betrayed the smile on his face; they have a painful sense of truth about them. Bourke-White watches as he moves into the garden toward the crowd in the distance. She turns to Mirabehn. BOURKE-WHITE There's a sadness in him. It's an observation -- and a question. Mirabehn accedes gravely. MIRABEHN He thinks he's failed. Bourke-White stares at her, then turns to look out at him. BOURKE-WHITE Why? My God, if anything's proved him right, it's what's happened these last months... Mirabehn nods, but she keeps on spinning and tries to sound cynically resigned but her innate emotionalism keeps breaking through in her voice and on her face. MIRABEHN I am blinded by my love of him, but I think when we most needed it, he offered the world a way out of madness. But he doesn't see it... and neither does the world. It is laced with pain. Bourke-White turns and looks out at Gandhi -- so tiny, so weak as he walks between his "props." He has now reached the end of the garden and is moving among the crowd assembled there. THE GARDEN - BIRLA HOUSE - EXTERIOR - TWILIGHT Gandhi is moving forward in the crowd, one hand resting on Manu, the other on Abha. He makes the pranam to someone, the crowd is bowing to him, some speaking, and we also see the crowd from his point of view -- "Bapu," "God bless you," "Thank you -- thank you." He turns to a very old woman, who makes a salaam to him. Gandhi touches her head. GANDHI Allah be with you. Smiling, he turns back. A jostling, the sound of beads falling. MANU (to someone) Brother, Bapu is already late for prayers. Gandhi turns to the person; he makes the pranam. Full shot. Godse is making the pranam to him and he suddenly, wildly draws his gun and fires. The camera closes on Gandhi as he staggers and falls, the red stain of blood seeping through his white shawl. GANDHI Oh, God... oh, God... Manu and Abha bend over him, silent in their first shock. The sound of panic and alarm begins to grow around them, they suddenly scream and begin to cry. MANU/ABHA Bapu! Bapu! FUNERAL PYRE - EXTERIOR - DAY Blackness. Silence. A moment -- we sense the blackness moving -- like dark smoke. The camera is pulling back very slowly and we can tell the blackness is smoke rising from a fire. And now we see that it is a funeral pyre. And all around that pyre a mass of silent humanity. Through the smoke, sitting cross-legged near the rim of the flames, we see Nehru... and Azad and Patel, Mirabehn and Kallenbach, the drawn faces of Lord and Lady Mountbatten, Manu and Abha... THE RIVER - EXTERIOR - DAY A helicopter shot coming slowly up the wide river, low, toward a barge and a mass of people in the distance. And now we are over the barge, and it is covered with flowers. Flowers flow downstream around it. An urn sits on it -- containing Gandhi's ashes -- and Nehru stands near it,

s'habituerait

How many times the word 's'habituerait' appears in the text?

with them now the giant figure of Abdul Ghaffar Khan, the first time we have seen him among Gandhi's intimate group. NEHRU In Calcutta it's like civil war. The Muslims rose and there was a bloodbath, and now the Hindus are taking revenge -- and if we can't stop it there'll be no hope for the Hindus left in Pakistan. PATEL ...an eye for an eye making the whole world blind. It is an empty and despairing echo of Gandhi's words. AZAD Aren't there any troops to spare? NEHRU (tense, fragile) Nothing -- nothing. The divisions in Bombay and Delhi can hardly keep the peace now. And each fresh bit of news creates another wave of mad... ness. He has turned and seen Gandhi standing slowly. It has almost stopped him. PATEL Could we cut all news off? I know -- NEHRU Bapu -- please. Where are you going. GANDHI (sounding like an old man) I don't want to hear more... He is moving toward the door. It stops them all. Pyarelal moves tentatively to open the door. PATEL (impatiently) We need your help! GANDHI There is nothing I can give. AZAD Where are you going? Gandhi turns, looks at him bleakly. GANDHI Calcutta. CALCUTTA - EXTERIOR - NIGHT We are high. There are fires, the sounds of spasmodic gunfire, of looting, screams, the roar of police vehicles and occasional sirens. The camera zooms in on a poor quarter of artisan dwellings in narrow streets. Outside one of the houses is a car, an army jeep, policemen, a few soldiers and a group of people. It seems a little island of calm in a sea of wild chaos. On the roof of the house, a figure moves into the light. CLOSER - TAHIB'S ROOF The figure is Gandhi. He peers down at the dark, rioting streets. Azad, Tahib, a Muslim whose house this is, Mirabehn and Pyarelal are with him along Abdul Ghaffar Khan. A police commissioner moves to Gandhi's side, demanding his attention. POLICE COMMISSIONER Sir, please, I don't have the men to protect you -- not in a Muslim house. Not this quarter. GANDHI I am staying with the friend of a friend. There is a sudden commotion just below them and angry shouts: "Death to Muslims!," "Death to Muslims!" Gandhi peers down. His point of view. A surging gang of youths, many carrying torches, and far outnumbering the little group of police and soldiers, are shouting up at the roof. We see three or four black flags and stains of blood on many of them. A few hold knives still wet with blood. A YOUTH There he is! A feral roar goes up at the sight of Gandhi, but he stands unmoving. HINDU YOUTH LEADER (his voice emotional, tearful) Why are you staying at the home of a Muslim! They're murderers! They killed my family! Featuring Gandhi. It is a comment too grave for glibness, and Gandhi is obviously struck by the pain of it. He pauses for a moment, staring down at the youth: GANDHI Because forgiveness is the gift of the brave. He makes it mean the youth. For a second it makes an impact, but then the youth shouts his defiance at him and his message. YOUTH To hell with you, Gandhi!! An angry chorus of acclamation; when it dies GANDHI (to the youth) Go -- do as your mother and father would wish you to do. It is ambiguous, open-ended, meaning anything your mother and father would wish you to do. Tears flush from the boy's eyes and he stares at Gandhi with a kind of hopeless anguish and rage. But the impact is on the youth alone; around him the others begin to take up the chant "Death to Muslims!," "Death to Muslims!" Gandhi turns from the street. He looks at the police commissioner -- at his fatigue, his concern, his manifest respect. Gandhi musters a weary smile. GANDHI I have lived a lifetime. If I had shunned death -- or feared it -- I would not be here. Nor would you be concerned for me. (He lets it sink in then he takes the commissioner's arm and moves back toward the center of the roof.) Leave me -- and take your men. (An understanding touch of the arm.) You have more important things to worry about. The commissioner looks at him, uncertain, not knowing what to do, as the angry chanting continues above the sound of rioting. HOSPITAL - INTERIOR - DAY An old, inadequate hospital -- dark cavernous. Margaret Bourke- White is moving among the densely packed litter of wounded women. She is positioning herself to photograph Gandhi, who is speaking to a woman who cradles a small baby. The corridors behind him are even more packed. The few doctors and nurses hardly have room to move. Featuring Gandhi. Azad and Mirabehn are behind him as he moves on, and behind them, like a giant guardian, Abdul Ghaffar Khan. We hear "Bapu, Bapu" muttered quietly here and there. Gandhi bends to a woman whose face is bandaged and a cruel wound is half-exposed between her mouth and eye. WOMAN Bapu... Allah be with you... There are tears in Gandhi's eyes now. GANDHI And with you. (He touches her wrinkled hand.) Pray... I cannot help you -- pray... pray. And the weight of his helplessness hangs on him. CALCUTTA STREET - EXTERIOR - DAY A streetcar (tram) crashes into a barricade of carts, rickshaws, a couple of old cars, smashing through to breach the barricade, but stopped in the end by the mass of debris. The streetcar is loaded with Indian troops and they break from the stalled vehicle to chase A gang of Hindus -- organized -- runs down the street from the troops, some dragging the bodies of victims with them. We see several Hindu black flags. NEHRU'S OFFICE - INTERIOR - NIGHT He speaks across his desk to a senior police commissioner. The same activity going on in the background. NEHRU (angrily) No! There will not be a Hindu Police and a Muslim Police. There is one police! An aide slips a newspaper on his desk in front of him. He doesn't look at it till the senior commissioner lowers his head and turns, accepting defeat. Then Nehru glances at the paper. In thick headlines: GANDHI: A FAST UNTO DEATH! Nehru doesn't move for a moment. Then he lifts his face slowly to his aide. NEHRU Why must I read news like this in the paper? The aide shakes his head -- there's no answer. Nehru lowers his head again; it is like another burden on a man who already has too many. He grips his temples... a terrible sigh. NEHRU Tell Patel. Arrange a plane. We will go -- Friday. THE AIDE Four days? Nehru thinks on it solemnly, then nods yes. TAHIB'S HOUSE - EXTERIOR - DAY The sounds of rioting and looting on nearby streets, but here a mass of people are gathered. Many youths with black flags. Two black government limousines. Motorcycles. Police and soldiers. They are looking off to AN OUTSIDE STAIRCASE - TAHIB'S HOUSE It runs up the side of the building and is lined with waiting people. Nehru and Patel are climbing the stairs, moving past them almost irritably as they mutter "Nehru, Nehru," "Patel," and make the pranam to the eminent men. In the heat of the city Tahib's rooftop is still Gandhi's "home" and has become a center of activity. Azad clears someone aside and ushers Nehru and Patel under the canopy awning. Nehru pauses as he lowers his head. His point of view. Gandhi lies curled awkwardly on his side of the cot. He is writing, Pyarelal taking the pages as he finishes, both ignoring all the people, the sounds of gunfire and distant shouting, but he looks tired and tightens his jaw occasionally in pain. The camera pans. A doctor sits near the foot of the cot, Abdul Ghaffar Khan beyond him. Near the other edge of the canopied area, Mirabehn sits with Bourke-White. They are whispering quietly, but Mirabehn has stopped on seeing Nehru and she smiles a relieved greeting. She knows Gandhi's feeling for him. Bourke-White stares at him and Patel for a second and then her hand goes slowly, almost reflexively, for her camera. CLOSER ON GANDHI Nehru crosses and kneels so that he is almost at Gandhi's eyeline. Gandhi must take his eyes from his writing to look, and he is almost moved to tears at the sight of Nehru. His hand shakes a little as he holds it out to him. NEHRU Bapu... Gandhi turns to pat their joined hands with his other hand. He does so with effort, and at last he sees Patel. GANDHI Sardar... (He looks him over.) You have gained weight. You must join me in the fast. Patel sits near the head of the cot so the three of them are on a level. Outside the canopied area, Bourke-White is crouched, her camera framing the three of them. PATEL (wittily, warmly) If I fast I die. If you fast people go to all sorts of trouble to keep you alive. Gandhi smiles and reaches to touch hands with him. NEHRU Bapu, forgive me -- I've cheated. I could have come earlier. But your fast has helped. These last days people's minds have begun to turn to this bed -- and away from last night's atrocity. But now it is enough. Gandhi shakes his head. GANDHI All that has happened is that I've grown a little thinner. It is despairingly sincere. But Nehru feels he has an antidote for that despair. The distant sound of an explosion. NEHRU Tomorrow five thousand Muslim students of all ages are marching here in Calcutta -- for peace. (The real point) And five thousand Hindu students are marching with them. It is all organized. Bourke-White captures the sense of elation in his face. From her discreet distance, she lowers the camera, holding it against her mouth, waiting for Gandhi's response. Gandhi nods to Nehru, accepting the news with a sad wistfulness. GANDHI I'm glad -- but it will not be enough. Nehru isn't prepared for this resistance. He glances at Patel, and we see that they recognize that their bland conviction that they could talk him out of the fast was deeply misplaced. Nehru turns back -- this time no confidence, only concern. A forced smile. NEHRU Bapu, you are not so young anymore. Gandhi smiles, pain etched in his eyes. He touches Nehru's hand. GANDHI Don't worry for me -- death will be a deliverance. (There is water in his eyes, but his words have the weight of a man truly determined to die.) I cannot watch the destruction of all I have lived for. Nehru stares at him, feeling the sudden fear that Gandhi means it. Patel, Mirabehn, Azad, Bourke-White are gripped by the same realization. TAHIB'S HOUSE - EXTERIOR - NIGHT An outside broadcast truck is parked among the usual crowd, grown even larger now, and more women among them. The sounds of distant fighting. TAHIB'S ROOF - EXTERIOR - NIGHT The senior technician, in earphones, signals across to Mirabehn. She holds a microphone by Gandhi, who is lying on his side. He seems almost out of touch. MIRABEHN Bapu... Gandhi looks at her, and then the microphone. When he speaks into the microphone his voice is very weak. GANDHI Each night before I sleep, I read a few words from the Gita and the Koran, and the Bible... (we intercut with Bourke-White and those on the roof watching) tonight I ask you to share these thoughts of God with me. And now we go into the streets, intercutting with Gandhi but seeing Hindus listening around loudspeakers on corners, in little eating houses, Muslim shops where people live in the back, and neighbors gathering defensively in groups. GANDHI (the books are there, but he does it from memory of course) I will begin with the Bible where the words of the Lord are, "Love thy neighbor as thyself"... and then our beloved Gita which says, "The world is a garment worn by God, thy neighbor is in truth thyself"... and finally the Holy Koran, "We shall remove all hatred from our hearts and recline on couches face to face, a band of brothers." He leans back, exhausted. Mirabehn is looking at him; she starts to sing softly. MIRABEHN "Lead Kindly Light, amidst the circling gloom..." Gandhi, his eyes closed, takes it up in his weak, croaking voice. GANDHI/MIRABEHN "The night is dark, and I am far from home, Lead thou me on..." TAHIB'S HOUSE - EXTERIOR - DAY Two police motorcycles lead a black limousine to a stop before Tahib's house. The crowd now gathered is very large. More mixed than before but still predominantly of youths, many still with black flags. Nehru gets out of the limousine with a Muslim leader, a tough- looking man who carries himself with the authority and power of a mobster (Suhrawardy). And they start to go up the outside stairs. Suddenly we hear the shout "Death to Gandhi!," "Death to Gandhi!" And Nehru turns, pushing past Suhrawardy fiercely and going back onto the street. He runs at the crowd, where the shout comes once more from the back. His face is wild with anger and shock. NEHRU (hysterically) Who dares say such things! Who?! (And he is running at them and they spread in fear.) Come! Kill me first! Come! Where are you?! Kill me first! The crowd has spread from him all along the street; they stand against the walls of the houses staring at him, terrified to move. We see, just in passing, the frightened, apprehensive faces of Godse, and near him, Apte and Karkare. Nehru stands, staring at them all, his face seething with anger. TAHIB'S ROOF - EXTERIOR - DAY We are featuring a copy of Life Magazine. On the cover is a picture of rioting men fighting and diagonally a cut-out of Gandhi lying on his cot. The caption reads: "An Old Man's Battle." As the magazine starts to be opened, it is suddenly put to one side. Another angle. Mirabehn is rising, leaving the magazine at her feet. She moves to Nehru and Suhrawardy as Azad ushers them into the canopied area. Abdul Ghaffar Khan sits quietly in the background. Mirabehn speaks softly. MIRABEHN His pulse is very irregular -- the kidneys aren't functioning. Nehru looks across at Gandhi. The doctor, who is testing Gandhi's pulse yet again, glances at him -- no encouragement -- and moves away. Nehru moves to the side of the cot and Gandhi smiles weakly and holds out a hand, but he is in pain. NEHRU Bapu, I have brought Mr. Suhrawardy. It was he who called on the Muslims to rise; he is telling them now to go back to their homes, to lay down their arms. Gandhi looks up at Suhrawardy, who nods. Gandhi looks back at Nehru. There is no hint of him changing his mind. NEHRU (personally) Think what you can do by living -- that you cannot do by dying. Gandhi smiles whimsically, he touches him again but there is no change in his attitude. NEHRU (pleadingly) What do you want? GANDHI (a moment) That the fighting will stop -- that you make me believe it will never start again. Nehru looks at him hopelessly. SQUARE IN CALCUTTA - EXTERIOR - DAY A huge crowd, some smoke in distant buildings, some damage near to help us know this is still Calcutta, and all is not yet at peace. The camera sweeps over the crowd, past the loudspeakers on their poles. We see surly knots of belligerent rowdies, mostly young, but not all, hanging on the fringes as we move over the heads of the mass of listening people to a platform where Nehru speaks. Azad, Suhrawardy, and others sit on the floor behind him. We have heard his voice over all this. NEHRU ...Sometimes it is when you are quite without hope and in utter darkness that God comes to the rescue. Gandhiji is dying because of our madness. Put away your "revenge." What will be gained by more killing? Have the courage to do what you know is right. For God's sake, let us embrace like brothers... TAHIB'S ROOF - EXTERIOR - NIGHT Featuring the Muslim leader Suhrawardy, leaning against a wall, watching an action out of shot with evident tension. We hear a little clank of metal. Another angle. There are five men facing Gandhi. They wear black trousers and black knit vests. There are thongs around their arms that make their bulging muscles seem even more powerful. They are Hindu thugs (Goondas). Their clothes are dirty -- and they are too -- but they are laying knives and guns at Gandhi's feet. Mirabehn, Azad, Pyarelal, the doctor and others on the roof watch fascinated, a little frightened. GOONDA LEADER It is our promise. We stop. It is a promise. Gandhi is looking at him, testing, not giving or accepting anything that is mere gesture. GANDHI Go -- try -- God by with you. The Goondas stand. They glance at Suhrawardy; he smiles tautly and they start to leave, but one (Nahari) lingers. Suddenly he moves violently toward Gandhi, taking a flat piece of Indian bread (chapati) from his trousers and tossing it forcefully on Gandhi. NAHARI Eat. Mirabehn and Azad start to move toward him -- the man looks immensely strong and immensely unstable. But Gandhi holds up a shaking hand, stopping them. Nahari's face is knotted in emotion, half anger, half almost a child's fear -- but there is a wild menace in that instability. NAHARI Eat! I am going to hell -- but not with your death on my soul. GANDHI Only God decides who goes to hell... NAHARI (stiffening, aggressive) I -- I killed a child... (Then an anguished defiance) I smashed his head against a wall. Gandhi stares at him, breathless. GANDHI (in a fearful whisper) Why? Why? It is as though the man has told him of some terrible self- inflicted wound. NAHARI (tears now -- and wrath) They killed my son -- my boy! Almost reflexively he holds his hand out to indicate the height of his son. He glares at Suhrawardy and then back at Gandhi. NAHARI The Muslims killed my son... they killed him. He is sobbing, but in his anger it seems almost as though he means to kill Gandhi in retaliation. A long moment, as Gandhi meets his pain and wrath. Then GANDHI I know a way out of hell. Nahari sneers, but there is just a flicker of desperate curiosity. GANDHI Find a child -- a child whose mother and father have been killed. A little boy -- about this high. He raises his hand to the height Nahari has indicated as his son's. GANDHI ...and raise him -- as your own. Nahari has listened. His face almost cracks -- it is a chink of light, but it does not illumine his darkness. GANDHI Only be sure... that he is a Muslim. And that you raise him as one. And now the light falls on Nahari. His face stiffens, he swallows, fighting any show of emotion; then he turns to go. But he takes only a step and he turns back, going to his knees, the sobs breaking again and again from his heaving body as he holds his head to Gandhi's feet in the traditional greeting of Hindu son to Hindu father. A second, and Gandhi reaches out and touches the top of his head. Mirabehn watches. The Goondas watch. Suhrawardy watches. Finally GANDHI (gently, exhaustedly) Go -- go. God bless you... COURTYARD - POLICE STATION - CALCUTTA - EXTERIOR - NIGHT Trucks with riot squads (shields and truncheons) in place, but they are lounging, waiting. There is silence, and air of somnolence. Some of the riot squad lounge in little groups around the courtyard. A distant cough. Featuring a senior riot squad officer dressed and ready for action. He it is who coughed. He coughs again, clearing his throat. A police sergeant stands by him, both are reading the front page of a paper the senior riot squad officer holds. We see two huge lines of headline: GANDHI NEAR DEATH/NEHRU GOES ON FAST. In one of the trucks one of the men offers another a cigarette. A telephone rings sharply, inside. The senior riot squad officer and the sergeant run in as engines start; the men run to their places, lower visors, headlights go on! POLICE STATION OFFICE - INTERIOR - DAY A constable mans the telephone. He listens as the senior riot squad officer and the sergeant run to him tensely. The sound of the great doors opening in the courtyard, more engines revving up. CONSTABLE Yes, sir, yes, sir, (He holds up his hand to the senior officer) "Wait." He glances up at the senior riot squad officer. CONSTABLE (writing, from the phone) Accident, "Christie crossroads," a lorry and a rickshaw. Yes, sir, I have it. He shrugs at the senior riot squad officer and hands the information slip to another constable behind the desk. The sergeant sighs, and moves to the outside door. We hear him bellow, "Stand down." The constable hangs up and sighs heavily. The senior riot squad officer shakes his head, and turns and walks slowly to the door. COURTYARD - POLICE STATION - EXTERIOR - NIGHT The senior riot squad officer and the sergeant stand in the doorway as the engines die. The men relax... the silence returns. A dog barks distantly, disturbed by the noise... A bird caws once or twice. SERGEANT I wouldn't have believed it, Mr. Gupta. SENIOR OFFICER Sergeant, it's a bloody miracle... HIGH SHOT - CALCUTTA - EXTERIOR - NIGHT It lies in silence. TAHIB'S ROOF - EXTERIOR - DAY Mirabehn is bent over Gandhi. He is curled almost in the fetal position, his face looking wan and sunken. For the first time there is silence, no explosions, no distant shouts, no gunfire. MIRABEHN Bapu, there's been no fighting -- anywhere. It has stopped -- the madness has stopped. We see the police commissioner, Suhrawardy, two doctors, Abdul Ghaffar Khan, and some others. Nearer Gandhi, behind Mirabehn, are Nehru, Patel, Azad and Pyarelal. Gandhi turns to Mirabehn, his face shaking, peering into her eyes. GANDHI It is foolish if it is just to save the life of an old man. MIRABEHN No... no. In every temple and mosque they have pledged to die before they lift a hand against each other. His weary eyes look at her; he looks up slowly to Azad. Azad nods "It's true." Then Patel PATEL Everywhere. Gandhi looks at Nehru. Nehru just nods tautly. Gandhi looks down, then lifts his head to Azad. GANDHI Maulana, my friend, could I have some orange juice... Then you and I will take a piece of bread together... The relief brings water to their eyes and grins to their faces. Nehru bends to Gandhi. Gandhi holds his hand out to him, and Nehru clutches it. Then NEHRU You see, Bapu, it is not difficult. I have fasted only a few hours and I accomplished what you could not do in as many days. It is a joke in their way with each other and Gandhi's eyes light, his smile comes. But it is tired. He puts his other hand over Nehru's and Nehru lowers his head to it, crying silently. BIRLA HOUSE - EXTERIOR - DAY As in the opening sequence -- but a few minutes earlier. The crowd is beginning to gather for the evening prayers. We see a tonga or two, a gardener opening the gate to the garden, three policemen standing, talking idly among themselves. BIRLA HOUSE - INTERIOR - DAY Laughter. Gandhi is eating muli; he holds his head back to capture the lemon juice. We hear the click of a camera GANDHI That is how you eat muli. Manu hands him a cloth and he wipes his hands. Another click of a camera. He is not fully recovered, but well on the way. GANDHI (to the photographer) I'm not sure I want to be remembered that way. It is all light and for fun. We get a wide-angle shot now and see that Bourke-White is shooting one of her favorite subjects again. She is enjoying the banter, as is Mirabehn, who is spinning quietly to one side of the room, and Patel, who sits cross-legged like Gandhi on the floor. Pyarelal is working on papers with him but grins at this. BOURKE-WHITE Don't worry, with luck you may not be. And she shoots him again, as he hands the cloth back to Manu. Abha is sitting next to Manu, looking at a collection of pictures of Gandhi, obviously Bourke-White's. PATEL No, he'll be remembered for tempting fate. It is wry, but waspishly chiding. Abha suddenly holds a picture up for Gandhi to see. It's one of him, ears wide, eyes round. ABHA Mickey Mouse. Gandhi taps her on the head with his finger as she smiles. But Bourke-White has looked from Patel to Gandhi, clearly shaken by the implication in Patel's words. BOURKE-WHITE You really are going to Pakistan, then? (Gandhi shrugs, and she chides too) You are a stubborn man. GANDHI (a grin, in the mood of their "flirtation") I'm simply going to prove to Muslims there, and Hindus here, that the only devils in the world are those running around in our own hearts -- and that's where all our battles ought to be fought. Abha has signaled to the cheap watch dangling from his dhoti. He glances at it, and holds his arms out. The two girls help him. BOURKE-WHITE And what kind of a warrior have you been in that warfare? She is photographing his getting-up and leaning on the two girls. GANDHI Not a very good one. That's why I have so much tolerance for the other scoundrels of the world. He moves off, but has a sudden thought and turns to Patel. GANDHI Ask Panditji to -- to consider what we've discussed. Patel nods soberly and Gandhi starts for the door, Bourke- White moving with him. GANDHI (of the photographs) Enough. BOURKE-WHITE (a plea) One more. He has passed her, he's in the doorway. We see the crowd at the end of the garden, where the light of the day is beginning to soften. He turns, teasing in his slightly flirtatious way with women. GANDHI You're a temptress. She shoots him against the door -- the crowd milling distantly, waiting -- then she lowers her camera. BOURKE-WHITE Just an admirer... GANDHI Nothing's more dangerous, especially for an old man. He turns; the last words have betrayed the smile on his face; they have a painful sense of truth about them. Bourke-White watches as he moves into the garden toward the crowd in the distance. She turns to Mirabehn. BOURKE-WHITE There's a sadness in him. It's an observation -- and a question. Mirabehn accedes gravely. MIRABEHN He thinks he's failed. Bourke-White stares at her, then turns to look out at him. BOURKE-WHITE Why? My God, if anything's proved him right, it's what's happened these last months... Mirabehn nods, but she keeps on spinning and tries to sound cynically resigned but her innate emotionalism keeps breaking through in her voice and on her face. MIRABEHN I am blinded by my love of him, but I think when we most needed it, he offered the world a way out of madness. But he doesn't see it... and neither does the world. It is laced with pain. Bourke-White turns and looks out at Gandhi -- so tiny, so weak as he walks between his "props." He has now reached the end of the garden and is moving among the crowd assembled there. THE GARDEN - BIRLA HOUSE - EXTERIOR - TWILIGHT Gandhi is moving forward in the crowd, one hand resting on Manu, the other on Abha. He makes the pranam to someone, the crowd is bowing to him, some speaking, and we also see the crowd from his point of view -- "Bapu," "God bless you," "Thank you -- thank you." He turns to a very old woman, who makes a salaam to him. Gandhi touches her head. GANDHI Allah be with you. Smiling, he turns back. A jostling, the sound of beads falling. MANU (to someone) Brother, Bapu is already late for prayers. Gandhi turns to the person; he makes the pranam. Full shot. Godse is making the pranam to him and he suddenly, wildly draws his gun and fires. The camera closes on Gandhi as he staggers and falls, the red stain of blood seeping through his white shawl. GANDHI Oh, God... oh, God... Manu and Abha bend over him, silent in their first shock. The sound of panic and alarm begins to grow around them, they suddenly scream and begin to cry. MANU/ABHA Bapu! Bapu! FUNERAL PYRE - EXTERIOR - DAY Blackness. Silence. A moment -- we sense the blackness moving -- like dark smoke. The camera is pulling back very slowly and we can tell the blackness is smoke rising from a fire. And now we see that it is a funeral pyre. And all around that pyre a mass of silent humanity. Through the smoke, sitting cross-legged near the rim of the flames, we see Nehru... and Azad and Patel, Mirabehn and Kallenbach, the drawn faces of Lord and Lady Mountbatten, Manu and Abha... THE RIVER - EXTERIOR - DAY A helicopter shot coming slowly up the wide river, low, toward a barge and a mass of people in the distance. And now we are over the barge, and it is covered with flowers. Flowers flow downstream around it. An urn sits on it -- containing Gandhi's ashes -- and Nehru stands near it,

staying

How many times the word 'staying' appears in the text?

with them now the giant figure of Abdul Ghaffar Khan, the first time we have seen him among Gandhi's intimate group. NEHRU In Calcutta it's like civil war. The Muslims rose and there was a bloodbath, and now the Hindus are taking revenge -- and if we can't stop it there'll be no hope for the Hindus left in Pakistan. PATEL ...an eye for an eye making the whole world blind. It is an empty and despairing echo of Gandhi's words. AZAD Aren't there any troops to spare? NEHRU (tense, fragile) Nothing -- nothing. The divisions in Bombay and Delhi can hardly keep the peace now. And each fresh bit of news creates another wave of mad... ness. He has turned and seen Gandhi standing slowly. It has almost stopped him. PATEL Could we cut all news off? I know -- NEHRU Bapu -- please. Where are you going. GANDHI (sounding like an old man) I don't want to hear more... He is moving toward the door. It stops them all. Pyarelal moves tentatively to open the door. PATEL (impatiently) We need your help! GANDHI There is nothing I can give. AZAD Where are you going? Gandhi turns, looks at him bleakly. GANDHI Calcutta. CALCUTTA - EXTERIOR - NIGHT We are high. There are fires, the sounds of spasmodic gunfire, of looting, screams, the roar of police vehicles and occasional sirens. The camera zooms in on a poor quarter of artisan dwellings in narrow streets. Outside one of the houses is a car, an army jeep, policemen, a few soldiers and a group of people. It seems a little island of calm in a sea of wild chaos. On the roof of the house, a figure moves into the light. CLOSER - TAHIB'S ROOF The figure is Gandhi. He peers down at the dark, rioting streets. Azad, Tahib, a Muslim whose house this is, Mirabehn and Pyarelal are with him along Abdul Ghaffar Khan. A police commissioner moves to Gandhi's side, demanding his attention. POLICE COMMISSIONER Sir, please, I don't have the men to protect you -- not in a Muslim house. Not this quarter. GANDHI I am staying with the friend of a friend. There is a sudden commotion just below them and angry shouts: "Death to Muslims!," "Death to Muslims!" Gandhi peers down. His point of view. A surging gang of youths, many carrying torches, and far outnumbering the little group of police and soldiers, are shouting up at the roof. We see three or four black flags and stains of blood on many of them. A few hold knives still wet with blood. A YOUTH There he is! A feral roar goes up at the sight of Gandhi, but he stands unmoving. HINDU YOUTH LEADER (his voice emotional, tearful) Why are you staying at the home of a Muslim! They're murderers! They killed my family! Featuring Gandhi. It is a comment too grave for glibness, and Gandhi is obviously struck by the pain of it. He pauses for a moment, staring down at the youth: GANDHI Because forgiveness is the gift of the brave. He makes it mean the youth. For a second it makes an impact, but then the youth shouts his defiance at him and his message. YOUTH To hell with you, Gandhi!! An angry chorus of acclamation; when it dies GANDHI (to the youth) Go -- do as your mother and father would wish you to do. It is ambiguous, open-ended, meaning anything your mother and father would wish you to do. Tears flush from the boy's eyes and he stares at Gandhi with a kind of hopeless anguish and rage. But the impact is on the youth alone; around him the others begin to take up the chant "Death to Muslims!," "Death to Muslims!" Gandhi turns from the street. He looks at the police commissioner -- at his fatigue, his concern, his manifest respect. Gandhi musters a weary smile. GANDHI I have lived a lifetime. If I had shunned death -- or feared it -- I would not be here. Nor would you be concerned for me. (He lets it sink in then he takes the commissioner's arm and moves back toward the center of the roof.) Leave me -- and take your men. (An understanding touch of the arm.) You have more important things to worry about. The commissioner looks at him, uncertain, not knowing what to do, as the angry chanting continues above the sound of rioting. HOSPITAL - INTERIOR - DAY An old, inadequate hospital -- dark cavernous. Margaret Bourke- White is moving among the densely packed litter of wounded women. She is positioning herself to photograph Gandhi, who is speaking to a woman who cradles a small baby. The corridors behind him are even more packed. The few doctors and nurses hardly have room to move. Featuring Gandhi. Azad and Mirabehn are behind him as he moves on, and behind them, like a giant guardian, Abdul Ghaffar Khan. We hear "Bapu, Bapu" muttered quietly here and there. Gandhi bends to a woman whose face is bandaged and a cruel wound is half-exposed between her mouth and eye. WOMAN Bapu... Allah be with you... There are tears in Gandhi's eyes now. GANDHI And with you. (He touches her wrinkled hand.) Pray... I cannot help you -- pray... pray. And the weight of his helplessness hangs on him. CALCUTTA STREET - EXTERIOR - DAY A streetcar (tram) crashes into a barricade of carts, rickshaws, a couple of old cars, smashing through to breach the barricade, but stopped in the end by the mass of debris. The streetcar is loaded with Indian troops and they break from the stalled vehicle to chase A gang of Hindus -- organized -- runs down the street from the troops, some dragging the bodies of victims with them. We see several Hindu black flags. NEHRU'S OFFICE - INTERIOR - NIGHT He speaks across his desk to a senior police commissioner. The same activity going on in the background. NEHRU (angrily) No! There will not be a Hindu Police and a Muslim Police. There is one police! An aide slips a newspaper on his desk in front of him. He doesn't look at it till the senior commissioner lowers his head and turns, accepting defeat. Then Nehru glances at the paper. In thick headlines: GANDHI: A FAST UNTO DEATH! Nehru doesn't move for a moment. Then he lifts his face slowly to his aide. NEHRU Why must I read news like this in the paper? The aide shakes his head -- there's no answer. Nehru lowers his head again; it is like another burden on a man who already has too many. He grips his temples... a terrible sigh. NEHRU Tell Patel. Arrange a plane. We will go -- Friday. THE AIDE Four days? Nehru thinks on it solemnly, then nods yes. TAHIB'S HOUSE - EXTERIOR - DAY The sounds of rioting and looting on nearby streets, but here a mass of people are gathered. Many youths with black flags. Two black government limousines. Motorcycles. Police and soldiers. They are looking off to AN OUTSIDE STAIRCASE - TAHIB'S HOUSE It runs up the side of the building and is lined with waiting people. Nehru and Patel are climbing the stairs, moving past them almost irritably as they mutter "Nehru, Nehru," "Patel," and make the pranam to the eminent men. In the heat of the city Tahib's rooftop is still Gandhi's "home" and has become a center of activity. Azad clears someone aside and ushers Nehru and Patel under the canopy awning. Nehru pauses as he lowers his head. His point of view. Gandhi lies curled awkwardly on his side of the cot. He is writing, Pyarelal taking the pages as he finishes, both ignoring all the people, the sounds of gunfire and distant shouting, but he looks tired and tightens his jaw occasionally in pain. The camera pans. A doctor sits near the foot of the cot, Abdul Ghaffar Khan beyond him. Near the other edge of the canopied area, Mirabehn sits with Bourke-White. They are whispering quietly, but Mirabehn has stopped on seeing Nehru and she smiles a relieved greeting. She knows Gandhi's feeling for him. Bourke-White stares at him and Patel for a second and then her hand goes slowly, almost reflexively, for her camera. CLOSER ON GANDHI Nehru crosses and kneels so that he is almost at Gandhi's eyeline. Gandhi must take his eyes from his writing to look, and he is almost moved to tears at the sight of Nehru. His hand shakes a little as he holds it out to him. NEHRU Bapu... Gandhi turns to pat their joined hands with his other hand. He does so with effort, and at last he sees Patel. GANDHI Sardar... (He looks him over.) You have gained weight. You must join me in the fast. Patel sits near the head of the cot so the three of them are on a level. Outside the canopied area, Bourke-White is crouched, her camera framing the three of them. PATEL (wittily, warmly) If I fast I die. If you fast people go to all sorts of trouble to keep you alive. Gandhi smiles and reaches to touch hands with him. NEHRU Bapu, forgive me -- I've cheated. I could have come earlier. But your fast has helped. These last days people's minds have begun to turn to this bed -- and away from last night's atrocity. But now it is enough. Gandhi shakes his head. GANDHI All that has happened is that I've grown a little thinner. It is despairingly sincere. But Nehru feels he has an antidote for that despair. The distant sound of an explosion. NEHRU Tomorrow five thousand Muslim students of all ages are marching here in Calcutta -- for peace. (The real point) And five thousand Hindu students are marching with them. It is all organized. Bourke-White captures the sense of elation in his face. From her discreet distance, she lowers the camera, holding it against her mouth, waiting for Gandhi's response. Gandhi nods to Nehru, accepting the news with a sad wistfulness. GANDHI I'm glad -- but it will not be enough. Nehru isn't prepared for this resistance. He glances at Patel, and we see that they recognize that their bland conviction that they could talk him out of the fast was deeply misplaced. Nehru turns back -- this time no confidence, only concern. A forced smile. NEHRU Bapu, you are not so young anymore. Gandhi smiles, pain etched in his eyes. He touches Nehru's hand. GANDHI Don't worry for me -- death will be a deliverance. (There is water in his eyes, but his words have the weight of a man truly determined to die.) I cannot watch the destruction of all I have lived for. Nehru stares at him, feeling the sudden fear that Gandhi means it. Patel, Mirabehn, Azad, Bourke-White are gripped by the same realization. TAHIB'S HOUSE - EXTERIOR - NIGHT An outside broadcast truck is parked among the usual crowd, grown even larger now, and more women among them. The sounds of distant fighting. TAHIB'S ROOF - EXTERIOR - NIGHT The senior technician, in earphones, signals across to Mirabehn. She holds a microphone by Gandhi, who is lying on his side. He seems almost out of touch. MIRABEHN Bapu... Gandhi looks at her, and then the microphone. When he speaks into the microphone his voice is very weak. GANDHI Each night before I sleep, I read a few words from the Gita and the Koran, and the Bible... (we intercut with Bourke-White and those on the roof watching) tonight I ask you to share these thoughts of God with me. And now we go into the streets, intercutting with Gandhi but seeing Hindus listening around loudspeakers on corners, in little eating houses, Muslim shops where people live in the back, and neighbors gathering defensively in groups. GANDHI (the books are there, but he does it from memory of course) I will begin with the Bible where the words of the Lord are, "Love thy neighbor as thyself"... and then our beloved Gita which says, "The world is a garment worn by God, thy neighbor is in truth thyself"... and finally the Holy Koran, "We shall remove all hatred from our hearts and recline on couches face to face, a band of brothers." He leans back, exhausted. Mirabehn is looking at him; she starts to sing softly. MIRABEHN "Lead Kindly Light, amidst the circling gloom..." Gandhi, his eyes closed, takes it up in his weak, croaking voice. GANDHI/MIRABEHN "The night is dark, and I am far from home, Lead thou me on..." TAHIB'S HOUSE - EXTERIOR - DAY Two police motorcycles lead a black limousine to a stop before Tahib's house. The crowd now gathered is very large. More mixed than before but still predominantly of youths, many still with black flags. Nehru gets out of the limousine with a Muslim leader, a tough- looking man who carries himself with the authority and power of a mobster (Suhrawardy). And they start to go up the outside stairs. Suddenly we hear the shout "Death to Gandhi!," "Death to Gandhi!" And Nehru turns, pushing past Suhrawardy fiercely and going back onto the street. He runs at the crowd, where the shout comes once more from the back. His face is wild with anger and shock. NEHRU (hysterically) Who dares say such things! Who?! (And he is running at them and they spread in fear.) Come! Kill me first! Come! Where are you?! Kill me first! The crowd has spread from him all along the street; they stand against the walls of the houses staring at him, terrified to move. We see, just in passing, the frightened, apprehensive faces of Godse, and near him, Apte and Karkare. Nehru stands, staring at them all, his face seething with anger. TAHIB'S ROOF - EXTERIOR - DAY We are featuring a copy of Life Magazine. On the cover is a picture of rioting men fighting and diagonally a cut-out of Gandhi lying on his cot. The caption reads: "An Old Man's Battle." As the magazine starts to be opened, it is suddenly put to one side. Another angle. Mirabehn is rising, leaving the magazine at her feet. She moves to Nehru and Suhrawardy as Azad ushers them into the canopied area. Abdul Ghaffar Khan sits quietly in the background. Mirabehn speaks softly. MIRABEHN His pulse is very irregular -- the kidneys aren't functioning. Nehru looks across at Gandhi. The doctor, who is testing Gandhi's pulse yet again, glances at him -- no encouragement -- and moves away. Nehru moves to the side of the cot and Gandhi smiles weakly and holds out a hand, but he is in pain. NEHRU Bapu, I have brought Mr. Suhrawardy. It was he who called on the Muslims to rise; he is telling them now to go back to their homes, to lay down their arms. Gandhi looks up at Suhrawardy, who nods. Gandhi looks back at Nehru. There is no hint of him changing his mind. NEHRU (personally) Think what you can do by living -- that you cannot do by dying. Gandhi smiles whimsically, he touches him again but there is no change in his attitude. NEHRU (pleadingly) What do you want? GANDHI (a moment) That the fighting will stop -- that you make me believe it will never start again. Nehru looks at him hopelessly. SQUARE IN CALCUTTA - EXTERIOR - DAY A huge crowd, some smoke in distant buildings, some damage near to help us know this is still Calcutta, and all is not yet at peace. The camera sweeps over the crowd, past the loudspeakers on their poles. We see surly knots of belligerent rowdies, mostly young, but not all, hanging on the fringes as we move over the heads of the mass of listening people to a platform where Nehru speaks. Azad, Suhrawardy, and others sit on the floor behind him. We have heard his voice over all this. NEHRU ...Sometimes it is when you are quite without hope and in utter darkness that God comes to the rescue. Gandhiji is dying because of our madness. Put away your "revenge." What will be gained by more killing? Have the courage to do what you know is right. For God's sake, let us embrace like brothers... TAHIB'S ROOF - EXTERIOR - NIGHT Featuring the Muslim leader Suhrawardy, leaning against a wall, watching an action out of shot with evident tension. We hear a little clank of metal. Another angle. There are five men facing Gandhi. They wear black trousers and black knit vests. There are thongs around their arms that make their bulging muscles seem even more powerful. They are Hindu thugs (Goondas). Their clothes are dirty -- and they are too -- but they are laying knives and guns at Gandhi's feet. Mirabehn, Azad, Pyarelal, the doctor and others on the roof watch fascinated, a little frightened. GOONDA LEADER It is our promise. We stop. It is a promise. Gandhi is looking at him, testing, not giving or accepting anything that is mere gesture. GANDHI Go -- try -- God by with you. The Goondas stand. They glance at Suhrawardy; he smiles tautly and they start to leave, but one (Nahari) lingers. Suddenly he moves violently toward Gandhi, taking a flat piece of Indian bread (chapati) from his trousers and tossing it forcefully on Gandhi. NAHARI Eat. Mirabehn and Azad start to move toward him -- the man looks immensely strong and immensely unstable. But Gandhi holds up a shaking hand, stopping them. Nahari's face is knotted in emotion, half anger, half almost a child's fear -- but there is a wild menace in that instability. NAHARI Eat! I am going to hell -- but not with your death on my soul. GANDHI Only God decides who goes to hell... NAHARI (stiffening, aggressive) I -- I killed a child... (Then an anguished defiance) I smashed his head against a wall. Gandhi stares at him, breathless. GANDHI (in a fearful whisper) Why? Why? It is as though the man has told him of some terrible self- inflicted wound. NAHARI (tears now -- and wrath) They killed my son -- my boy! Almost reflexively he holds his hand out to indicate the height of his son. He glares at Suhrawardy and then back at Gandhi. NAHARI The Muslims killed my son... they killed him. He is sobbing, but in his anger it seems almost as though he means to kill Gandhi in retaliation. A long moment, as Gandhi meets his pain and wrath. Then GANDHI I know a way out of hell. Nahari sneers, but there is just a flicker of desperate curiosity. GANDHI Find a child -- a child whose mother and father have been killed. A little boy -- about this high. He raises his hand to the height Nahari has indicated as his son's. GANDHI ...and raise him -- as your own. Nahari has listened. His face almost cracks -- it is a chink of light, but it does not illumine his darkness. GANDHI Only be sure... that he is a Muslim. And that you raise him as one. And now the light falls on Nahari. His face stiffens, he swallows, fighting any show of emotion; then he turns to go. But he takes only a step and he turns back, going to his knees, the sobs breaking again and again from his heaving body as he holds his head to Gandhi's feet in the traditional greeting of Hindu son to Hindu father. A second, and Gandhi reaches out and touches the top of his head. Mirabehn watches. The Goondas watch. Suhrawardy watches. Finally GANDHI (gently, exhaustedly) Go -- go. God bless you... COURTYARD - POLICE STATION - CALCUTTA - EXTERIOR - NIGHT Trucks with riot squads (shields and truncheons) in place, but they are lounging, waiting. There is silence, and air of somnolence. Some of the riot squad lounge in little groups around the courtyard. A distant cough. Featuring a senior riot squad officer dressed and ready for action. He it is who coughed. He coughs again, clearing his throat. A police sergeant stands by him, both are reading the front page of a paper the senior riot squad officer holds. We see two huge lines of headline: GANDHI NEAR DEATH/NEHRU GOES ON FAST. In one of the trucks one of the men offers another a cigarette. A telephone rings sharply, inside. The senior riot squad officer and the sergeant run in as engines start; the men run to their places, lower visors, headlights go on! POLICE STATION OFFICE - INTERIOR - DAY A constable mans the telephone. He listens as the senior riot squad officer and the sergeant run to him tensely. The sound of the great doors opening in the courtyard, more engines revving up. CONSTABLE Yes, sir, yes, sir, (He holds up his hand to the senior officer) "Wait." He glances up at the senior riot squad officer. CONSTABLE (writing, from the phone) Accident, "Christie crossroads," a lorry and a rickshaw. Yes, sir, I have it. He shrugs at the senior riot squad officer and hands the information slip to another constable behind the desk. The sergeant sighs, and moves to the outside door. We hear him bellow, "Stand down." The constable hangs up and sighs heavily. The senior riot squad officer shakes his head, and turns and walks slowly to the door. COURTYARD - POLICE STATION - EXTERIOR - NIGHT The senior riot squad officer and the sergeant stand in the doorway as the engines die. The men relax... the silence returns. A dog barks distantly, disturbed by the noise... A bird caws once or twice. SERGEANT I wouldn't have believed it, Mr. Gupta. SENIOR OFFICER Sergeant, it's a bloody miracle... HIGH SHOT - CALCUTTA - EXTERIOR - NIGHT It lies in silence. TAHIB'S ROOF - EXTERIOR - DAY Mirabehn is bent over Gandhi. He is curled almost in the fetal position, his face looking wan and sunken. For the first time there is silence, no explosions, no distant shouts, no gunfire. MIRABEHN Bapu, there's been no fighting -- anywhere. It has stopped -- the madness has stopped. We see the police commissioner, Suhrawardy, two doctors, Abdul Ghaffar Khan, and some others. Nearer Gandhi, behind Mirabehn, are Nehru, Patel, Azad and Pyarelal. Gandhi turns to Mirabehn, his face shaking, peering into her eyes. GANDHI It is foolish if it is just to save the life of an old man. MIRABEHN No... no. In every temple and mosque they have pledged to die before they lift a hand against each other. His weary eyes look at her; he looks up slowly to Azad. Azad nods "It's true." Then Patel PATEL Everywhere. Gandhi looks at Nehru. Nehru just nods tautly. Gandhi looks down, then lifts his head to Azad. GANDHI Maulana, my friend, could I have some orange juice... Then you and I will take a piece of bread together... The relief brings water to their eyes and grins to their faces. Nehru bends to Gandhi. Gandhi holds his hand out to him, and Nehru clutches it. Then NEHRU You see, Bapu, it is not difficult. I have fasted only a few hours and I accomplished what you could not do in as many days. It is a joke in their way with each other and Gandhi's eyes light, his smile comes. But it is tired. He puts his other hand over Nehru's and Nehru lowers his head to it, crying silently. BIRLA HOUSE - EXTERIOR - DAY As in the opening sequence -- but a few minutes earlier. The crowd is beginning to gather for the evening prayers. We see a tonga or two, a gardener opening the gate to the garden, three policemen standing, talking idly among themselves. BIRLA HOUSE - INTERIOR - DAY Laughter. Gandhi is eating muli; he holds his head back to capture the lemon juice. We hear the click of a camera GANDHI That is how you eat muli. Manu hands him a cloth and he wipes his hands. Another click of a camera. He is not fully recovered, but well on the way. GANDHI (to the photographer) I'm not sure I want to be remembered that way. It is all light and for fun. We get a wide-angle shot now and see that Bourke-White is shooting one of her favorite subjects again. She is enjoying the banter, as is Mirabehn, who is spinning quietly to one side of the room, and Patel, who sits cross-legged like Gandhi on the floor. Pyarelal is working on papers with him but grins at this. BOURKE-WHITE Don't worry, with luck you may not be. And she shoots him again, as he hands the cloth back to Manu. Abha is sitting next to Manu, looking at a collection of pictures of Gandhi, obviously Bourke-White's. PATEL No, he'll be remembered for tempting fate. It is wry, but waspishly chiding. Abha suddenly holds a picture up for Gandhi to see. It's one of him, ears wide, eyes round. ABHA Mickey Mouse. Gandhi taps her on the head with his finger as she smiles. But Bourke-White has looked from Patel to Gandhi, clearly shaken by the implication in Patel's words. BOURKE-WHITE You really are going to Pakistan, then? (Gandhi shrugs, and she chides too) You are a stubborn man. GANDHI (a grin, in the mood of their "flirtation") I'm simply going to prove to Muslims there, and Hindus here, that the only devils in the world are those running around in our own hearts -- and that's where all our battles ought to be fought. Abha has signaled to the cheap watch dangling from his dhoti. He glances at it, and holds his arms out. The two girls help him. BOURKE-WHITE And what kind of a warrior have you been in that warfare? She is photographing his getting-up and leaning on the two girls. GANDHI Not a very good one. That's why I have so much tolerance for the other scoundrels of the world. He moves off, but has a sudden thought and turns to Patel. GANDHI Ask Panditji to -- to consider what we've discussed. Patel nods soberly and Gandhi starts for the door, Bourke- White moving with him. GANDHI (of the photographs) Enough. BOURKE-WHITE (a plea) One more. He has passed her, he's in the doorway. We see the crowd at the end of the garden, where the light of the day is beginning to soften. He turns, teasing in his slightly flirtatious way with women. GANDHI You're a temptress. She shoots him against the door -- the crowd milling distantly, waiting -- then she lowers her camera. BOURKE-WHITE Just an admirer... GANDHI Nothing's more dangerous, especially for an old man. He turns; the last words have betrayed the smile on his face; they have a painful sense of truth about them. Bourke-White watches as he moves into the garden toward the crowd in the distance. She turns to Mirabehn. BOURKE-WHITE There's a sadness in him. It's an observation -- and a question. Mirabehn accedes gravely. MIRABEHN He thinks he's failed. Bourke-White stares at her, then turns to look out at him. BOURKE-WHITE Why? My God, if anything's proved him right, it's what's happened these last months... Mirabehn nods, but she keeps on spinning and tries to sound cynically resigned but her innate emotionalism keeps breaking through in her voice and on her face. MIRABEHN I am blinded by my love of him, but I think when we most needed it, he offered the world a way out of madness. But he doesn't see it... and neither does the world. It is laced with pain. Bourke-White turns and looks out at Gandhi -- so tiny, so weak as he walks between his "props." He has now reached the end of the garden and is moving among the crowd assembled there. THE GARDEN - BIRLA HOUSE - EXTERIOR - TWILIGHT Gandhi is moving forward in the crowd, one hand resting on Manu, the other on Abha. He makes the pranam to someone, the crowd is bowing to him, some speaking, and we also see the crowd from his point of view -- "Bapu," "God bless you," "Thank you -- thank you." He turns to a very old woman, who makes a salaam to him. Gandhi touches her head. GANDHI Allah be with you. Smiling, he turns back. A jostling, the sound of beads falling. MANU (to someone) Brother, Bapu is already late for prayers. Gandhi turns to the person; he makes the pranam. Full shot. Godse is making the pranam to him and he suddenly, wildly draws his gun and fires. The camera closes on Gandhi as he staggers and falls, the red stain of blood seeping through his white shawl. GANDHI Oh, God... oh, God... Manu and Abha bend over him, silent in their first shock. The sound of panic and alarm begins to grow around them, they suddenly scream and begin to cry. MANU/ABHA Bapu! Bapu! FUNERAL PYRE - EXTERIOR - DAY Blackness. Silence. A moment -- we sense the blackness moving -- like dark smoke. The camera is pulling back very slowly and we can tell the blackness is smoke rising from a fire. And now we see that it is a funeral pyre. And all around that pyre a mass of silent humanity. Through the smoke, sitting cross-legged near the rim of the flames, we see Nehru... and Azad and Patel, Mirabehn and Kallenbach, the drawn faces of Lord and Lady Mountbatten, Manu and Abha... THE RIVER - EXTERIOR - DAY A helicopter shot coming slowly up the wide river, low, toward a barge and a mass of people in the distance. And now we are over the barge, and it is covered with flowers. Flowers flow downstream around it. An urn sits on it -- containing Gandhi's ashes -- and Nehru stands near it,

trouves

How many times the word 'trouves' appears in the text?

with them now the giant figure of Abdul Ghaffar Khan, the first time we have seen him among Gandhi's intimate group. NEHRU In Calcutta it's like civil war. The Muslims rose and there was a bloodbath, and now the Hindus are taking revenge -- and if we can't stop it there'll be no hope for the Hindus left in Pakistan. PATEL ...an eye for an eye making the whole world blind. It is an empty and despairing echo of Gandhi's words. AZAD Aren't there any troops to spare? NEHRU (tense, fragile) Nothing -- nothing. The divisions in Bombay and Delhi can hardly keep the peace now. And each fresh bit of news creates another wave of mad... ness. He has turned and seen Gandhi standing slowly. It has almost stopped him. PATEL Could we cut all news off? I know -- NEHRU Bapu -- please. Where are you going. GANDHI (sounding like an old man) I don't want to hear more... He is moving toward the door. It stops them all. Pyarelal moves tentatively to open the door. PATEL (impatiently) We need your help! GANDHI There is nothing I can give. AZAD Where are you going? Gandhi turns, looks at him bleakly. GANDHI Calcutta. CALCUTTA - EXTERIOR - NIGHT We are high. There are fires, the sounds of spasmodic gunfire, of looting, screams, the roar of police vehicles and occasional sirens. The camera zooms in on a poor quarter of artisan dwellings in narrow streets. Outside one of the houses is a car, an army jeep, policemen, a few soldiers and a group of people. It seems a little island of calm in a sea of wild chaos. On the roof of the house, a figure moves into the light. CLOSER - TAHIB'S ROOF The figure is Gandhi. He peers down at the dark, rioting streets. Azad, Tahib, a Muslim whose house this is, Mirabehn and Pyarelal are with him along Abdul Ghaffar Khan. A police commissioner moves to Gandhi's side, demanding his attention. POLICE COMMISSIONER Sir, please, I don't have the men to protect you -- not in a Muslim house. Not this quarter. GANDHI I am staying with the friend of a friend. There is a sudden commotion just below them and angry shouts: "Death to Muslims!," "Death to Muslims!" Gandhi peers down. His point of view. A surging gang of youths, many carrying torches, and far outnumbering the little group of police and soldiers, are shouting up at the roof. We see three or four black flags and stains of blood on many of them. A few hold knives still wet with blood. A YOUTH There he is! A feral roar goes up at the sight of Gandhi, but he stands unmoving. HINDU YOUTH LEADER (his voice emotional, tearful) Why are you staying at the home of a Muslim! They're murderers! They killed my family! Featuring Gandhi. It is a comment too grave for glibness, and Gandhi is obviously struck by the pain of it. He pauses for a moment, staring down at the youth: GANDHI Because forgiveness is the gift of the brave. He makes it mean the youth. For a second it makes an impact, but then the youth shouts his defiance at him and his message. YOUTH To hell with you, Gandhi!! An angry chorus of acclamation; when it dies GANDHI (to the youth) Go -- do as your mother and father would wish you to do. It is ambiguous, open-ended, meaning anything your mother and father would wish you to do. Tears flush from the boy's eyes and he stares at Gandhi with a kind of hopeless anguish and rage. But the impact is on the youth alone; around him the others begin to take up the chant "Death to Muslims!," "Death to Muslims!" Gandhi turns from the street. He looks at the police commissioner -- at his fatigue, his concern, his manifest respect. Gandhi musters a weary smile. GANDHI I have lived a lifetime. If I had shunned death -- or feared it -- I would not be here. Nor would you be concerned for me. (He lets it sink in then he takes the commissioner's arm and moves back toward the center of the roof.) Leave me -- and take your men. (An understanding touch of the arm.) You have more important things to worry about. The commissioner looks at him, uncertain, not knowing what to do, as the angry chanting continues above the sound of rioting. HOSPITAL - INTERIOR - DAY An old, inadequate hospital -- dark cavernous. Margaret Bourke- White is moving among the densely packed litter of wounded women. She is positioning herself to photograph Gandhi, who is speaking to a woman who cradles a small baby. The corridors behind him are even more packed. The few doctors and nurses hardly have room to move. Featuring Gandhi. Azad and Mirabehn are behind him as he moves on, and behind them, like a giant guardian, Abdul Ghaffar Khan. We hear "Bapu, Bapu" muttered quietly here and there. Gandhi bends to a woman whose face is bandaged and a cruel wound is half-exposed between her mouth and eye. WOMAN Bapu... Allah be with you... There are tears in Gandhi's eyes now. GANDHI And with you. (He touches her wrinkled hand.) Pray... I cannot help you -- pray... pray. And the weight of his helplessness hangs on him. CALCUTTA STREET - EXTERIOR - DAY A streetcar (tram) crashes into a barricade of carts, rickshaws, a couple of old cars, smashing through to breach the barricade, but stopped in the end by the mass of debris. The streetcar is loaded with Indian troops and they break from the stalled vehicle to chase A gang of Hindus -- organized -- runs down the street from the troops, some dragging the bodies of victims with them. We see several Hindu black flags. NEHRU'S OFFICE - INTERIOR - NIGHT He speaks across his desk to a senior police commissioner. The same activity going on in the background. NEHRU (angrily) No! There will not be a Hindu Police and a Muslim Police. There is one police! An aide slips a newspaper on his desk in front of him. He doesn't look at it till the senior commissioner lowers his head and turns, accepting defeat. Then Nehru glances at the paper. In thick headlines: GANDHI: A FAST UNTO DEATH! Nehru doesn't move for a moment. Then he lifts his face slowly to his aide. NEHRU Why must I read news like this in the paper? The aide shakes his head -- there's no answer. Nehru lowers his head again; it is like another burden on a man who already has too many. He grips his temples... a terrible sigh. NEHRU Tell Patel. Arrange a plane. We will go -- Friday. THE AIDE Four days? Nehru thinks on it solemnly, then nods yes. TAHIB'S HOUSE - EXTERIOR - DAY The sounds of rioting and looting on nearby streets, but here a mass of people are gathered. Many youths with black flags. Two black government limousines. Motorcycles. Police and soldiers. They are looking off to AN OUTSIDE STAIRCASE - TAHIB'S HOUSE It runs up the side of the building and is lined with waiting people. Nehru and Patel are climbing the stairs, moving past them almost irritably as they mutter "Nehru, Nehru," "Patel," and make the pranam to the eminent men. In the heat of the city Tahib's rooftop is still Gandhi's "home" and has become a center of activity. Azad clears someone aside and ushers Nehru and Patel under the canopy awning. Nehru pauses as he lowers his head. His point of view. Gandhi lies curled awkwardly on his side of the cot. He is writing, Pyarelal taking the pages as he finishes, both ignoring all the people, the sounds of gunfire and distant shouting, but he looks tired and tightens his jaw occasionally in pain. The camera pans. A doctor sits near the foot of the cot, Abdul Ghaffar Khan beyond him. Near the other edge of the canopied area, Mirabehn sits with Bourke-White. They are whispering quietly, but Mirabehn has stopped on seeing Nehru and she smiles a relieved greeting. She knows Gandhi's feeling for him. Bourke-White stares at him and Patel for a second and then her hand goes slowly, almost reflexively, for her camera. CLOSER ON GANDHI Nehru crosses and kneels so that he is almost at Gandhi's eyeline. Gandhi must take his eyes from his writing to look, and he is almost moved to tears at the sight of Nehru. His hand shakes a little as he holds it out to him. NEHRU Bapu... Gandhi turns to pat their joined hands with his other hand. He does so with effort, and at last he sees Patel. GANDHI Sardar... (He looks him over.) You have gained weight. You must join me in the fast. Patel sits near the head of the cot so the three of them are on a level. Outside the canopied area, Bourke-White is crouched, her camera framing the three of them. PATEL (wittily, warmly) If I fast I die. If you fast people go to all sorts of trouble to keep you alive. Gandhi smiles and reaches to touch hands with him. NEHRU Bapu, forgive me -- I've cheated. I could have come earlier. But your fast has helped. These last days people's minds have begun to turn to this bed -- and away from last night's atrocity. But now it is enough. Gandhi shakes his head. GANDHI All that has happened is that I've grown a little thinner. It is despairingly sincere. But Nehru feels he has an antidote for that despair. The distant sound of an explosion. NEHRU Tomorrow five thousand Muslim students of all ages are marching here in Calcutta -- for peace. (The real point) And five thousand Hindu students are marching with them. It is all organized. Bourke-White captures the sense of elation in his face. From her discreet distance, she lowers the camera, holding it against her mouth, waiting for Gandhi's response. Gandhi nods to Nehru, accepting the news with a sad wistfulness. GANDHI I'm glad -- but it will not be enough. Nehru isn't prepared for this resistance. He glances at Patel, and we see that they recognize that their bland conviction that they could talk him out of the fast was deeply misplaced. Nehru turns back -- this time no confidence, only concern. A forced smile. NEHRU Bapu, you are not so young anymore. Gandhi smiles, pain etched in his eyes. He touches Nehru's hand. GANDHI Don't worry for me -- death will be a deliverance. (There is water in his eyes, but his words have the weight of a man truly determined to die.) I cannot watch the destruction of all I have lived for. Nehru stares at him, feeling the sudden fear that Gandhi means it. Patel, Mirabehn, Azad, Bourke-White are gripped by the same realization. TAHIB'S HOUSE - EXTERIOR - NIGHT An outside broadcast truck is parked among the usual crowd, grown even larger now, and more women among them. The sounds of distant fighting. TAHIB'S ROOF - EXTERIOR - NIGHT The senior technician, in earphones, signals across to Mirabehn. She holds a microphone by Gandhi, who is lying on his side. He seems almost out of touch. MIRABEHN Bapu... Gandhi looks at her, and then the microphone. When he speaks into the microphone his voice is very weak. GANDHI Each night before I sleep, I read a few words from the Gita and the Koran, and the Bible... (we intercut with Bourke-White and those on the roof watching) tonight I ask you to share these thoughts of God with me. And now we go into the streets, intercutting with Gandhi but seeing Hindus listening around loudspeakers on corners, in little eating houses, Muslim shops where people live in the back, and neighbors gathering defensively in groups. GANDHI (the books are there, but he does it from memory of course) I will begin with the Bible where the words of the Lord are, "Love thy neighbor as thyself"... and then our beloved Gita which says, "The world is a garment worn by God, thy neighbor is in truth thyself"... and finally the Holy Koran, "We shall remove all hatred from our hearts and recline on couches face to face, a band of brothers." He leans back, exhausted. Mirabehn is looking at him; she starts to sing softly. MIRABEHN "Lead Kindly Light, amidst the circling gloom..." Gandhi, his eyes closed, takes it up in his weak, croaking voice. GANDHI/MIRABEHN "The night is dark, and I am far from home, Lead thou me on..." TAHIB'S HOUSE - EXTERIOR - DAY Two police motorcycles lead a black limousine to a stop before Tahib's house. The crowd now gathered is very large. More mixed than before but still predominantly of youths, many still with black flags. Nehru gets out of the limousine with a Muslim leader, a tough- looking man who carries himself with the authority and power of a mobster (Suhrawardy). And they start to go up the outside stairs. Suddenly we hear the shout "Death to Gandhi!," "Death to Gandhi!" And Nehru turns, pushing past Suhrawardy fiercely and going back onto the street. He runs at the crowd, where the shout comes once more from the back. His face is wild with anger and shock. NEHRU (hysterically) Who dares say such things! Who?! (And he is running at them and they spread in fear.) Come! Kill me first! Come! Where are you?! Kill me first! The crowd has spread from him all along the street; they stand against the walls of the houses staring at him, terrified to move. We see, just in passing, the frightened, apprehensive faces of Godse, and near him, Apte and Karkare. Nehru stands, staring at them all, his face seething with anger. TAHIB'S ROOF - EXTERIOR - DAY We are featuring a copy of Life Magazine. On the cover is a picture of rioting men fighting and diagonally a cut-out of Gandhi lying on his cot. The caption reads: "An Old Man's Battle." As the magazine starts to be opened, it is suddenly put to one side. Another angle. Mirabehn is rising, leaving the magazine at her feet. She moves to Nehru and Suhrawardy as Azad ushers them into the canopied area. Abdul Ghaffar Khan sits quietly in the background. Mirabehn speaks softly. MIRABEHN His pulse is very irregular -- the kidneys aren't functioning. Nehru looks across at Gandhi. The doctor, who is testing Gandhi's pulse yet again, glances at him -- no encouragement -- and moves away. Nehru moves to the side of the cot and Gandhi smiles weakly and holds out a hand, but he is in pain. NEHRU Bapu, I have brought Mr. Suhrawardy. It was he who called on the Muslims to rise; he is telling them now to go back to their homes, to lay down their arms. Gandhi looks up at Suhrawardy, who nods. Gandhi looks back at Nehru. There is no hint of him changing his mind. NEHRU (personally) Think what you can do by living -- that you cannot do by dying. Gandhi smiles whimsically, he touches him again but there is no change in his attitude. NEHRU (pleadingly) What do you want? GANDHI (a moment) That the fighting will stop -- that you make me believe it will never start again. Nehru looks at him hopelessly. SQUARE IN CALCUTTA - EXTERIOR - DAY A huge crowd, some smoke in distant buildings, some damage near to help us know this is still Calcutta, and all is not yet at peace. The camera sweeps over the crowd, past the loudspeakers on their poles. We see surly knots of belligerent rowdies, mostly young, but not all, hanging on the fringes as we move over the heads of the mass of listening people to a platform where Nehru speaks. Azad, Suhrawardy, and others sit on the floor behind him. We have heard his voice over all this. NEHRU ...Sometimes it is when you are quite without hope and in utter darkness that God comes to the rescue. Gandhiji is dying because of our madness. Put away your "revenge." What will be gained by more killing? Have the courage to do what you know is right. For God's sake, let us embrace like brothers... TAHIB'S ROOF - EXTERIOR - NIGHT Featuring the Muslim leader Suhrawardy, leaning against a wall, watching an action out of shot with evident tension. We hear a little clank of metal. Another angle. There are five men facing Gandhi. They wear black trousers and black knit vests. There are thongs around their arms that make their bulging muscles seem even more powerful. They are Hindu thugs (Goondas). Their clothes are dirty -- and they are too -- but they are laying knives and guns at Gandhi's feet. Mirabehn, Azad, Pyarelal, the doctor and others on the roof watch fascinated, a little frightened. GOONDA LEADER It is our promise. We stop. It is a promise. Gandhi is looking at him, testing, not giving or accepting anything that is mere gesture. GANDHI Go -- try -- God by with you. The Goondas stand. They glance at Suhrawardy; he smiles tautly and they start to leave, but one (Nahari) lingers. Suddenly he moves violently toward Gandhi, taking a flat piece of Indian bread (chapati) from his trousers and tossing it forcefully on Gandhi. NAHARI Eat. Mirabehn and Azad start to move toward him -- the man looks immensely strong and immensely unstable. But Gandhi holds up a shaking hand, stopping them. Nahari's face is knotted in emotion, half anger, half almost a child's fear -- but there is a wild menace in that instability. NAHARI Eat! I am going to hell -- but not with your death on my soul. GANDHI Only God decides who goes to hell... NAHARI (stiffening, aggressive) I -- I killed a child... (Then an anguished defiance) I smashed his head against a wall. Gandhi stares at him, breathless. GANDHI (in a fearful whisper) Why? Why? It is as though the man has told him of some terrible self- inflicted wound. NAHARI (tears now -- and wrath) They killed my son -- my boy! Almost reflexively he holds his hand out to indicate the height of his son. He glares at Suhrawardy and then back at Gandhi. NAHARI The Muslims killed my son... they killed him. He is sobbing, but in his anger it seems almost as though he means to kill Gandhi in retaliation. A long moment, as Gandhi meets his pain and wrath. Then GANDHI I know a way out of hell. Nahari sneers, but there is just a flicker of desperate curiosity. GANDHI Find a child -- a child whose mother and father have been killed. A little boy -- about this high. He raises his hand to the height Nahari has indicated as his son's. GANDHI ...and raise him -- as your own. Nahari has listened. His face almost cracks -- it is a chink of light, but it does not illumine his darkness. GANDHI Only be sure... that he is a Muslim. And that you raise him as one. And now the light falls on Nahari. His face stiffens, he swallows, fighting any show of emotion; then he turns to go. But he takes only a step and he turns back, going to his knees, the sobs breaking again and again from his heaving body as he holds his head to Gandhi's feet in the traditional greeting of Hindu son to Hindu father. A second, and Gandhi reaches out and touches the top of his head. Mirabehn watches. The Goondas watch. Suhrawardy watches. Finally GANDHI (gently, exhaustedly) Go -- go. God bless you... COURTYARD - POLICE STATION - CALCUTTA - EXTERIOR - NIGHT Trucks with riot squads (shields and truncheons) in place, but they are lounging, waiting. There is silence, and air of somnolence. Some of the riot squad lounge in little groups around the courtyard. A distant cough. Featuring a senior riot squad officer dressed and ready for action. He it is who coughed. He coughs again, clearing his throat. A police sergeant stands by him, both are reading the front page of a paper the senior riot squad officer holds. We see two huge lines of headline: GANDHI NEAR DEATH/NEHRU GOES ON FAST. In one of the trucks one of the men offers another a cigarette. A telephone rings sharply, inside. The senior riot squad officer and the sergeant run in as engines start; the men run to their places, lower visors, headlights go on! POLICE STATION OFFICE - INTERIOR - DAY A constable mans the telephone. He listens as the senior riot squad officer and the sergeant run to him tensely. The sound of the great doors opening in the courtyard, more engines revving up. CONSTABLE Yes, sir, yes, sir, (He holds up his hand to the senior officer) "Wait." He glances up at the senior riot squad officer. CONSTABLE (writing, from the phone) Accident, "Christie crossroads," a lorry and a rickshaw. Yes, sir, I have it. He shrugs at the senior riot squad officer and hands the information slip to another constable behind the desk. The sergeant sighs, and moves to the outside door. We hear him bellow, "Stand down." The constable hangs up and sighs heavily. The senior riot squad officer shakes his head, and turns and walks slowly to the door. COURTYARD - POLICE STATION - EXTERIOR - NIGHT The senior riot squad officer and the sergeant stand in the doorway as the engines die. The men relax... the silence returns. A dog barks distantly, disturbed by the noise... A bird caws once or twice. SERGEANT I wouldn't have believed it, Mr. Gupta. SENIOR OFFICER Sergeant, it's a bloody miracle... HIGH SHOT - CALCUTTA - EXTERIOR - NIGHT It lies in silence. TAHIB'S ROOF - EXTERIOR - DAY Mirabehn is bent over Gandhi. He is curled almost in the fetal position, his face looking wan and sunken. For the first time there is silence, no explosions, no distant shouts, no gunfire. MIRABEHN Bapu, there's been no fighting -- anywhere. It has stopped -- the madness has stopped. We see the police commissioner, Suhrawardy, two doctors, Abdul Ghaffar Khan, and some others. Nearer Gandhi, behind Mirabehn, are Nehru, Patel, Azad and Pyarelal. Gandhi turns to Mirabehn, his face shaking, peering into her eyes. GANDHI It is foolish if it is just to save the life of an old man. MIRABEHN No... no. In every temple and mosque they have pledged to die before they lift a hand against each other. His weary eyes look at her; he looks up slowly to Azad. Azad nods "It's true." Then Patel PATEL Everywhere. Gandhi looks at Nehru. Nehru just nods tautly. Gandhi looks down, then lifts his head to Azad. GANDHI Maulana, my friend, could I have some orange juice... Then you and I will take a piece of bread together... The relief brings water to their eyes and grins to their faces. Nehru bends to Gandhi. Gandhi holds his hand out to him, and Nehru clutches it. Then NEHRU You see, Bapu, it is not difficult. I have fasted only a few hours and I accomplished what you could not do in as many days. It is a joke in their way with each other and Gandhi's eyes light, his smile comes. But it is tired. He puts his other hand over Nehru's and Nehru lowers his head to it, crying silently. BIRLA HOUSE - EXTERIOR - DAY As in the opening sequence -- but a few minutes earlier. The crowd is beginning to gather for the evening prayers. We see a tonga or two, a gardener opening the gate to the garden, three policemen standing, talking idly among themselves. BIRLA HOUSE - INTERIOR - DAY Laughter. Gandhi is eating muli; he holds his head back to capture the lemon juice. We hear the click of a camera GANDHI That is how you eat muli. Manu hands him a cloth and he wipes his hands. Another click of a camera. He is not fully recovered, but well on the way. GANDHI (to the photographer) I'm not sure I want to be remembered that way. It is all light and for fun. We get a wide-angle shot now and see that Bourke-White is shooting one of her favorite subjects again. She is enjoying the banter, as is Mirabehn, who is spinning quietly to one side of the room, and Patel, who sits cross-legged like Gandhi on the floor. Pyarelal is working on papers with him but grins at this. BOURKE-WHITE Don't worry, with luck you may not be. And she shoots him again, as he hands the cloth back to Manu. Abha is sitting next to Manu, looking at a collection of pictures of Gandhi, obviously Bourke-White's. PATEL No, he'll be remembered for tempting fate. It is wry, but waspishly chiding. Abha suddenly holds a picture up for Gandhi to see. It's one of him, ears wide, eyes round. ABHA Mickey Mouse. Gandhi taps her on the head with his finger as she smiles. But Bourke-White has looked from Patel to Gandhi, clearly shaken by the implication in Patel's words. BOURKE-WHITE You really are going to Pakistan, then? (Gandhi shrugs, and she chides too) You are a stubborn man. GANDHI (a grin, in the mood of their "flirtation") I'm simply going to prove to Muslims there, and Hindus here, that the only devils in the world are those running around in our own hearts -- and that's where all our battles ought to be fought. Abha has signaled to the cheap watch dangling from his dhoti. He glances at it, and holds his arms out. The two girls help him. BOURKE-WHITE And what kind of a warrior have you been in that warfare? She is photographing his getting-up and leaning on the two girls. GANDHI Not a very good one. That's why I have so much tolerance for the other scoundrels of the world. He moves off, but has a sudden thought and turns to Patel. GANDHI Ask Panditji to -- to consider what we've discussed. Patel nods soberly and Gandhi starts for the door, Bourke- White moving with him. GANDHI (of the photographs) Enough. BOURKE-WHITE (a plea) One more. He has passed her, he's in the doorway. We see the crowd at the end of the garden, where the light of the day is beginning to soften. He turns, teasing in his slightly flirtatious way with women. GANDHI You're a temptress. She shoots him against the door -- the crowd milling distantly, waiting -- then she lowers her camera. BOURKE-WHITE Just an admirer... GANDHI Nothing's more dangerous, especially for an old man. He turns; the last words have betrayed the smile on his face; they have a painful sense of truth about them. Bourke-White watches as he moves into the garden toward the crowd in the distance. She turns to Mirabehn. BOURKE-WHITE There's a sadness in him. It's an observation -- and a question. Mirabehn accedes gravely. MIRABEHN He thinks he's failed. Bourke-White stares at her, then turns to look out at him. BOURKE-WHITE Why? My God, if anything's proved him right, it's what's happened these last months... Mirabehn nods, but she keeps on spinning and tries to sound cynically resigned but her innate emotionalism keeps breaking through in her voice and on her face. MIRABEHN I am blinded by my love of him, but I think when we most needed it, he offered the world a way out of madness. But he doesn't see it... and neither does the world. It is laced with pain. Bourke-White turns and looks out at Gandhi -- so tiny, so weak as he walks between his "props." He has now reached the end of the garden and is moving among the crowd assembled there. THE GARDEN - BIRLA HOUSE - EXTERIOR - TWILIGHT Gandhi is moving forward in the crowd, one hand resting on Manu, the other on Abha. He makes the pranam to someone, the crowd is bowing to him, some speaking, and we also see the crowd from his point of view -- "Bapu," "God bless you," "Thank you -- thank you." He turns to a very old woman, who makes a salaam to him. Gandhi touches her head. GANDHI Allah be with you. Smiling, he turns back. A jostling, the sound of beads falling. MANU (to someone) Brother, Bapu is already late for prayers. Gandhi turns to the person; he makes the pranam. Full shot. Godse is making the pranam to him and he suddenly, wildly draws his gun and fires. The camera closes on Gandhi as he staggers and falls, the red stain of blood seeping through his white shawl. GANDHI Oh, God... oh, God... Manu and Abha bend over him, silent in their first shock. The sound of panic and alarm begins to grow around them, they suddenly scream and begin to cry. MANU/ABHA Bapu! Bapu! FUNERAL PYRE - EXTERIOR - DAY Blackness. Silence. A moment -- we sense the blackness moving -- like dark smoke. The camera is pulling back very slowly and we can tell the blackness is smoke rising from a fire. And now we see that it is a funeral pyre. And all around that pyre a mass of silent humanity. Through the smoke, sitting cross-legged near the rim of the flames, we see Nehru... and Azad and Patel, Mirabehn and Kallenbach, the drawn faces of Lord and Lady Mountbatten, Manu and Abha... THE RIVER - EXTERIOR - DAY A helicopter shot coming slowly up the wide river, low, toward a barge and a mass of people in the distance. And now we are over the barge, and it is covered with flowers. Flowers flow downstream around it. An urn sits on it -- containing Gandhi's ashes -- and Nehru stands near it,

entre

How many times the word 'entre' appears in the text?

with them now the giant figure of Abdul Ghaffar Khan, the first time we have seen him among Gandhi's intimate group. NEHRU In Calcutta it's like civil war. The Muslims rose and there was a bloodbath, and now the Hindus are taking revenge -- and if we can't stop it there'll be no hope for the Hindus left in Pakistan. PATEL ...an eye for an eye making the whole world blind. It is an empty and despairing echo of Gandhi's words. AZAD Aren't there any troops to spare? NEHRU (tense, fragile) Nothing -- nothing. The divisions in Bombay and Delhi can hardly keep the peace now. And each fresh bit of news creates another wave of mad... ness. He has turned and seen Gandhi standing slowly. It has almost stopped him. PATEL Could we cut all news off? I know -- NEHRU Bapu -- please. Where are you going. GANDHI (sounding like an old man) I don't want to hear more... He is moving toward the door. It stops them all. Pyarelal moves tentatively to open the door. PATEL (impatiently) We need your help! GANDHI There is nothing I can give. AZAD Where are you going? Gandhi turns, looks at him bleakly. GANDHI Calcutta. CALCUTTA - EXTERIOR - NIGHT We are high. There are fires, the sounds of spasmodic gunfire, of looting, screams, the roar of police vehicles and occasional sirens. The camera zooms in on a poor quarter of artisan dwellings in narrow streets. Outside one of the houses is a car, an army jeep, policemen, a few soldiers and a group of people. It seems a little island of calm in a sea of wild chaos. On the roof of the house, a figure moves into the light. CLOSER - TAHIB'S ROOF The figure is Gandhi. He peers down at the dark, rioting streets. Azad, Tahib, a Muslim whose house this is, Mirabehn and Pyarelal are with him along Abdul Ghaffar Khan. A police commissioner moves to Gandhi's side, demanding his attention. POLICE COMMISSIONER Sir, please, I don't have the men to protect you -- not in a Muslim house. Not this quarter. GANDHI I am staying with the friend of a friend. There is a sudden commotion just below them and angry shouts: "Death to Muslims!," "Death to Muslims!" Gandhi peers down. His point of view. A surging gang of youths, many carrying torches, and far outnumbering the little group of police and soldiers, are shouting up at the roof. We see three or four black flags and stains of blood on many of them. A few hold knives still wet with blood. A YOUTH There he is! A feral roar goes up at the sight of Gandhi, but he stands unmoving. HINDU YOUTH LEADER (his voice emotional, tearful) Why are you staying at the home of a Muslim! They're murderers! They killed my family! Featuring Gandhi. It is a comment too grave for glibness, and Gandhi is obviously struck by the pain of it. He pauses for a moment, staring down at the youth: GANDHI Because forgiveness is the gift of the brave. He makes it mean the youth. For a second it makes an impact, but then the youth shouts his defiance at him and his message. YOUTH To hell with you, Gandhi!! An angry chorus of acclamation; when it dies GANDHI (to the youth) Go -- do as your mother and father would wish you to do. It is ambiguous, open-ended, meaning anything your mother and father would wish you to do. Tears flush from the boy's eyes and he stares at Gandhi with a kind of hopeless anguish and rage. But the impact is on the youth alone; around him the others begin to take up the chant "Death to Muslims!," "Death to Muslims!" Gandhi turns from the street. He looks at the police commissioner -- at his fatigue, his concern, his manifest respect. Gandhi musters a weary smile. GANDHI I have lived a lifetime. If I had shunned death -- or feared it -- I would not be here. Nor would you be concerned for me. (He lets it sink in then he takes the commissioner's arm and moves back toward the center of the roof.) Leave me -- and take your men. (An understanding touch of the arm.) You have more important things to worry about. The commissioner looks at him, uncertain, not knowing what to do, as the angry chanting continues above the sound of rioting. HOSPITAL - INTERIOR - DAY An old, inadequate hospital -- dark cavernous. Margaret Bourke- White is moving among the densely packed litter of wounded women. She is positioning herself to photograph Gandhi, who is speaking to a woman who cradles a small baby. The corridors behind him are even more packed. The few doctors and nurses hardly have room to move. Featuring Gandhi. Azad and Mirabehn are behind him as he moves on, and behind them, like a giant guardian, Abdul Ghaffar Khan. We hear "Bapu, Bapu" muttered quietly here and there. Gandhi bends to a woman whose face is bandaged and a cruel wound is half-exposed between her mouth and eye. WOMAN Bapu... Allah be with you... There are tears in Gandhi's eyes now. GANDHI And with you. (He touches her wrinkled hand.) Pray... I cannot help you -- pray... pray. And the weight of his helplessness hangs on him. CALCUTTA STREET - EXTERIOR - DAY A streetcar (tram) crashes into a barricade of carts, rickshaws, a couple of old cars, smashing through to breach the barricade, but stopped in the end by the mass of debris. The streetcar is loaded with Indian troops and they break from the stalled vehicle to chase A gang of Hindus -- organized -- runs down the street from the troops, some dragging the bodies of victims with them. We see several Hindu black flags. NEHRU'S OFFICE - INTERIOR - NIGHT He speaks across his desk to a senior police commissioner. The same activity going on in the background. NEHRU (angrily) No! There will not be a Hindu Police and a Muslim Police. There is one police! An aide slips a newspaper on his desk in front of him. He doesn't look at it till the senior commissioner lowers his head and turns, accepting defeat. Then Nehru glances at the paper. In thick headlines: GANDHI: A FAST UNTO DEATH! Nehru doesn't move for a moment. Then he lifts his face slowly to his aide. NEHRU Why must I read news like this in the paper? The aide shakes his head -- there's no answer. Nehru lowers his head again; it is like another burden on a man who already has too many. He grips his temples... a terrible sigh. NEHRU Tell Patel. Arrange a plane. We will go -- Friday. THE AIDE Four days? Nehru thinks on it solemnly, then nods yes. TAHIB'S HOUSE - EXTERIOR - DAY The sounds of rioting and looting on nearby streets, but here a mass of people are gathered. Many youths with black flags. Two black government limousines. Motorcycles. Police and soldiers. They are looking off to AN OUTSIDE STAIRCASE - TAHIB'S HOUSE It runs up the side of the building and is lined with waiting people. Nehru and Patel are climbing the stairs, moving past them almost irritably as they mutter "Nehru, Nehru," "Patel," and make the pranam to the eminent men. In the heat of the city Tahib's rooftop is still Gandhi's "home" and has become a center of activity. Azad clears someone aside and ushers Nehru and Patel under the canopy awning. Nehru pauses as he lowers his head. His point of view. Gandhi lies curled awkwardly on his side of the cot. He is writing, Pyarelal taking the pages as he finishes, both ignoring all the people, the sounds of gunfire and distant shouting, but he looks tired and tightens his jaw occasionally in pain. The camera pans. A doctor sits near the foot of the cot, Abdul Ghaffar Khan beyond him. Near the other edge of the canopied area, Mirabehn sits with Bourke-White. They are whispering quietly, but Mirabehn has stopped on seeing Nehru and she smiles a relieved greeting. She knows Gandhi's feeling for him. Bourke-White stares at him and Patel for a second and then her hand goes slowly, almost reflexively, for her camera. CLOSER ON GANDHI Nehru crosses and kneels so that he is almost at Gandhi's eyeline. Gandhi must take his eyes from his writing to look, and he is almost moved to tears at the sight of Nehru. His hand shakes a little as he holds it out to him. NEHRU Bapu... Gandhi turns to pat their joined hands with his other hand. He does so with effort, and at last he sees Patel. GANDHI Sardar... (He looks him over.) You have gained weight. You must join me in the fast. Patel sits near the head of the cot so the three of them are on a level. Outside the canopied area, Bourke-White is crouched, her camera framing the three of them. PATEL (wittily, warmly) If I fast I die. If you fast people go to all sorts of trouble to keep you alive. Gandhi smiles and reaches to touch hands with him. NEHRU Bapu, forgive me -- I've cheated. I could have come earlier. But your fast has helped. These last days people's minds have begun to turn to this bed -- and away from last night's atrocity. But now it is enough. Gandhi shakes his head. GANDHI All that has happened is that I've grown a little thinner. It is despairingly sincere. But Nehru feels he has an antidote for that despair. The distant sound of an explosion. NEHRU Tomorrow five thousand Muslim students of all ages are marching here in Calcutta -- for peace. (The real point) And five thousand Hindu students are marching with them. It is all organized. Bourke-White captures the sense of elation in his face. From her discreet distance, she lowers the camera, holding it against her mouth, waiting for Gandhi's response. Gandhi nods to Nehru, accepting the news with a sad wistfulness. GANDHI I'm glad -- but it will not be enough. Nehru isn't prepared for this resistance. He glances at Patel, and we see that they recognize that their bland conviction that they could talk him out of the fast was deeply misplaced. Nehru turns back -- this time no confidence, only concern. A forced smile. NEHRU Bapu, you are not so young anymore. Gandhi smiles, pain etched in his eyes. He touches Nehru's hand. GANDHI Don't worry for me -- death will be a deliverance. (There is water in his eyes, but his words have the weight of a man truly determined to die.) I cannot watch the destruction of all I have lived for. Nehru stares at him, feeling the sudden fear that Gandhi means it. Patel, Mirabehn, Azad, Bourke-White are gripped by the same realization. TAHIB'S HOUSE - EXTERIOR - NIGHT An outside broadcast truck is parked among the usual crowd, grown even larger now, and more women among them. The sounds of distant fighting. TAHIB'S ROOF - EXTERIOR - NIGHT The senior technician, in earphones, signals across to Mirabehn. She holds a microphone by Gandhi, who is lying on his side. He seems almost out of touch. MIRABEHN Bapu... Gandhi looks at her, and then the microphone. When he speaks into the microphone his voice is very weak. GANDHI Each night before I sleep, I read a few words from the Gita and the Koran, and the Bible... (we intercut with Bourke-White and those on the roof watching) tonight I ask you to share these thoughts of God with me. And now we go into the streets, intercutting with Gandhi but seeing Hindus listening around loudspeakers on corners, in little eating houses, Muslim shops where people live in the back, and neighbors gathering defensively in groups. GANDHI (the books are there, but he does it from memory of course) I will begin with the Bible where the words of the Lord are, "Love thy neighbor as thyself"... and then our beloved Gita which says, "The world is a garment worn by God, thy neighbor is in truth thyself"... and finally the Holy Koran, "We shall remove all hatred from our hearts and recline on couches face to face, a band of brothers." He leans back, exhausted. Mirabehn is looking at him; she starts to sing softly. MIRABEHN "Lead Kindly Light, amidst the circling gloom..." Gandhi, his eyes closed, takes it up in his weak, croaking voice. GANDHI/MIRABEHN "The night is dark, and I am far from home, Lead thou me on..." TAHIB'S HOUSE - EXTERIOR - DAY Two police motorcycles lead a black limousine to a stop before Tahib's house. The crowd now gathered is very large. More mixed than before but still predominantly of youths, many still with black flags. Nehru gets out of the limousine with a Muslim leader, a tough- looking man who carries himself with the authority and power of a mobster (Suhrawardy). And they start to go up the outside stairs. Suddenly we hear the shout "Death to Gandhi!," "Death to Gandhi!" And Nehru turns, pushing past Suhrawardy fiercely and going back onto the street. He runs at the crowd, where the shout comes once more from the back. His face is wild with anger and shock. NEHRU (hysterically) Who dares say such things! Who?! (And he is running at them and they spread in fear.) Come! Kill me first! Come! Where are you?! Kill me first! The crowd has spread from him all along the street; they stand against the walls of the houses staring at him, terrified to move. We see, just in passing, the frightened, apprehensive faces of Godse, and near him, Apte and Karkare. Nehru stands, staring at them all, his face seething with anger. TAHIB'S ROOF - EXTERIOR - DAY We are featuring a copy of Life Magazine. On the cover is a picture of rioting men fighting and diagonally a cut-out of Gandhi lying on his cot. The caption reads: "An Old Man's Battle." As the magazine starts to be opened, it is suddenly put to one side. Another angle. Mirabehn is rising, leaving the magazine at her feet. She moves to Nehru and Suhrawardy as Azad ushers them into the canopied area. Abdul Ghaffar Khan sits quietly in the background. Mirabehn speaks softly. MIRABEHN His pulse is very irregular -- the kidneys aren't functioning. Nehru looks across at Gandhi. The doctor, who is testing Gandhi's pulse yet again, glances at him -- no encouragement -- and moves away. Nehru moves to the side of the cot and Gandhi smiles weakly and holds out a hand, but he is in pain. NEHRU Bapu, I have brought Mr. Suhrawardy. It was he who called on the Muslims to rise; he is telling them now to go back to their homes, to lay down their arms. Gandhi looks up at Suhrawardy, who nods. Gandhi looks back at Nehru. There is no hint of him changing his mind. NEHRU (personally) Think what you can do by living -- that you cannot do by dying. Gandhi smiles whimsically, he touches him again but there is no change in his attitude. NEHRU (pleadingly) What do you want? GANDHI (a moment) That the fighting will stop -- that you make me believe it will never start again. Nehru looks at him hopelessly. SQUARE IN CALCUTTA - EXTERIOR - DAY A huge crowd, some smoke in distant buildings, some damage near to help us know this is still Calcutta, and all is not yet at peace. The camera sweeps over the crowd, past the loudspeakers on their poles. We see surly knots of belligerent rowdies, mostly young, but not all, hanging on the fringes as we move over the heads of the mass of listening people to a platform where Nehru speaks. Azad, Suhrawardy, and others sit on the floor behind him. We have heard his voice over all this. NEHRU ...Sometimes it is when you are quite without hope and in utter darkness that God comes to the rescue. Gandhiji is dying because of our madness. Put away your "revenge." What will be gained by more killing? Have the courage to do what you know is right. For God's sake, let us embrace like brothers... TAHIB'S ROOF - EXTERIOR - NIGHT Featuring the Muslim leader Suhrawardy, leaning against a wall, watching an action out of shot with evident tension. We hear a little clank of metal. Another angle. There are five men facing Gandhi. They wear black trousers and black knit vests. There are thongs around their arms that make their bulging muscles seem even more powerful. They are Hindu thugs (Goondas). Their clothes are dirty -- and they are too -- but they are laying knives and guns at Gandhi's feet. Mirabehn, Azad, Pyarelal, the doctor and others on the roof watch fascinated, a little frightened. GOONDA LEADER It is our promise. We stop. It is a promise. Gandhi is looking at him, testing, not giving or accepting anything that is mere gesture. GANDHI Go -- try -- God by with you. The Goondas stand. They glance at Suhrawardy; he smiles tautly and they start to leave, but one (Nahari) lingers. Suddenly he moves violently toward Gandhi, taking a flat piece of Indian bread (chapati) from his trousers and tossing it forcefully on Gandhi. NAHARI Eat. Mirabehn and Azad start to move toward him -- the man looks immensely strong and immensely unstable. But Gandhi holds up a shaking hand, stopping them. Nahari's face is knotted in emotion, half anger, half almost a child's fear -- but there is a wild menace in that instability. NAHARI Eat! I am going to hell -- but not with your death on my soul. GANDHI Only God decides who goes to hell... NAHARI (stiffening, aggressive) I -- I killed a child... (Then an anguished defiance) I smashed his head against a wall. Gandhi stares at him, breathless. GANDHI (in a fearful whisper) Why? Why? It is as though the man has told him of some terrible self- inflicted wound. NAHARI (tears now -- and wrath) They killed my son -- my boy! Almost reflexively he holds his hand out to indicate the height of his son. He glares at Suhrawardy and then back at Gandhi. NAHARI The Muslims killed my son... they killed him. He is sobbing, but in his anger it seems almost as though he means to kill Gandhi in retaliation. A long moment, as Gandhi meets his pain and wrath. Then GANDHI I know a way out of hell. Nahari sneers, but there is just a flicker of desperate curiosity. GANDHI Find a child -- a child whose mother and father have been killed. A little boy -- about this high. He raises his hand to the height Nahari has indicated as his son's. GANDHI ...and raise him -- as your own. Nahari has listened. His face almost cracks -- it is a chink of light, but it does not illumine his darkness. GANDHI Only be sure... that he is a Muslim. And that you raise him as one. And now the light falls on Nahari. His face stiffens, he swallows, fighting any show of emotion; then he turns to go. But he takes only a step and he turns back, going to his knees, the sobs breaking again and again from his heaving body as he holds his head to Gandhi's feet in the traditional greeting of Hindu son to Hindu father. A second, and Gandhi reaches out and touches the top of his head. Mirabehn watches. The Goondas watch. Suhrawardy watches. Finally GANDHI (gently, exhaustedly) Go -- go. God bless you... COURTYARD - POLICE STATION - CALCUTTA - EXTERIOR - NIGHT Trucks with riot squads (shields and truncheons) in place, but they are lounging, waiting. There is silence, and air of somnolence. Some of the riot squad lounge in little groups around the courtyard. A distant cough. Featuring a senior riot squad officer dressed and ready for action. He it is who coughed. He coughs again, clearing his throat. A police sergeant stands by him, both are reading the front page of a paper the senior riot squad officer holds. We see two huge lines of headline: GANDHI NEAR DEATH/NEHRU GOES ON FAST. In one of the trucks one of the men offers another a cigarette. A telephone rings sharply, inside. The senior riot squad officer and the sergeant run in as engines start; the men run to their places, lower visors, headlights go on! POLICE STATION OFFICE - INTERIOR - DAY A constable mans the telephone. He listens as the senior riot squad officer and the sergeant run to him tensely. The sound of the great doors opening in the courtyard, more engines revving up. CONSTABLE Yes, sir, yes, sir, (He holds up his hand to the senior officer) "Wait." He glances up at the senior riot squad officer. CONSTABLE (writing, from the phone) Accident, "Christie crossroads," a lorry and a rickshaw. Yes, sir, I have it. He shrugs at the senior riot squad officer and hands the information slip to another constable behind the desk. The sergeant sighs, and moves to the outside door. We hear him bellow, "Stand down." The constable hangs up and sighs heavily. The senior riot squad officer shakes his head, and turns and walks slowly to the door. COURTYARD - POLICE STATION - EXTERIOR - NIGHT The senior riot squad officer and the sergeant stand in the doorway as the engines die. The men relax... the silence returns. A dog barks distantly, disturbed by the noise... A bird caws once or twice. SERGEANT I wouldn't have believed it, Mr. Gupta. SENIOR OFFICER Sergeant, it's a bloody miracle... HIGH SHOT - CALCUTTA - EXTERIOR - NIGHT It lies in silence. TAHIB'S ROOF - EXTERIOR - DAY Mirabehn is bent over Gandhi. He is curled almost in the fetal position, his face looking wan and sunken. For the first time there is silence, no explosions, no distant shouts, no gunfire. MIRABEHN Bapu, there's been no fighting -- anywhere. It has stopped -- the madness has stopped. We see the police commissioner, Suhrawardy, two doctors, Abdul Ghaffar Khan, and some others. Nearer Gandhi, behind Mirabehn, are Nehru, Patel, Azad and Pyarelal. Gandhi turns to Mirabehn, his face shaking, peering into her eyes. GANDHI It is foolish if it is just to save the life of an old man. MIRABEHN No... no. In every temple and mosque they have pledged to die before they lift a hand against each other. His weary eyes look at her; he looks up slowly to Azad. Azad nods "It's true." Then Patel PATEL Everywhere. Gandhi looks at Nehru. Nehru just nods tautly. Gandhi looks down, then lifts his head to Azad. GANDHI Maulana, my friend, could I have some orange juice... Then you and I will take a piece of bread together... The relief brings water to their eyes and grins to their faces. Nehru bends to Gandhi. Gandhi holds his hand out to him, and Nehru clutches it. Then NEHRU You see, Bapu, it is not difficult. I have fasted only a few hours and I accomplished what you could not do in as many days. It is a joke in their way with each other and Gandhi's eyes light, his smile comes. But it is tired. He puts his other hand over Nehru's and Nehru lowers his head to it, crying silently. BIRLA HOUSE - EXTERIOR - DAY As in the opening sequence -- but a few minutes earlier. The crowd is beginning to gather for the evening prayers. We see a tonga or two, a gardener opening the gate to the garden, three policemen standing, talking idly among themselves. BIRLA HOUSE - INTERIOR - DAY Laughter. Gandhi is eating muli; he holds his head back to capture the lemon juice. We hear the click of a camera GANDHI That is how you eat muli. Manu hands him a cloth and he wipes his hands. Another click of a camera. He is not fully recovered, but well on the way. GANDHI (to the photographer) I'm not sure I want to be remembered that way. It is all light and for fun. We get a wide-angle shot now and see that Bourke-White is shooting one of her favorite subjects again. She is enjoying the banter, as is Mirabehn, who is spinning quietly to one side of the room, and Patel, who sits cross-legged like Gandhi on the floor. Pyarelal is working on papers with him but grins at this. BOURKE-WHITE Don't worry, with luck you may not be. And she shoots him again, as he hands the cloth back to Manu. Abha is sitting next to Manu, looking at a collection of pictures of Gandhi, obviously Bourke-White's. PATEL No, he'll be remembered for tempting fate. It is wry, but waspishly chiding. Abha suddenly holds a picture up for Gandhi to see. It's one of him, ears wide, eyes round. ABHA Mickey Mouse. Gandhi taps her on the head with his finger as she smiles. But Bourke-White has looked from Patel to Gandhi, clearly shaken by the implication in Patel's words. BOURKE-WHITE You really are going to Pakistan, then? (Gandhi shrugs, and she chides too) You are a stubborn man. GANDHI (a grin, in the mood of their "flirtation") I'm simply going to prove to Muslims there, and Hindus here, that the only devils in the world are those running around in our own hearts -- and that's where all our battles ought to be fought. Abha has signaled to the cheap watch dangling from his dhoti. He glances at it, and holds his arms out. The two girls help him. BOURKE-WHITE And what kind of a warrior have you been in that warfare? She is photographing his getting-up and leaning on the two girls. GANDHI Not a very good one. That's why I have so much tolerance for the other scoundrels of the world. He moves off, but has a sudden thought and turns to Patel. GANDHI Ask Panditji to -- to consider what we've discussed. Patel nods soberly and Gandhi starts for the door, Bourke- White moving with him. GANDHI (of the photographs) Enough. BOURKE-WHITE (a plea) One more. He has passed her, he's in the doorway. We see the crowd at the end of the garden, where the light of the day is beginning to soften. He turns, teasing in his slightly flirtatious way with women. GANDHI You're a temptress. She shoots him against the door -- the crowd milling distantly, waiting -- then she lowers her camera. BOURKE-WHITE Just an admirer... GANDHI Nothing's more dangerous, especially for an old man. He turns; the last words have betrayed the smile on his face; they have a painful sense of truth about them. Bourke-White watches as he moves into the garden toward the crowd in the distance. She turns to Mirabehn. BOURKE-WHITE There's a sadness in him. It's an observation -- and a question. Mirabehn accedes gravely. MIRABEHN He thinks he's failed. Bourke-White stares at her, then turns to look out at him. BOURKE-WHITE Why? My God, if anything's proved him right, it's what's happened these last months... Mirabehn nods, but she keeps on spinning and tries to sound cynically resigned but her innate emotionalism keeps breaking through in her voice and on her face. MIRABEHN I am blinded by my love of him, but I think when we most needed it, he offered the world a way out of madness. But he doesn't see it... and neither does the world. It is laced with pain. Bourke-White turns and looks out at Gandhi -- so tiny, so weak as he walks between his "props." He has now reached the end of the garden and is moving among the crowd assembled there. THE GARDEN - BIRLA HOUSE - EXTERIOR - TWILIGHT Gandhi is moving forward in the crowd, one hand resting on Manu, the other on Abha. He makes the pranam to someone, the crowd is bowing to him, some speaking, and we also see the crowd from his point of view -- "Bapu," "God bless you," "Thank you -- thank you." He turns to a very old woman, who makes a salaam to him. Gandhi touches her head. GANDHI Allah be with you. Smiling, he turns back. A jostling, the sound of beads falling. MANU (to someone) Brother, Bapu is already late for prayers. Gandhi turns to the person; he makes the pranam. Full shot. Godse is making the pranam to him and he suddenly, wildly draws his gun and fires. The camera closes on Gandhi as he staggers and falls, the red stain of blood seeping through his white shawl. GANDHI Oh, God... oh, God... Manu and Abha bend over him, silent in their first shock. The sound of panic and alarm begins to grow around them, they suddenly scream and begin to cry. MANU/ABHA Bapu! Bapu! FUNERAL PYRE - EXTERIOR - DAY Blackness. Silence. A moment -- we sense the blackness moving -- like dark smoke. The camera is pulling back very slowly and we can tell the blackness is smoke rising from a fire. And now we see that it is a funeral pyre. And all around that pyre a mass of silent humanity. Through the smoke, sitting cross-legged near the rim of the flames, we see Nehru... and Azad and Patel, Mirabehn and Kallenbach, the drawn faces of Lord and Lady Mountbatten, Manu and Abha... THE RIVER - EXTERIOR - DAY A helicopter shot coming slowly up the wide river, low, toward a barge and a mass of people in the distance. And now we are over the barge, and it is covered with flowers. Flowers flow downstream around it. An urn sits on it -- containing Gandhi's ashes -- and Nehru stands near it,

four

How many times the word 'four' appears in the text?

with them now the giant figure of Abdul Ghaffar Khan, the first time we have seen him among Gandhi's intimate group. NEHRU In Calcutta it's like civil war. The Muslims rose and there was a bloodbath, and now the Hindus are taking revenge -- and if we can't stop it there'll be no hope for the Hindus left in Pakistan. PATEL ...an eye for an eye making the whole world blind. It is an empty and despairing echo of Gandhi's words. AZAD Aren't there any troops to spare? NEHRU (tense, fragile) Nothing -- nothing. The divisions in Bombay and Delhi can hardly keep the peace now. And each fresh bit of news creates another wave of mad... ness. He has turned and seen Gandhi standing slowly. It has almost stopped him. PATEL Could we cut all news off? I know -- NEHRU Bapu -- please. Where are you going. GANDHI (sounding like an old man) I don't want to hear more... He is moving toward the door. It stops them all. Pyarelal moves tentatively to open the door. PATEL (impatiently) We need your help! GANDHI There is nothing I can give. AZAD Where are you going? Gandhi turns, looks at him bleakly. GANDHI Calcutta. CALCUTTA - EXTERIOR - NIGHT We are high. There are fires, the sounds of spasmodic gunfire, of looting, screams, the roar of police vehicles and occasional sirens. The camera zooms in on a poor quarter of artisan dwellings in narrow streets. Outside one of the houses is a car, an army jeep, policemen, a few soldiers and a group of people. It seems a little island of calm in a sea of wild chaos. On the roof of the house, a figure moves into the light. CLOSER - TAHIB'S ROOF The figure is Gandhi. He peers down at the dark, rioting streets. Azad, Tahib, a Muslim whose house this is, Mirabehn and Pyarelal are with him along Abdul Ghaffar Khan. A police commissioner moves to Gandhi's side, demanding his attention. POLICE COMMISSIONER Sir, please, I don't have the men to protect you -- not in a Muslim house. Not this quarter. GANDHI I am staying with the friend of a friend. There is a sudden commotion just below them and angry shouts: "Death to Muslims!," "Death to Muslims!" Gandhi peers down. His point of view. A surging gang of youths, many carrying torches, and far outnumbering the little group of police and soldiers, are shouting up at the roof. We see three or four black flags and stains of blood on many of them. A few hold knives still wet with blood. A YOUTH There he is! A feral roar goes up at the sight of Gandhi, but he stands unmoving. HINDU YOUTH LEADER (his voice emotional, tearful) Why are you staying at the home of a Muslim! They're murderers! They killed my family! Featuring Gandhi. It is a comment too grave for glibness, and Gandhi is obviously struck by the pain of it. He pauses for a moment, staring down at the youth: GANDHI Because forgiveness is the gift of the brave. He makes it mean the youth. For a second it makes an impact, but then the youth shouts his defiance at him and his message. YOUTH To hell with you, Gandhi!! An angry chorus of acclamation; when it dies GANDHI (to the youth) Go -- do as your mother and father would wish you to do. It is ambiguous, open-ended, meaning anything your mother and father would wish you to do. Tears flush from the boy's eyes and he stares at Gandhi with a kind of hopeless anguish and rage. But the impact is on the youth alone; around him the others begin to take up the chant "Death to Muslims!," "Death to Muslims!" Gandhi turns from the street. He looks at the police commissioner -- at his fatigue, his concern, his manifest respect. Gandhi musters a weary smile. GANDHI I have lived a lifetime. If I had shunned death -- or feared it -- I would not be here. Nor would you be concerned for me. (He lets it sink in then he takes the commissioner's arm and moves back toward the center of the roof.) Leave me -- and take your men. (An understanding touch of the arm.) You have more important things to worry about. The commissioner looks at him, uncertain, not knowing what to do, as the angry chanting continues above the sound of rioting. HOSPITAL - INTERIOR - DAY An old, inadequate hospital -- dark cavernous. Margaret Bourke- White is moving among the densely packed litter of wounded women. She is positioning herself to photograph Gandhi, who is speaking to a woman who cradles a small baby. The corridors behind him are even more packed. The few doctors and nurses hardly have room to move. Featuring Gandhi. Azad and Mirabehn are behind him as he moves on, and behind them, like a giant guardian, Abdul Ghaffar Khan. We hear "Bapu, Bapu" muttered quietly here and there. Gandhi bends to a woman whose face is bandaged and a cruel wound is half-exposed between her mouth and eye. WOMAN Bapu... Allah be with you... There are tears in Gandhi's eyes now. GANDHI And with you. (He touches her wrinkled hand.) Pray... I cannot help you -- pray... pray. And the weight of his helplessness hangs on him. CALCUTTA STREET - EXTERIOR - DAY A streetcar (tram) crashes into a barricade of carts, rickshaws, a couple of old cars, smashing through to breach the barricade, but stopped in the end by the mass of debris. The streetcar is loaded with Indian troops and they break from the stalled vehicle to chase A gang of Hindus -- organized -- runs down the street from the troops, some dragging the bodies of victims with them. We see several Hindu black flags. NEHRU'S OFFICE - INTERIOR - NIGHT He speaks across his desk to a senior police commissioner. The same activity going on in the background. NEHRU (angrily) No! There will not be a Hindu Police and a Muslim Police. There is one police! An aide slips a newspaper on his desk in front of him. He doesn't look at it till the senior commissioner lowers his head and turns, accepting defeat. Then Nehru glances at the paper. In thick headlines: GANDHI: A FAST UNTO DEATH! Nehru doesn't move for a moment. Then he lifts his face slowly to his aide. NEHRU Why must I read news like this in the paper? The aide shakes his head -- there's no answer. Nehru lowers his head again; it is like another burden on a man who already has too many. He grips his temples... a terrible sigh. NEHRU Tell Patel. Arrange a plane. We will go -- Friday. THE AIDE Four days? Nehru thinks on it solemnly, then nods yes. TAHIB'S HOUSE - EXTERIOR - DAY The sounds of rioting and looting on nearby streets, but here a mass of people are gathered. Many youths with black flags. Two black government limousines. Motorcycles. Police and soldiers. They are looking off to AN OUTSIDE STAIRCASE - TAHIB'S HOUSE It runs up the side of the building and is lined with waiting people. Nehru and Patel are climbing the stairs, moving past them almost irritably as they mutter "Nehru, Nehru," "Patel," and make the pranam to the eminent men. In the heat of the city Tahib's rooftop is still Gandhi's "home" and has become a center of activity. Azad clears someone aside and ushers Nehru and Patel under the canopy awning. Nehru pauses as he lowers his head. His point of view. Gandhi lies curled awkwardly on his side of the cot. He is writing, Pyarelal taking the pages as he finishes, both ignoring all the people, the sounds of gunfire and distant shouting, but he looks tired and tightens his jaw occasionally in pain. The camera pans. A doctor sits near the foot of the cot, Abdul Ghaffar Khan beyond him. Near the other edge of the canopied area, Mirabehn sits with Bourke-White. They are whispering quietly, but Mirabehn has stopped on seeing Nehru and she smiles a relieved greeting. She knows Gandhi's feeling for him. Bourke-White stares at him and Patel for a second and then her hand goes slowly, almost reflexively, for her camera. CLOSER ON GANDHI Nehru crosses and kneels so that he is almost at Gandhi's eyeline. Gandhi must take his eyes from his writing to look, and he is almost moved to tears at the sight of Nehru. His hand shakes a little as he holds it out to him. NEHRU Bapu... Gandhi turns to pat their joined hands with his other hand. He does so with effort, and at last he sees Patel. GANDHI Sardar... (He looks him over.) You have gained weight. You must join me in the fast. Patel sits near the head of the cot so the three of them are on a level. Outside the canopied area, Bourke-White is crouched, her camera framing the three of them. PATEL (wittily, warmly) If I fast I die. If you fast people go to all sorts of trouble to keep you alive. Gandhi smiles and reaches to touch hands with him. NEHRU Bapu, forgive me -- I've cheated. I could have come earlier. But your fast has helped. These last days people's minds have begun to turn to this bed -- and away from last night's atrocity. But now it is enough. Gandhi shakes his head. GANDHI All that has happened is that I've grown a little thinner. It is despairingly sincere. But Nehru feels he has an antidote for that despair. The distant sound of an explosion. NEHRU Tomorrow five thousand Muslim students of all ages are marching here in Calcutta -- for peace. (The real point) And five thousand Hindu students are marching with them. It is all organized. Bourke-White captures the sense of elation in his face. From her discreet distance, she lowers the camera, holding it against her mouth, waiting for Gandhi's response. Gandhi nods to Nehru, accepting the news with a sad wistfulness. GANDHI I'm glad -- but it will not be enough. Nehru isn't prepared for this resistance. He glances at Patel, and we see that they recognize that their bland conviction that they could talk him out of the fast was deeply misplaced. Nehru turns back -- this time no confidence, only concern. A forced smile. NEHRU Bapu, you are not so young anymore. Gandhi smiles, pain etched in his eyes. He touches Nehru's hand. GANDHI Don't worry for me -- death will be a deliverance. (There is water in his eyes, but his words have the weight of a man truly determined to die.) I cannot watch the destruction of all I have lived for. Nehru stares at him, feeling the sudden fear that Gandhi means it. Patel, Mirabehn, Azad, Bourke-White are gripped by the same realization. TAHIB'S HOUSE - EXTERIOR - NIGHT An outside broadcast truck is parked among the usual crowd, grown even larger now, and more women among them. The sounds of distant fighting. TAHIB'S ROOF - EXTERIOR - NIGHT The senior technician, in earphones, signals across to Mirabehn. She holds a microphone by Gandhi, who is lying on his side. He seems almost out of touch. MIRABEHN Bapu... Gandhi looks at her, and then the microphone. When he speaks into the microphone his voice is very weak. GANDHI Each night before I sleep, I read a few words from the Gita and the Koran, and the Bible... (we intercut with Bourke-White and those on the roof watching) tonight I ask you to share these thoughts of God with me. And now we go into the streets, intercutting with Gandhi but seeing Hindus listening around loudspeakers on corners, in little eating houses, Muslim shops where people live in the back, and neighbors gathering defensively in groups. GANDHI (the books are there, but he does it from memory of course) I will begin with the Bible where the words of the Lord are, "Love thy neighbor as thyself"... and then our beloved Gita which says, "The world is a garment worn by God, thy neighbor is in truth thyself"... and finally the Holy Koran, "We shall remove all hatred from our hearts and recline on couches face to face, a band of brothers." He leans back, exhausted. Mirabehn is looking at him; she starts to sing softly. MIRABEHN "Lead Kindly Light, amidst the circling gloom..." Gandhi, his eyes closed, takes it up in his weak, croaking voice. GANDHI/MIRABEHN "The night is dark, and I am far from home, Lead thou me on..." TAHIB'S HOUSE - EXTERIOR - DAY Two police motorcycles lead a black limousine to a stop before Tahib's house. The crowd now gathered is very large. More mixed than before but still predominantly of youths, many still with black flags. Nehru gets out of the limousine with a Muslim leader, a tough- looking man who carries himself with the authority and power of a mobster (Suhrawardy). And they start to go up the outside stairs. Suddenly we hear the shout "Death to Gandhi!," "Death to Gandhi!" And Nehru turns, pushing past Suhrawardy fiercely and going back onto the street. He runs at the crowd, where the shout comes once more from the back. His face is wild with anger and shock. NEHRU (hysterically) Who dares say such things! Who?! (And he is running at them and they spread in fear.) Come! Kill me first! Come! Where are you?! Kill me first! The crowd has spread from him all along the street; they stand against the walls of the houses staring at him, terrified to move. We see, just in passing, the frightened, apprehensive faces of Godse, and near him, Apte and Karkare. Nehru stands, staring at them all, his face seething with anger. TAHIB'S ROOF - EXTERIOR - DAY We are featuring a copy of Life Magazine. On the cover is a picture of rioting men fighting and diagonally a cut-out of Gandhi lying on his cot. The caption reads: "An Old Man's Battle." As the magazine starts to be opened, it is suddenly put to one side. Another angle. Mirabehn is rising, leaving the magazine at her feet. She moves to Nehru and Suhrawardy as Azad ushers them into the canopied area. Abdul Ghaffar Khan sits quietly in the background. Mirabehn speaks softly. MIRABEHN His pulse is very irregular -- the kidneys aren't functioning. Nehru looks across at Gandhi. The doctor, who is testing Gandhi's pulse yet again, glances at him -- no encouragement -- and moves away. Nehru moves to the side of the cot and Gandhi smiles weakly and holds out a hand, but he is in pain. NEHRU Bapu, I have brought Mr. Suhrawardy. It was he who called on the Muslims to rise; he is telling them now to go back to their homes, to lay down their arms. Gandhi looks up at Suhrawardy, who nods. Gandhi looks back at Nehru. There is no hint of him changing his mind. NEHRU (personally) Think what you can do by living -- that you cannot do by dying. Gandhi smiles whimsically, he touches him again but there is no change in his attitude. NEHRU (pleadingly) What do you want? GANDHI (a moment) That the fighting will stop -- that you make me believe it will never start again. Nehru looks at him hopelessly. SQUARE IN CALCUTTA - EXTERIOR - DAY A huge crowd, some smoke in distant buildings, some damage near to help us know this is still Calcutta, and all is not yet at peace. The camera sweeps over the crowd, past the loudspeakers on their poles. We see surly knots of belligerent rowdies, mostly young, but not all, hanging on the fringes as we move over the heads of the mass of listening people to a platform where Nehru speaks. Azad, Suhrawardy, and others sit on the floor behind him. We have heard his voice over all this. NEHRU ...Sometimes it is when you are quite without hope and in utter darkness that God comes to the rescue. Gandhiji is dying because of our madness. Put away your "revenge." What will be gained by more killing? Have the courage to do what you know is right. For God's sake, let us embrace like brothers... TAHIB'S ROOF - EXTERIOR - NIGHT Featuring the Muslim leader Suhrawardy, leaning against a wall, watching an action out of shot with evident tension. We hear a little clank of metal. Another angle. There are five men facing Gandhi. They wear black trousers and black knit vests. There are thongs around their arms that make their bulging muscles seem even more powerful. They are Hindu thugs (Goondas). Their clothes are dirty -- and they are too -- but they are laying knives and guns at Gandhi's feet. Mirabehn, Azad, Pyarelal, the doctor and others on the roof watch fascinated, a little frightened. GOONDA LEADER It is our promise. We stop. It is a promise. Gandhi is looking at him, testing, not giving or accepting anything that is mere gesture. GANDHI Go -- try -- God by with you. The Goondas stand. They glance at Suhrawardy; he smiles tautly and they start to leave, but one (Nahari) lingers. Suddenly he moves violently toward Gandhi, taking a flat piece of Indian bread (chapati) from his trousers and tossing it forcefully on Gandhi. NAHARI Eat. Mirabehn and Azad start to move toward him -- the man looks immensely strong and immensely unstable. But Gandhi holds up a shaking hand, stopping them. Nahari's face is knotted in emotion, half anger, half almost a child's fear -- but there is a wild menace in that instability. NAHARI Eat! I am going to hell -- but not with your death on my soul. GANDHI Only God decides who goes to hell... NAHARI (stiffening, aggressive) I -- I killed a child... (Then an anguished defiance) I smashed his head against a wall. Gandhi stares at him, breathless. GANDHI (in a fearful whisper) Why? Why? It is as though the man has told him of some terrible self- inflicted wound. NAHARI (tears now -- and wrath) They killed my son -- my boy! Almost reflexively he holds his hand out to indicate the height of his son. He glares at Suhrawardy and then back at Gandhi. NAHARI The Muslims killed my son... they killed him. He is sobbing, but in his anger it seems almost as though he means to kill Gandhi in retaliation. A long moment, as Gandhi meets his pain and wrath. Then GANDHI I know a way out of hell. Nahari sneers, but there is just a flicker of desperate curiosity. GANDHI Find a child -- a child whose mother and father have been killed. A little boy -- about this high. He raises his hand to the height Nahari has indicated as his son's. GANDHI ...and raise him -- as your own. Nahari has listened. His face almost cracks -- it is a chink of light, but it does not illumine his darkness. GANDHI Only be sure... that he is a Muslim. And that you raise him as one. And now the light falls on Nahari. His face stiffens, he swallows, fighting any show of emotion; then he turns to go. But he takes only a step and he turns back, going to his knees, the sobs breaking again and again from his heaving body as he holds his head to Gandhi's feet in the traditional greeting of Hindu son to Hindu father. A second, and Gandhi reaches out and touches the top of his head. Mirabehn watches. The Goondas watch. Suhrawardy watches. Finally GANDHI (gently, exhaustedly) Go -- go. God bless you... COURTYARD - POLICE STATION - CALCUTTA - EXTERIOR - NIGHT Trucks with riot squads (shields and truncheons) in place, but they are lounging, waiting. There is silence, and air of somnolence. Some of the riot squad lounge in little groups around the courtyard. A distant cough. Featuring a senior riot squad officer dressed and ready for action. He it is who coughed. He coughs again, clearing his throat. A police sergeant stands by him, both are reading the front page of a paper the senior riot squad officer holds. We see two huge lines of headline: GANDHI NEAR DEATH/NEHRU GOES ON FAST. In one of the trucks one of the men offers another a cigarette. A telephone rings sharply, inside. The senior riot squad officer and the sergeant run in as engines start; the men run to their places, lower visors, headlights go on! POLICE STATION OFFICE - INTERIOR - DAY A constable mans the telephone. He listens as the senior riot squad officer and the sergeant run to him tensely. The sound of the great doors opening in the courtyard, more engines revving up. CONSTABLE Yes, sir, yes, sir, (He holds up his hand to the senior officer) "Wait." He glances up at the senior riot squad officer. CONSTABLE (writing, from the phone) Accident, "Christie crossroads," a lorry and a rickshaw. Yes, sir, I have it. He shrugs at the senior riot squad officer and hands the information slip to another constable behind the desk. The sergeant sighs, and moves to the outside door. We hear him bellow, "Stand down." The constable hangs up and sighs heavily. The senior riot squad officer shakes his head, and turns and walks slowly to the door. COURTYARD - POLICE STATION - EXTERIOR - NIGHT The senior riot squad officer and the sergeant stand in the doorway as the engines die. The men relax... the silence returns. A dog barks distantly, disturbed by the noise... A bird caws once or twice. SERGEANT I wouldn't have believed it, Mr. Gupta. SENIOR OFFICER Sergeant, it's a bloody miracle... HIGH SHOT - CALCUTTA - EXTERIOR - NIGHT It lies in silence. TAHIB'S ROOF - EXTERIOR - DAY Mirabehn is bent over Gandhi. He is curled almost in the fetal position, his face looking wan and sunken. For the first time there is silence, no explosions, no distant shouts, no gunfire. MIRABEHN Bapu, there's been no fighting -- anywhere. It has stopped -- the madness has stopped. We see the police commissioner, Suhrawardy, two doctors, Abdul Ghaffar Khan, and some others. Nearer Gandhi, behind Mirabehn, are Nehru, Patel, Azad and Pyarelal. Gandhi turns to Mirabehn, his face shaking, peering into her eyes. GANDHI It is foolish if it is just to save the life of an old man. MIRABEHN No... no. In every temple and mosque they have pledged to die before they lift a hand against each other. His weary eyes look at her; he looks up slowly to Azad. Azad nods "It's true." Then Patel PATEL Everywhere. Gandhi looks at Nehru. Nehru just nods tautly. Gandhi looks down, then lifts his head to Azad. GANDHI Maulana, my friend, could I have some orange juice... Then you and I will take a piece of bread together... The relief brings water to their eyes and grins to their faces. Nehru bends to Gandhi. Gandhi holds his hand out to him, and Nehru clutches it. Then NEHRU You see, Bapu, it is not difficult. I have fasted only a few hours and I accomplished what you could not do in as many days. It is a joke in their way with each other and Gandhi's eyes light, his smile comes. But it is tired. He puts his other hand over Nehru's and Nehru lowers his head to it, crying silently. BIRLA HOUSE - EXTERIOR - DAY As in the opening sequence -- but a few minutes earlier. The crowd is beginning to gather for the evening prayers. We see a tonga or two, a gardener opening the gate to the garden, three policemen standing, talking idly among themselves. BIRLA HOUSE - INTERIOR - DAY Laughter. Gandhi is eating muli; he holds his head back to capture the lemon juice. We hear the click of a camera GANDHI That is how you eat muli. Manu hands him a cloth and he wipes his hands. Another click of a camera. He is not fully recovered, but well on the way. GANDHI (to the photographer) I'm not sure I want to be remembered that way. It is all light and for fun. We get a wide-angle shot now and see that Bourke-White is shooting one of her favorite subjects again. She is enjoying the banter, as is Mirabehn, who is spinning quietly to one side of the room, and Patel, who sits cross-legged like Gandhi on the floor. Pyarelal is working on papers with him but grins at this. BOURKE-WHITE Don't worry, with luck you may not be. And she shoots him again, as he hands the cloth back to Manu. Abha is sitting next to Manu, looking at a collection of pictures of Gandhi, obviously Bourke-White's. PATEL No, he'll be remembered for tempting fate. It is wry, but waspishly chiding. Abha suddenly holds a picture up for Gandhi to see. It's one of him, ears wide, eyes round. ABHA Mickey Mouse. Gandhi taps her on the head with his finger as she smiles. But Bourke-White has looked from Patel to Gandhi, clearly shaken by the implication in Patel's words. BOURKE-WHITE You really are going to Pakistan, then? (Gandhi shrugs, and she chides too) You are a stubborn man. GANDHI (a grin, in the mood of their "flirtation") I'm simply going to prove to Muslims there, and Hindus here, that the only devils in the world are those running around in our own hearts -- and that's where all our battles ought to be fought. Abha has signaled to the cheap watch dangling from his dhoti. He glances at it, and holds his arms out. The two girls help him. BOURKE-WHITE And what kind of a warrior have you been in that warfare? She is photographing his getting-up and leaning on the two girls. GANDHI Not a very good one. That's why I have so much tolerance for the other scoundrels of the world. He moves off, but has a sudden thought and turns to Patel. GANDHI Ask Panditji to -- to consider what we've discussed. Patel nods soberly and Gandhi starts for the door, Bourke- White moving with him. GANDHI (of the photographs) Enough. BOURKE-WHITE (a plea) One more. He has passed her, he's in the doorway. We see the crowd at the end of the garden, where the light of the day is beginning to soften. He turns, teasing in his slightly flirtatious way with women. GANDHI You're a temptress. She shoots him against the door -- the crowd milling distantly, waiting -- then she lowers her camera. BOURKE-WHITE Just an admirer... GANDHI Nothing's more dangerous, especially for an old man. He turns; the last words have betrayed the smile on his face; they have a painful sense of truth about them. Bourke-White watches as he moves into the garden toward the crowd in the distance. She turns to Mirabehn. BOURKE-WHITE There's a sadness in him. It's an observation -- and a question. Mirabehn accedes gravely. MIRABEHN He thinks he's failed. Bourke-White stares at her, then turns to look out at him. BOURKE-WHITE Why? My God, if anything's proved him right, it's what's happened these last months... Mirabehn nods, but she keeps on spinning and tries to sound cynically resigned but her innate emotionalism keeps breaking through in her voice and on her face. MIRABEHN I am blinded by my love of him, but I think when we most needed it, he offered the world a way out of madness. But he doesn't see it... and neither does the world. It is laced with pain. Bourke-White turns and looks out at Gandhi -- so tiny, so weak as he walks between his "props." He has now reached the end of the garden and is moving among the crowd assembled there. THE GARDEN - BIRLA HOUSE - EXTERIOR - TWILIGHT Gandhi is moving forward in the crowd, one hand resting on Manu, the other on Abha. He makes the pranam to someone, the crowd is bowing to him, some speaking, and we also see the crowd from his point of view -- "Bapu," "God bless you," "Thank you -- thank you." He turns to a very old woman, who makes a salaam to him. Gandhi touches her head. GANDHI Allah be with you. Smiling, he turns back. A jostling, the sound of beads falling. MANU (to someone) Brother, Bapu is already late for prayers. Gandhi turns to the person; he makes the pranam. Full shot. Godse is making the pranam to him and he suddenly, wildly draws his gun and fires. The camera closes on Gandhi as he staggers and falls, the red stain of blood seeping through his white shawl. GANDHI Oh, God... oh, God... Manu and Abha bend over him, silent in their first shock. The sound of panic and alarm begins to grow around them, they suddenly scream and begin to cry. MANU/ABHA Bapu! Bapu! FUNERAL PYRE - EXTERIOR - DAY Blackness. Silence. A moment -- we sense the blackness moving -- like dark smoke. The camera is pulling back very slowly and we can tell the blackness is smoke rising from a fire. And now we see that it is a funeral pyre. And all around that pyre a mass of silent humanity. Through the smoke, sitting cross-legged near the rim of the flames, we see Nehru... and Azad and Patel, Mirabehn and Kallenbach, the drawn faces of Lord and Lady Mountbatten, Manu and Abha... THE RIVER - EXTERIOR - DAY A helicopter shot coming slowly up the wide river, low, toward a barge and a mass of people in the distance. And now we are over the barge, and it is covered with flowers. Flowers flow downstream around it. An urn sits on it -- containing Gandhi's ashes -- and Nehru stands near it,

walked

How many times the word 'walked' appears in the text?

with them now the giant figure of Abdul Ghaffar Khan, the first time we have seen him among Gandhi's intimate group. NEHRU In Calcutta it's like civil war. The Muslims rose and there was a bloodbath, and now the Hindus are taking revenge -- and if we can't stop it there'll be no hope for the Hindus left in Pakistan. PATEL ...an eye for an eye making the whole world blind. It is an empty and despairing echo of Gandhi's words. AZAD Aren't there any troops to spare? NEHRU (tense, fragile) Nothing -- nothing. The divisions in Bombay and Delhi can hardly keep the peace now. And each fresh bit of news creates another wave of mad... ness. He has turned and seen Gandhi standing slowly. It has almost stopped him. PATEL Could we cut all news off? I know -- NEHRU Bapu -- please. Where are you going. GANDHI (sounding like an old man) I don't want to hear more... He is moving toward the door. It stops them all. Pyarelal moves tentatively to open the door. PATEL (impatiently) We need your help! GANDHI There is nothing I can give. AZAD Where are you going? Gandhi turns, looks at him bleakly. GANDHI Calcutta. CALCUTTA - EXTERIOR - NIGHT We are high. There are fires, the sounds of spasmodic gunfire, of looting, screams, the roar of police vehicles and occasional sirens. The camera zooms in on a poor quarter of artisan dwellings in narrow streets. Outside one of the houses is a car, an army jeep, policemen, a few soldiers and a group of people. It seems a little island of calm in a sea of wild chaos. On the roof of the house, a figure moves into the light. CLOSER - TAHIB'S ROOF The figure is Gandhi. He peers down at the dark, rioting streets. Azad, Tahib, a Muslim whose house this is, Mirabehn and Pyarelal are with him along Abdul Ghaffar Khan. A police commissioner moves to Gandhi's side, demanding his attention. POLICE COMMISSIONER Sir, please, I don't have the men to protect you -- not in a Muslim house. Not this quarter. GANDHI I am staying with the friend of a friend. There is a sudden commotion just below them and angry shouts: "Death to Muslims!," "Death to Muslims!" Gandhi peers down. His point of view. A surging gang of youths, many carrying torches, and far outnumbering the little group of police and soldiers, are shouting up at the roof. We see three or four black flags and stains of blood on many of them. A few hold knives still wet with blood. A YOUTH There he is! A feral roar goes up at the sight of Gandhi, but he stands unmoving. HINDU YOUTH LEADER (his voice emotional, tearful) Why are you staying at the home of a Muslim! They're murderers! They killed my family! Featuring Gandhi. It is a comment too grave for glibness, and Gandhi is obviously struck by the pain of it. He pauses for a moment, staring down at the youth: GANDHI Because forgiveness is the gift of the brave. He makes it mean the youth. For a second it makes an impact, but then the youth shouts his defiance at him and his message. YOUTH To hell with you, Gandhi!! An angry chorus of acclamation; when it dies GANDHI (to the youth) Go -- do as your mother and father would wish you to do. It is ambiguous, open-ended, meaning anything your mother and father would wish you to do. Tears flush from the boy's eyes and he stares at Gandhi with a kind of hopeless anguish and rage. But the impact is on the youth alone; around him the others begin to take up the chant "Death to Muslims!," "Death to Muslims!" Gandhi turns from the street. He looks at the police commissioner -- at his fatigue, his concern, his manifest respect. Gandhi musters a weary smile. GANDHI I have lived a lifetime. If I had shunned death -- or feared it -- I would not be here. Nor would you be concerned for me. (He lets it sink in then he takes the commissioner's arm and moves back toward the center of the roof.) Leave me -- and take your men. (An understanding touch of the arm.) You have more important things to worry about. The commissioner looks at him, uncertain, not knowing what to do, as the angry chanting continues above the sound of rioting. HOSPITAL - INTERIOR - DAY An old, inadequate hospital -- dark cavernous. Margaret Bourke- White is moving among the densely packed litter of wounded women. She is positioning herself to photograph Gandhi, who is speaking to a woman who cradles a small baby. The corridors behind him are even more packed. The few doctors and nurses hardly have room to move. Featuring Gandhi. Azad and Mirabehn are behind him as he moves on, and behind them, like a giant guardian, Abdul Ghaffar Khan. We hear "Bapu, Bapu" muttered quietly here and there. Gandhi bends to a woman whose face is bandaged and a cruel wound is half-exposed between her mouth and eye. WOMAN Bapu... Allah be with you... There are tears in Gandhi's eyes now. GANDHI And with you. (He touches her wrinkled hand.) Pray... I cannot help you -- pray... pray. And the weight of his helplessness hangs on him. CALCUTTA STREET - EXTERIOR - DAY A streetcar (tram) crashes into a barricade of carts, rickshaws, a couple of old cars, smashing through to breach the barricade, but stopped in the end by the mass of debris. The streetcar is loaded with Indian troops and they break from the stalled vehicle to chase A gang of Hindus -- organized -- runs down the street from the troops, some dragging the bodies of victims with them. We see several Hindu black flags. NEHRU'S OFFICE - INTERIOR - NIGHT He speaks across his desk to a senior police commissioner. The same activity going on in the background. NEHRU (angrily) No! There will not be a Hindu Police and a Muslim Police. There is one police! An aide slips a newspaper on his desk in front of him. He doesn't look at it till the senior commissioner lowers his head and turns, accepting defeat. Then Nehru glances at the paper. In thick headlines: GANDHI: A FAST UNTO DEATH! Nehru doesn't move for a moment. Then he lifts his face slowly to his aide. NEHRU Why must I read news like this in the paper? The aide shakes his head -- there's no answer. Nehru lowers his head again; it is like another burden on a man who already has too many. He grips his temples... a terrible sigh. NEHRU Tell Patel. Arrange a plane. We will go -- Friday. THE AIDE Four days? Nehru thinks on it solemnly, then nods yes. TAHIB'S HOUSE - EXTERIOR - DAY The sounds of rioting and looting on nearby streets, but here a mass of people are gathered. Many youths with black flags. Two black government limousines. Motorcycles. Police and soldiers. They are looking off to AN OUTSIDE STAIRCASE - TAHIB'S HOUSE It runs up the side of the building and is lined with waiting people. Nehru and Patel are climbing the stairs, moving past them almost irritably as they mutter "Nehru, Nehru," "Patel," and make the pranam to the eminent men. In the heat of the city Tahib's rooftop is still Gandhi's "home" and has become a center of activity. Azad clears someone aside and ushers Nehru and Patel under the canopy awning. Nehru pauses as he lowers his head. His point of view. Gandhi lies curled awkwardly on his side of the cot. He is writing, Pyarelal taking the pages as he finishes, both ignoring all the people, the sounds of gunfire and distant shouting, but he looks tired and tightens his jaw occasionally in pain. The camera pans. A doctor sits near the foot of the cot, Abdul Ghaffar Khan beyond him. Near the other edge of the canopied area, Mirabehn sits with Bourke-White. They are whispering quietly, but Mirabehn has stopped on seeing Nehru and she smiles a relieved greeting. She knows Gandhi's feeling for him. Bourke-White stares at him and Patel for a second and then her hand goes slowly, almost reflexively, for her camera. CLOSER ON GANDHI Nehru crosses and kneels so that he is almost at Gandhi's eyeline. Gandhi must take his eyes from his writing to look, and he is almost moved to tears at the sight of Nehru. His hand shakes a little as he holds it out to him. NEHRU Bapu... Gandhi turns to pat their joined hands with his other hand. He does so with effort, and at last he sees Patel. GANDHI Sardar... (He looks him over.) You have gained weight. You must join me in the fast. Patel sits near the head of the cot so the three of them are on a level. Outside the canopied area, Bourke-White is crouched, her camera framing the three of them. PATEL (wittily, warmly) If I fast I die. If you fast people go to all sorts of trouble to keep you alive. Gandhi smiles and reaches to touch hands with him. NEHRU Bapu, forgive me -- I've cheated. I could have come earlier. But your fast has helped. These last days people's minds have begun to turn to this bed -- and away from last night's atrocity. But now it is enough. Gandhi shakes his head. GANDHI All that has happened is that I've grown a little thinner. It is despairingly sincere. But Nehru feels he has an antidote for that despair. The distant sound of an explosion. NEHRU Tomorrow five thousand Muslim students of all ages are marching here in Calcutta -- for peace. (The real point) And five thousand Hindu students are marching with them. It is all organized. Bourke-White captures the sense of elation in his face. From her discreet distance, she lowers the camera, holding it against her mouth, waiting for Gandhi's response. Gandhi nods to Nehru, accepting the news with a sad wistfulness. GANDHI I'm glad -- but it will not be enough. Nehru isn't prepared for this resistance. He glances at Patel, and we see that they recognize that their bland conviction that they could talk him out of the fast was deeply misplaced. Nehru turns back -- this time no confidence, only concern. A forced smile. NEHRU Bapu, you are not so young anymore. Gandhi smiles, pain etched in his eyes. He touches Nehru's hand. GANDHI Don't worry for me -- death will be a deliverance. (There is water in his eyes, but his words have the weight of a man truly determined to die.) I cannot watch the destruction of all I have lived for. Nehru stares at him, feeling the sudden fear that Gandhi means it. Patel, Mirabehn, Azad, Bourke-White are gripped by the same realization. TAHIB'S HOUSE - EXTERIOR - NIGHT An outside broadcast truck is parked among the usual crowd, grown even larger now, and more women among them. The sounds of distant fighting. TAHIB'S ROOF - EXTERIOR - NIGHT The senior technician, in earphones, signals across to Mirabehn. She holds a microphone by Gandhi, who is lying on his side. He seems almost out of touch. MIRABEHN Bapu... Gandhi looks at her, and then the microphone. When he speaks into the microphone his voice is very weak. GANDHI Each night before I sleep, I read a few words from the Gita and the Koran, and the Bible... (we intercut with Bourke-White and those on the roof watching) tonight I ask you to share these thoughts of God with me. And now we go into the streets, intercutting with Gandhi but seeing Hindus listening around loudspeakers on corners, in little eating houses, Muslim shops where people live in the back, and neighbors gathering defensively in groups. GANDHI (the books are there, but he does it from memory of course) I will begin with the Bible where the words of the Lord are, "Love thy neighbor as thyself"... and then our beloved Gita which says, "The world is a garment worn by God, thy neighbor is in truth thyself"... and finally the Holy Koran, "We shall remove all hatred from our hearts and recline on couches face to face, a band of brothers." He leans back, exhausted. Mirabehn is looking at him; she starts to sing softly. MIRABEHN "Lead Kindly Light, amidst the circling gloom..." Gandhi, his eyes closed, takes it up in his weak, croaking voice. GANDHI/MIRABEHN "The night is dark, and I am far from home, Lead thou me on..." TAHIB'S HOUSE - EXTERIOR - DAY Two police motorcycles lead a black limousine to a stop before Tahib's house. The crowd now gathered is very large. More mixed than before but still predominantly of youths, many still with black flags. Nehru gets out of the limousine with a Muslim leader, a tough- looking man who carries himself with the authority and power of a mobster (Suhrawardy). And they start to go up the outside stairs. Suddenly we hear the shout "Death to Gandhi!," "Death to Gandhi!" And Nehru turns, pushing past Suhrawardy fiercely and going back onto the street. He runs at the crowd, where the shout comes once more from the back. His face is wild with anger and shock. NEHRU (hysterically) Who dares say such things! Who?! (And he is running at them and they spread in fear.) Come! Kill me first! Come! Where are you?! Kill me first! The crowd has spread from him all along the street; they stand against the walls of the houses staring at him, terrified to move. We see, just in passing, the frightened, apprehensive faces of Godse, and near him, Apte and Karkare. Nehru stands, staring at them all, his face seething with anger. TAHIB'S ROOF - EXTERIOR - DAY We are featuring a copy of Life Magazine. On the cover is a picture of rioting men fighting and diagonally a cut-out of Gandhi lying on his cot. The caption reads: "An Old Man's Battle." As the magazine starts to be opened, it is suddenly put to one side. Another angle. Mirabehn is rising, leaving the magazine at her feet. She moves to Nehru and Suhrawardy as Azad ushers them into the canopied area. Abdul Ghaffar Khan sits quietly in the background. Mirabehn speaks softly. MIRABEHN His pulse is very irregular -- the kidneys aren't functioning. Nehru looks across at Gandhi. The doctor, who is testing Gandhi's pulse yet again, glances at him -- no encouragement -- and moves away. Nehru moves to the side of the cot and Gandhi smiles weakly and holds out a hand, but he is in pain. NEHRU Bapu, I have brought Mr. Suhrawardy. It was he who called on the Muslims to rise; he is telling them now to go back to their homes, to lay down their arms. Gandhi looks up at Suhrawardy, who nods. Gandhi looks back at Nehru. There is no hint of him changing his mind. NEHRU (personally) Think what you can do by living -- that you cannot do by dying. Gandhi smiles whimsically, he touches him again but there is no change in his attitude. NEHRU (pleadingly) What do you want? GANDHI (a moment) That the fighting will stop -- that you make me believe it will never start again. Nehru looks at him hopelessly. SQUARE IN CALCUTTA - EXTERIOR - DAY A huge crowd, some smoke in distant buildings, some damage near to help us know this is still Calcutta, and all is not yet at peace. The camera sweeps over the crowd, past the loudspeakers on their poles. We see surly knots of belligerent rowdies, mostly young, but not all, hanging on the fringes as we move over the heads of the mass of listening people to a platform where Nehru speaks. Azad, Suhrawardy, and others sit on the floor behind him. We have heard his voice over all this. NEHRU ...Sometimes it is when you are quite without hope and in utter darkness that God comes to the rescue. Gandhiji is dying because of our madness. Put away your "revenge." What will be gained by more killing? Have the courage to do what you know is right. For God's sake, let us embrace like brothers... TAHIB'S ROOF - EXTERIOR - NIGHT Featuring the Muslim leader Suhrawardy, leaning against a wall, watching an action out of shot with evident tension. We hear a little clank of metal. Another angle. There are five men facing Gandhi. They wear black trousers and black knit vests. There are thongs around their arms that make their bulging muscles seem even more powerful. They are Hindu thugs (Goondas). Their clothes are dirty -- and they are too -- but they are laying knives and guns at Gandhi's feet. Mirabehn, Azad, Pyarelal, the doctor and others on the roof watch fascinated, a little frightened. GOONDA LEADER It is our promise. We stop. It is a promise. Gandhi is looking at him, testing, not giving or accepting anything that is mere gesture. GANDHI Go -- try -- God by with you. The Goondas stand. They glance at Suhrawardy; he smiles tautly and they start to leave, but one (Nahari) lingers. Suddenly he moves violently toward Gandhi, taking a flat piece of Indian bread (chapati) from his trousers and tossing it forcefully on Gandhi. NAHARI Eat. Mirabehn and Azad start to move toward him -- the man looks immensely strong and immensely unstable. But Gandhi holds up a shaking hand, stopping them. Nahari's face is knotted in emotion, half anger, half almost a child's fear -- but there is a wild menace in that instability. NAHARI Eat! I am going to hell -- but not with your death on my soul. GANDHI Only God decides who goes to hell... NAHARI (stiffening, aggressive) I -- I killed a child... (Then an anguished defiance) I smashed his head against a wall. Gandhi stares at him, breathless. GANDHI (in a fearful whisper) Why? Why? It is as though the man has told him of some terrible self- inflicted wound. NAHARI (tears now -- and wrath) They killed my son -- my boy! Almost reflexively he holds his hand out to indicate the height of his son. He glares at Suhrawardy and then back at Gandhi. NAHARI The Muslims killed my son... they killed him. He is sobbing, but in his anger it seems almost as though he means to kill Gandhi in retaliation. A long moment, as Gandhi meets his pain and wrath. Then GANDHI I know a way out of hell. Nahari sneers, but there is just a flicker of desperate curiosity. GANDHI Find a child -- a child whose mother and father have been killed. A little boy -- about this high. He raises his hand to the height Nahari has indicated as his son's. GANDHI ...and raise him -- as your own. Nahari has listened. His face almost cracks -- it is a chink of light, but it does not illumine his darkness. GANDHI Only be sure... that he is a Muslim. And that you raise him as one. And now the light falls on Nahari. His face stiffens, he swallows, fighting any show of emotion; then he turns to go. But he takes only a step and he turns back, going to his knees, the sobs breaking again and again from his heaving body as he holds his head to Gandhi's feet in the traditional greeting of Hindu son to Hindu father. A second, and Gandhi reaches out and touches the top of his head. Mirabehn watches. The Goondas watch. Suhrawardy watches. Finally GANDHI (gently, exhaustedly) Go -- go. God bless you... COURTYARD - POLICE STATION - CALCUTTA - EXTERIOR - NIGHT Trucks with riot squads (shields and truncheons) in place, but they are lounging, waiting. There is silence, and air of somnolence. Some of the riot squad lounge in little groups around the courtyard. A distant cough. Featuring a senior riot squad officer dressed and ready for action. He it is who coughed. He coughs again, clearing his throat. A police sergeant stands by him, both are reading the front page of a paper the senior riot squad officer holds. We see two huge lines of headline: GANDHI NEAR DEATH/NEHRU GOES ON FAST. In one of the trucks one of the men offers another a cigarette. A telephone rings sharply, inside. The senior riot squad officer and the sergeant run in as engines start; the men run to their places, lower visors, headlights go on! POLICE STATION OFFICE - INTERIOR - DAY A constable mans the telephone. He listens as the senior riot squad officer and the sergeant run to him tensely. The sound of the great doors opening in the courtyard, more engines revving up. CONSTABLE Yes, sir, yes, sir, (He holds up his hand to the senior officer) "Wait." He glances up at the senior riot squad officer. CONSTABLE (writing, from the phone) Accident, "Christie crossroads," a lorry and a rickshaw. Yes, sir, I have it. He shrugs at the senior riot squad officer and hands the information slip to another constable behind the desk. The sergeant sighs, and moves to the outside door. We hear him bellow, "Stand down." The constable hangs up and sighs heavily. The senior riot squad officer shakes his head, and turns and walks slowly to the door. COURTYARD - POLICE STATION - EXTERIOR - NIGHT The senior riot squad officer and the sergeant stand in the doorway as the engines die. The men relax... the silence returns. A dog barks distantly, disturbed by the noise... A bird caws once or twice. SERGEANT I wouldn't have believed it, Mr. Gupta. SENIOR OFFICER Sergeant, it's a bloody miracle... HIGH SHOT - CALCUTTA - EXTERIOR - NIGHT It lies in silence. TAHIB'S ROOF - EXTERIOR - DAY Mirabehn is bent over Gandhi. He is curled almost in the fetal position, his face looking wan and sunken. For the first time there is silence, no explosions, no distant shouts, no gunfire. MIRABEHN Bapu, there's been no fighting -- anywhere. It has stopped -- the madness has stopped. We see the police commissioner, Suhrawardy, two doctors, Abdul Ghaffar Khan, and some others. Nearer Gandhi, behind Mirabehn, are Nehru, Patel, Azad and Pyarelal. Gandhi turns to Mirabehn, his face shaking, peering into her eyes. GANDHI It is foolish if it is just to save the life of an old man. MIRABEHN No... no. In every temple and mosque they have pledged to die before they lift a hand against each other. His weary eyes look at her; he looks up slowly to Azad. Azad nods "It's true." Then Patel PATEL Everywhere. Gandhi looks at Nehru. Nehru just nods tautly. Gandhi looks down, then lifts his head to Azad. GANDHI Maulana, my friend, could I have some orange juice... Then you and I will take a piece of bread together... The relief brings water to their eyes and grins to their faces. Nehru bends to Gandhi. Gandhi holds his hand out to him, and Nehru clutches it. Then NEHRU You see, Bapu, it is not difficult. I have fasted only a few hours and I accomplished what you could not do in as many days. It is a joke in their way with each other and Gandhi's eyes light, his smile comes. But it is tired. He puts his other hand over Nehru's and Nehru lowers his head to it, crying silently. BIRLA HOUSE - EXTERIOR - DAY As in the opening sequence -- but a few minutes earlier. The crowd is beginning to gather for the evening prayers. We see a tonga or two, a gardener opening the gate to the garden, three policemen standing, talking idly among themselves. BIRLA HOUSE - INTERIOR - DAY Laughter. Gandhi is eating muli; he holds his head back to capture the lemon juice. We hear the click of a camera GANDHI That is how you eat muli. Manu hands him a cloth and he wipes his hands. Another click of a camera. He is not fully recovered, but well on the way. GANDHI (to the photographer) I'm not sure I want to be remembered that way. It is all light and for fun. We get a wide-angle shot now and see that Bourke-White is shooting one of her favorite subjects again. She is enjoying the banter, as is Mirabehn, who is spinning quietly to one side of the room, and Patel, who sits cross-legged like Gandhi on the floor. Pyarelal is working on papers with him but grins at this. BOURKE-WHITE Don't worry, with luck you may not be. And she shoots him again, as he hands the cloth back to Manu. Abha is sitting next to Manu, looking at a collection of pictures of Gandhi, obviously Bourke-White's. PATEL No, he'll be remembered for tempting fate. It is wry, but waspishly chiding. Abha suddenly holds a picture up for Gandhi to see. It's one of him, ears wide, eyes round. ABHA Mickey Mouse. Gandhi taps her on the head with his finger as she smiles. But Bourke-White has looked from Patel to Gandhi, clearly shaken by the implication in Patel's words. BOURKE-WHITE You really are going to Pakistan, then? (Gandhi shrugs, and she chides too) You are a stubborn man. GANDHI (a grin, in the mood of their "flirtation") I'm simply going to prove to Muslims there, and Hindus here, that the only devils in the world are those running around in our own hearts -- and that's where all our battles ought to be fought. Abha has signaled to the cheap watch dangling from his dhoti. He glances at it, and holds his arms out. The two girls help him. BOURKE-WHITE And what kind of a warrior have you been in that warfare? She is photographing his getting-up and leaning on the two girls. GANDHI Not a very good one. That's why I have so much tolerance for the other scoundrels of the world. He moves off, but has a sudden thought and turns to Patel. GANDHI Ask Panditji to -- to consider what we've discussed. Patel nods soberly and Gandhi starts for the door, Bourke- White moving with him. GANDHI (of the photographs) Enough. BOURKE-WHITE (a plea) One more. He has passed her, he's in the doorway. We see the crowd at the end of the garden, where the light of the day is beginning to soften. He turns, teasing in his slightly flirtatious way with women. GANDHI You're a temptress. She shoots him against the door -- the crowd milling distantly, waiting -- then she lowers her camera. BOURKE-WHITE Just an admirer... GANDHI Nothing's more dangerous, especially for an old man. He turns; the last words have betrayed the smile on his face; they have a painful sense of truth about them. Bourke-White watches as he moves into the garden toward the crowd in the distance. She turns to Mirabehn. BOURKE-WHITE There's a sadness in him. It's an observation -- and a question. Mirabehn accedes gravely. MIRABEHN He thinks he's failed. Bourke-White stares at her, then turns to look out at him. BOURKE-WHITE Why? My God, if anything's proved him right, it's what's happened these last months... Mirabehn nods, but she keeps on spinning and tries to sound cynically resigned but her innate emotionalism keeps breaking through in her voice and on her face. MIRABEHN I am blinded by my love of him, but I think when we most needed it, he offered the world a way out of madness. But he doesn't see it... and neither does the world. It is laced with pain. Bourke-White turns and looks out at Gandhi -- so tiny, so weak as he walks between his "props." He has now reached the end of the garden and is moving among the crowd assembled there. THE GARDEN - BIRLA HOUSE - EXTERIOR - TWILIGHT Gandhi is moving forward in the crowd, one hand resting on Manu, the other on Abha. He makes the pranam to someone, the crowd is bowing to him, some speaking, and we also see the crowd from his point of view -- "Bapu," "God bless you," "Thank you -- thank you." He turns to a very old woman, who makes a salaam to him. Gandhi touches her head. GANDHI Allah be with you. Smiling, he turns back. A jostling, the sound of beads falling. MANU (to someone) Brother, Bapu is already late for prayers. Gandhi turns to the person; he makes the pranam. Full shot. Godse is making the pranam to him and he suddenly, wildly draws his gun and fires. The camera closes on Gandhi as he staggers and falls, the red stain of blood seeping through his white shawl. GANDHI Oh, God... oh, God... Manu and Abha bend over him, silent in their first shock. The sound of panic and alarm begins to grow around them, they suddenly scream and begin to cry. MANU/ABHA Bapu! Bapu! FUNERAL PYRE - EXTERIOR - DAY Blackness. Silence. A moment -- we sense the blackness moving -- like dark smoke. The camera is pulling back very slowly and we can tell the blackness is smoke rising from a fire. And now we see that it is a funeral pyre. And all around that pyre a mass of silent humanity. Through the smoke, sitting cross-legged near the rim of the flames, we see Nehru... and Azad and Patel, Mirabehn and Kallenbach, the drawn faces of Lord and Lady Mountbatten, Manu and Abha... THE RIVER - EXTERIOR - DAY A helicopter shot coming slowly up the wide river, low, toward a barge and a mass of people in the distance. And now we are over the barge, and it is covered with flowers. Flowers flow downstream around it. An urn sits on it -- containing Gandhi's ashes -- and Nehru stands near it,

mother

How many times the word 'mother' appears in the text?

with them now the giant figure of Abdul Ghaffar Khan, the first time we have seen him among Gandhi's intimate group. NEHRU In Calcutta it's like civil war. The Muslims rose and there was a bloodbath, and now the Hindus are taking revenge -- and if we can't stop it there'll be no hope for the Hindus left in Pakistan. PATEL ...an eye for an eye making the whole world blind. It is an empty and despairing echo of Gandhi's words. AZAD Aren't there any troops to spare? NEHRU (tense, fragile) Nothing -- nothing. The divisions in Bombay and Delhi can hardly keep the peace now. And each fresh bit of news creates another wave of mad... ness. He has turned and seen Gandhi standing slowly. It has almost stopped him. PATEL Could we cut all news off? I know -- NEHRU Bapu -- please. Where are you going. GANDHI (sounding like an old man) I don't want to hear more... He is moving toward the door. It stops them all. Pyarelal moves tentatively to open the door. PATEL (impatiently) We need your help! GANDHI There is nothing I can give. AZAD Where are you going? Gandhi turns, looks at him bleakly. GANDHI Calcutta. CALCUTTA - EXTERIOR - NIGHT We are high. There are fires, the sounds of spasmodic gunfire, of looting, screams, the roar of police vehicles and occasional sirens. The camera zooms in on a poor quarter of artisan dwellings in narrow streets. Outside one of the houses is a car, an army jeep, policemen, a few soldiers and a group of people. It seems a little island of calm in a sea of wild chaos. On the roof of the house, a figure moves into the light. CLOSER - TAHIB'S ROOF The figure is Gandhi. He peers down at the dark, rioting streets. Azad, Tahib, a Muslim whose house this is, Mirabehn and Pyarelal are with him along Abdul Ghaffar Khan. A police commissioner moves to Gandhi's side, demanding his attention. POLICE COMMISSIONER Sir, please, I don't have the men to protect you -- not in a Muslim house. Not this quarter. GANDHI I am staying with the friend of a friend. There is a sudden commotion just below them and angry shouts: "Death to Muslims!," "Death to Muslims!" Gandhi peers down. His point of view. A surging gang of youths, many carrying torches, and far outnumbering the little group of police and soldiers, are shouting up at the roof. We see three or four black flags and stains of blood on many of them. A few hold knives still wet with blood. A YOUTH There he is! A feral roar goes up at the sight of Gandhi, but he stands unmoving. HINDU YOUTH LEADER (his voice emotional, tearful) Why are you staying at the home of a Muslim! They're murderers! They killed my family! Featuring Gandhi. It is a comment too grave for glibness, and Gandhi is obviously struck by the pain of it. He pauses for a moment, staring down at the youth: GANDHI Because forgiveness is the gift of the brave. He makes it mean the youth. For a second it makes an impact, but then the youth shouts his defiance at him and his message. YOUTH To hell with you, Gandhi!! An angry chorus of acclamation; when it dies GANDHI (to the youth) Go -- do as your mother and father would wish you to do. It is ambiguous, open-ended, meaning anything your mother and father would wish you to do. Tears flush from the boy's eyes and he stares at Gandhi with a kind of hopeless anguish and rage. But the impact is on the youth alone; around him the others begin to take up the chant "Death to Muslims!," "Death to Muslims!" Gandhi turns from the street. He looks at the police commissioner -- at his fatigue, his concern, his manifest respect. Gandhi musters a weary smile. GANDHI I have lived a lifetime. If I had shunned death -- or feared it -- I would not be here. Nor would you be concerned for me. (He lets it sink in then he takes the commissioner's arm and moves back toward the center of the roof.) Leave me -- and take your men. (An understanding touch of the arm.) You have more important things to worry about. The commissioner looks at him, uncertain, not knowing what to do, as the angry chanting continues above the sound of rioting. HOSPITAL - INTERIOR - DAY An old, inadequate hospital -- dark cavernous. Margaret Bourke- White is moving among the densely packed litter of wounded women. She is positioning herself to photograph Gandhi, who is speaking to a woman who cradles a small baby. The corridors behind him are even more packed. The few doctors and nurses hardly have room to move. Featuring Gandhi. Azad and Mirabehn are behind him as he moves on, and behind them, like a giant guardian, Abdul Ghaffar Khan. We hear "Bapu, Bapu" muttered quietly here and there. Gandhi bends to a woman whose face is bandaged and a cruel wound is half-exposed between her mouth and eye. WOMAN Bapu... Allah be with you... There are tears in Gandhi's eyes now. GANDHI And with you. (He touches her wrinkled hand.) Pray... I cannot help you -- pray... pray. And the weight of his helplessness hangs on him. CALCUTTA STREET - EXTERIOR - DAY A streetcar (tram) crashes into a barricade of carts, rickshaws, a couple of old cars, smashing through to breach the barricade, but stopped in the end by the mass of debris. The streetcar is loaded with Indian troops and they break from the stalled vehicle to chase A gang of Hindus -- organized -- runs down the street from the troops, some dragging the bodies of victims with them. We see several Hindu black flags. NEHRU'S OFFICE - INTERIOR - NIGHT He speaks across his desk to a senior police commissioner. The same activity going on in the background. NEHRU (angrily) No! There will not be a Hindu Police and a Muslim Police. There is one police! An aide slips a newspaper on his desk in front of him. He doesn't look at it till the senior commissioner lowers his head and turns, accepting defeat. Then Nehru glances at the paper. In thick headlines: GANDHI: A FAST UNTO DEATH! Nehru doesn't move for a moment. Then he lifts his face slowly to his aide. NEHRU Why must I read news like this in the paper? The aide shakes his head -- there's no answer. Nehru lowers his head again; it is like another burden on a man who already has too many. He grips his temples... a terrible sigh. NEHRU Tell Patel. Arrange a plane. We will go -- Friday. THE AIDE Four days? Nehru thinks on it solemnly, then nods yes. TAHIB'S HOUSE - EXTERIOR - DAY The sounds of rioting and looting on nearby streets, but here a mass of people are gathered. Many youths with black flags. Two black government limousines. Motorcycles. Police and soldiers. They are looking off to AN OUTSIDE STAIRCASE - TAHIB'S HOUSE It runs up the side of the building and is lined with waiting people. Nehru and Patel are climbing the stairs, moving past them almost irritably as they mutter "Nehru, Nehru," "Patel," and make the pranam to the eminent men. In the heat of the city Tahib's rooftop is still Gandhi's "home" and has become a center of activity. Azad clears someone aside and ushers Nehru and Patel under the canopy awning. Nehru pauses as he lowers his head. His point of view. Gandhi lies curled awkwardly on his side of the cot. He is writing, Pyarelal taking the pages as he finishes, both ignoring all the people, the sounds of gunfire and distant shouting, but he looks tired and tightens his jaw occasionally in pain. The camera pans. A doctor sits near the foot of the cot, Abdul Ghaffar Khan beyond him. Near the other edge of the canopied area, Mirabehn sits with Bourke-White. They are whispering quietly, but Mirabehn has stopped on seeing Nehru and she smiles a relieved greeting. She knows Gandhi's feeling for him. Bourke-White stares at him and Patel for a second and then her hand goes slowly, almost reflexively, for her camera. CLOSER ON GANDHI Nehru crosses and kneels so that he is almost at Gandhi's eyeline. Gandhi must take his eyes from his writing to look, and he is almost moved to tears at the sight of Nehru. His hand shakes a little as he holds it out to him. NEHRU Bapu... Gandhi turns to pat their joined hands with his other hand. He does so with effort, and at last he sees Patel. GANDHI Sardar... (He looks him over.) You have gained weight. You must join me in the fast. Patel sits near the head of the cot so the three of them are on a level. Outside the canopied area, Bourke-White is crouched, her camera framing the three of them. PATEL (wittily, warmly) If I fast I die. If you fast people go to all sorts of trouble to keep you alive. Gandhi smiles and reaches to touch hands with him. NEHRU Bapu, forgive me -- I've cheated. I could have come earlier. But your fast has helped. These last days people's minds have begun to turn to this bed -- and away from last night's atrocity. But now it is enough. Gandhi shakes his head. GANDHI All that has happened is that I've grown a little thinner. It is despairingly sincere. But Nehru feels he has an antidote for that despair. The distant sound of an explosion. NEHRU Tomorrow five thousand Muslim students of all ages are marching here in Calcutta -- for peace. (The real point) And five thousand Hindu students are marching with them. It is all organized. Bourke-White captures the sense of elation in his face. From her discreet distance, she lowers the camera, holding it against her mouth, waiting for Gandhi's response. Gandhi nods to Nehru, accepting the news with a sad wistfulness. GANDHI I'm glad -- but it will not be enough. Nehru isn't prepared for this resistance. He glances at Patel, and we see that they recognize that their bland conviction that they could talk him out of the fast was deeply misplaced. Nehru turns back -- this time no confidence, only concern. A forced smile. NEHRU Bapu, you are not so young anymore. Gandhi smiles, pain etched in his eyes. He touches Nehru's hand. GANDHI Don't worry for me -- death will be a deliverance. (There is water in his eyes, but his words have the weight of a man truly determined to die.) I cannot watch the destruction of all I have lived for. Nehru stares at him, feeling the sudden fear that Gandhi means it. Patel, Mirabehn, Azad, Bourke-White are gripped by the same realization. TAHIB'S HOUSE - EXTERIOR - NIGHT An outside broadcast truck is parked among the usual crowd, grown even larger now, and more women among them. The sounds of distant fighting. TAHIB'S ROOF - EXTERIOR - NIGHT The senior technician, in earphones, signals across to Mirabehn. She holds a microphone by Gandhi, who is lying on his side. He seems almost out of touch. MIRABEHN Bapu... Gandhi looks at her, and then the microphone. When he speaks into the microphone his voice is very weak. GANDHI Each night before I sleep, I read a few words from the Gita and the Koran, and the Bible... (we intercut with Bourke-White and those on the roof watching) tonight I ask you to share these thoughts of God with me. And now we go into the streets, intercutting with Gandhi but seeing Hindus listening around loudspeakers on corners, in little eating houses, Muslim shops where people live in the back, and neighbors gathering defensively in groups. GANDHI (the books are there, but he does it from memory of course) I will begin with the Bible where the words of the Lord are, "Love thy neighbor as thyself"... and then our beloved Gita which says, "The world is a garment worn by God, thy neighbor is in truth thyself"... and finally the Holy Koran, "We shall remove all hatred from our hearts and recline on couches face to face, a band of brothers." He leans back, exhausted. Mirabehn is looking at him; she starts to sing softly. MIRABEHN "Lead Kindly Light, amidst the circling gloom..." Gandhi, his eyes closed, takes it up in his weak, croaking voice. GANDHI/MIRABEHN "The night is dark, and I am far from home, Lead thou me on..." TAHIB'S HOUSE - EXTERIOR - DAY Two police motorcycles lead a black limousine to a stop before Tahib's house. The crowd now gathered is very large. More mixed than before but still predominantly of youths, many still with black flags. Nehru gets out of the limousine with a Muslim leader, a tough- looking man who carries himself with the authority and power of a mobster (Suhrawardy). And they start to go up the outside stairs. Suddenly we hear the shout "Death to Gandhi!," "Death to Gandhi!" And Nehru turns, pushing past Suhrawardy fiercely and going back onto the street. He runs at the crowd, where the shout comes once more from the back. His face is wild with anger and shock. NEHRU (hysterically) Who dares say such things! Who?! (And he is running at them and they spread in fear.) Come! Kill me first! Come! Where are you?! Kill me first! The crowd has spread from him all along the street; they stand against the walls of the houses staring at him, terrified to move. We see, just in passing, the frightened, apprehensive faces of Godse, and near him, Apte and Karkare. Nehru stands, staring at them all, his face seething with anger. TAHIB'S ROOF - EXTERIOR - DAY We are featuring a copy of Life Magazine. On the cover is a picture of rioting men fighting and diagonally a cut-out of Gandhi lying on his cot. The caption reads: "An Old Man's Battle." As the magazine starts to be opened, it is suddenly put to one side. Another angle. Mirabehn is rising, leaving the magazine at her feet. She moves to Nehru and Suhrawardy as Azad ushers them into the canopied area. Abdul Ghaffar Khan sits quietly in the background. Mirabehn speaks softly. MIRABEHN His pulse is very irregular -- the kidneys aren't functioning. Nehru looks across at Gandhi. The doctor, who is testing Gandhi's pulse yet again, glances at him -- no encouragement -- and moves away. Nehru moves to the side of the cot and Gandhi smiles weakly and holds out a hand, but he is in pain. NEHRU Bapu, I have brought Mr. Suhrawardy. It was he who called on the Muslims to rise; he is telling them now to go back to their homes, to lay down their arms. Gandhi looks up at Suhrawardy, who nods. Gandhi looks back at Nehru. There is no hint of him changing his mind. NEHRU (personally) Think what you can do by living -- that you cannot do by dying. Gandhi smiles whimsically, he touches him again but there is no change in his attitude. NEHRU (pleadingly) What do you want? GANDHI (a moment) That the fighting will stop -- that you make me believe it will never start again. Nehru looks at him hopelessly. SQUARE IN CALCUTTA - EXTERIOR - DAY A huge crowd, some smoke in distant buildings, some damage near to help us know this is still Calcutta, and all is not yet at peace. The camera sweeps over the crowd, past the loudspeakers on their poles. We see surly knots of belligerent rowdies, mostly young, but not all, hanging on the fringes as we move over the heads of the mass of listening people to a platform where Nehru speaks. Azad, Suhrawardy, and others sit on the floor behind him. We have heard his voice over all this. NEHRU ...Sometimes it is when you are quite without hope and in utter darkness that God comes to the rescue. Gandhiji is dying because of our madness. Put away your "revenge." What will be gained by more killing? Have the courage to do what you know is right. For God's sake, let us embrace like brothers... TAHIB'S ROOF - EXTERIOR - NIGHT Featuring the Muslim leader Suhrawardy, leaning against a wall, watching an action out of shot with evident tension. We hear a little clank of metal. Another angle. There are five men facing Gandhi. They wear black trousers and black knit vests. There are thongs around their arms that make their bulging muscles seem even more powerful. They are Hindu thugs (Goondas). Their clothes are dirty -- and they are too -- but they are laying knives and guns at Gandhi's feet. Mirabehn, Azad, Pyarelal, the doctor and others on the roof watch fascinated, a little frightened. GOONDA LEADER It is our promise. We stop. It is a promise. Gandhi is looking at him, testing, not giving or accepting anything that is mere gesture. GANDHI Go -- try -- God by with you. The Goondas stand. They glance at Suhrawardy; he smiles tautly and they start to leave, but one (Nahari) lingers. Suddenly he moves violently toward Gandhi, taking a flat piece of Indian bread (chapati) from his trousers and tossing it forcefully on Gandhi. NAHARI Eat. Mirabehn and Azad start to move toward him -- the man looks immensely strong and immensely unstable. But Gandhi holds up a shaking hand, stopping them. Nahari's face is knotted in emotion, half anger, half almost a child's fear -- but there is a wild menace in that instability. NAHARI Eat! I am going to hell -- but not with your death on my soul. GANDHI Only God decides who goes to hell... NAHARI (stiffening, aggressive) I -- I killed a child... (Then an anguished defiance) I smashed his head against a wall. Gandhi stares at him, breathless. GANDHI (in a fearful whisper) Why? Why? It is as though the man has told him of some terrible self- inflicted wound. NAHARI (tears now -- and wrath) They killed my son -- my boy! Almost reflexively he holds his hand out to indicate the height of his son. He glares at Suhrawardy and then back at Gandhi. NAHARI The Muslims killed my son... they killed him. He is sobbing, but in his anger it seems almost as though he means to kill Gandhi in retaliation. A long moment, as Gandhi meets his pain and wrath. Then GANDHI I know a way out of hell. Nahari sneers, but there is just a flicker of desperate curiosity. GANDHI Find a child -- a child whose mother and father have been killed. A little boy -- about this high. He raises his hand to the height Nahari has indicated as his son's. GANDHI ...and raise him -- as your own. Nahari has listened. His face almost cracks -- it is a chink of light, but it does not illumine his darkness. GANDHI Only be sure... that he is a Muslim. And that you raise him as one. And now the light falls on Nahari. His face stiffens, he swallows, fighting any show of emotion; then he turns to go. But he takes only a step and he turns back, going to his knees, the sobs breaking again and again from his heaving body as he holds his head to Gandhi's feet in the traditional greeting of Hindu son to Hindu father. A second, and Gandhi reaches out and touches the top of his head. Mirabehn watches. The Goondas watch. Suhrawardy watches. Finally GANDHI (gently, exhaustedly) Go -- go. God bless you... COURTYARD - POLICE STATION - CALCUTTA - EXTERIOR - NIGHT Trucks with riot squads (shields and truncheons) in place, but they are lounging, waiting. There is silence, and air of somnolence. Some of the riot squad lounge in little groups around the courtyard. A distant cough. Featuring a senior riot squad officer dressed and ready for action. He it is who coughed. He coughs again, clearing his throat. A police sergeant stands by him, both are reading the front page of a paper the senior riot squad officer holds. We see two huge lines of headline: GANDHI NEAR DEATH/NEHRU GOES ON FAST. In one of the trucks one of the men offers another a cigarette. A telephone rings sharply, inside. The senior riot squad officer and the sergeant run in as engines start; the men run to their places, lower visors, headlights go on! POLICE STATION OFFICE - INTERIOR - DAY A constable mans the telephone. He listens as the senior riot squad officer and the sergeant run to him tensely. The sound of the great doors opening in the courtyard, more engines revving up. CONSTABLE Yes, sir, yes, sir, (He holds up his hand to the senior officer) "Wait." He glances up at the senior riot squad officer. CONSTABLE (writing, from the phone) Accident, "Christie crossroads," a lorry and a rickshaw. Yes, sir, I have it. He shrugs at the senior riot squad officer and hands the information slip to another constable behind the desk. The sergeant sighs, and moves to the outside door. We hear him bellow, "Stand down." The constable hangs up and sighs heavily. The senior riot squad officer shakes his head, and turns and walks slowly to the door. COURTYARD - POLICE STATION - EXTERIOR - NIGHT The senior riot squad officer and the sergeant stand in the doorway as the engines die. The men relax... the silence returns. A dog barks distantly, disturbed by the noise... A bird caws once or twice. SERGEANT I wouldn't have believed it, Mr. Gupta. SENIOR OFFICER Sergeant, it's a bloody miracle... HIGH SHOT - CALCUTTA - EXTERIOR - NIGHT It lies in silence. TAHIB'S ROOF - EXTERIOR - DAY Mirabehn is bent over Gandhi. He is curled almost in the fetal position, his face looking wan and sunken. For the first time there is silence, no explosions, no distant shouts, no gunfire. MIRABEHN Bapu, there's been no fighting -- anywhere. It has stopped -- the madness has stopped. We see the police commissioner, Suhrawardy, two doctors, Abdul Ghaffar Khan, and some others. Nearer Gandhi, behind Mirabehn, are Nehru, Patel, Azad and Pyarelal. Gandhi turns to Mirabehn, his face shaking, peering into her eyes. GANDHI It is foolish if it is just to save the life of an old man. MIRABEHN No... no. In every temple and mosque they have pledged to die before they lift a hand against each other. His weary eyes look at her; he looks up slowly to Azad. Azad nods "It's true." Then Patel PATEL Everywhere. Gandhi looks at Nehru. Nehru just nods tautly. Gandhi looks down, then lifts his head to Azad. GANDHI Maulana, my friend, could I have some orange juice... Then you and I will take a piece of bread together... The relief brings water to their eyes and grins to their faces. Nehru bends to Gandhi. Gandhi holds his hand out to him, and Nehru clutches it. Then NEHRU You see, Bapu, it is not difficult. I have fasted only a few hours and I accomplished what you could not do in as many days. It is a joke in their way with each other and Gandhi's eyes light, his smile comes. But it is tired. He puts his other hand over Nehru's and Nehru lowers his head to it, crying silently. BIRLA HOUSE - EXTERIOR - DAY As in the opening sequence -- but a few minutes earlier. The crowd is beginning to gather for the evening prayers. We see a tonga or two, a gardener opening the gate to the garden, three policemen standing, talking idly among themselves. BIRLA HOUSE - INTERIOR - DAY Laughter. Gandhi is eating muli; he holds his head back to capture the lemon juice. We hear the click of a camera GANDHI That is how you eat muli. Manu hands him a cloth and he wipes his hands. Another click of a camera. He is not fully recovered, but well on the way. GANDHI (to the photographer) I'm not sure I want to be remembered that way. It is all light and for fun. We get a wide-angle shot now and see that Bourke-White is shooting one of her favorite subjects again. She is enjoying the banter, as is Mirabehn, who is spinning quietly to one side of the room, and Patel, who sits cross-legged like Gandhi on the floor. Pyarelal is working on papers with him but grins at this. BOURKE-WHITE Don't worry, with luck you may not be. And she shoots him again, as he hands the cloth back to Manu. Abha is sitting next to Manu, looking at a collection of pictures of Gandhi, obviously Bourke-White's. PATEL No, he'll be remembered for tempting fate. It is wry, but waspishly chiding. Abha suddenly holds a picture up for Gandhi to see. It's one of him, ears wide, eyes round. ABHA Mickey Mouse. Gandhi taps her on the head with his finger as she smiles. But Bourke-White has looked from Patel to Gandhi, clearly shaken by the implication in Patel's words. BOURKE-WHITE You really are going to Pakistan, then? (Gandhi shrugs, and she chides too) You are a stubborn man. GANDHI (a grin, in the mood of their "flirtation") I'm simply going to prove to Muslims there, and Hindus here, that the only devils in the world are those running around in our own hearts -- and that's where all our battles ought to be fought. Abha has signaled to the cheap watch dangling from his dhoti. He glances at it, and holds his arms out. The two girls help him. BOURKE-WHITE And what kind of a warrior have you been in that warfare? She is photographing his getting-up and leaning on the two girls. GANDHI Not a very good one. That's why I have so much tolerance for the other scoundrels of the world. He moves off, but has a sudden thought and turns to Patel. GANDHI Ask Panditji to -- to consider what we've discussed. Patel nods soberly and Gandhi starts for the door, Bourke- White moving with him. GANDHI (of the photographs) Enough. BOURKE-WHITE (a plea) One more. He has passed her, he's in the doorway. We see the crowd at the end of the garden, where the light of the day is beginning to soften. He turns, teasing in his slightly flirtatious way with women. GANDHI You're a temptress. She shoots him against the door -- the crowd milling distantly, waiting -- then she lowers her camera. BOURKE-WHITE Just an admirer... GANDHI Nothing's more dangerous, especially for an old man. He turns; the last words have betrayed the smile on his face; they have a painful sense of truth about them. Bourke-White watches as he moves into the garden toward the crowd in the distance. She turns to Mirabehn. BOURKE-WHITE There's a sadness in him. It's an observation -- and a question. Mirabehn accedes gravely. MIRABEHN He thinks he's failed. Bourke-White stares at her, then turns to look out at him. BOURKE-WHITE Why? My God, if anything's proved him right, it's what's happened these last months... Mirabehn nods, but she keeps on spinning and tries to sound cynically resigned but her innate emotionalism keeps breaking through in her voice and on her face. MIRABEHN I am blinded by my love of him, but I think when we most needed it, he offered the world a way out of madness. But he doesn't see it... and neither does the world. It is laced with pain. Bourke-White turns and looks out at Gandhi -- so tiny, so weak as he walks between his "props." He has now reached the end of the garden and is moving among the crowd assembled there. THE GARDEN - BIRLA HOUSE - EXTERIOR - TWILIGHT Gandhi is moving forward in the crowd, one hand resting on Manu, the other on Abha. He makes the pranam to someone, the crowd is bowing to him, some speaking, and we also see the crowd from his point of view -- "Bapu," "God bless you," "Thank you -- thank you." He turns to a very old woman, who makes a salaam to him. Gandhi touches her head. GANDHI Allah be with you. Smiling, he turns back. A jostling, the sound of beads falling. MANU (to someone) Brother, Bapu is already late for prayers. Gandhi turns to the person; he makes the pranam. Full shot. Godse is making the pranam to him and he suddenly, wildly draws his gun and fires. The camera closes on Gandhi as he staggers and falls, the red stain of blood seeping through his white shawl. GANDHI Oh, God... oh, God... Manu and Abha bend over him, silent in their first shock. The sound of panic and alarm begins to grow around them, they suddenly scream and begin to cry. MANU/ABHA Bapu! Bapu! FUNERAL PYRE - EXTERIOR - DAY Blackness. Silence. A moment -- we sense the blackness moving -- like dark smoke. The camera is pulling back very slowly and we can tell the blackness is smoke rising from a fire. And now we see that it is a funeral pyre. And all around that pyre a mass of silent humanity. Through the smoke, sitting cross-legged near the rim of the flames, we see Nehru... and Azad and Patel, Mirabehn and Kallenbach, the drawn faces of Lord and Lady Mountbatten, Manu and Abha... THE RIVER - EXTERIOR - DAY A helicopter shot coming slowly up the wide river, low, toward a barge and a mass of people in the distance. And now we are over the barge, and it is covered with flowers. Flowers flow downstream around it. An urn sits on it -- containing Gandhi's ashes -- and Nehru stands near it,

n'as

How many times the word 'n'as' appears in the text?

with them now the giant figure of Abdul Ghaffar Khan, the first time we have seen him among Gandhi's intimate group. NEHRU In Calcutta it's like civil war. The Muslims rose and there was a bloodbath, and now the Hindus are taking revenge -- and if we can't stop it there'll be no hope for the Hindus left in Pakistan. PATEL ...an eye for an eye making the whole world blind. It is an empty and despairing echo of Gandhi's words. AZAD Aren't there any troops to spare? NEHRU (tense, fragile) Nothing -- nothing. The divisions in Bombay and Delhi can hardly keep the peace now. And each fresh bit of news creates another wave of mad... ness. He has turned and seen Gandhi standing slowly. It has almost stopped him. PATEL Could we cut all news off? I know -- NEHRU Bapu -- please. Where are you going. GANDHI (sounding like an old man) I don't want to hear more... He is moving toward the door. It stops them all. Pyarelal moves tentatively to open the door. PATEL (impatiently) We need your help! GANDHI There is nothing I can give. AZAD Where are you going? Gandhi turns, looks at him bleakly. GANDHI Calcutta. CALCUTTA - EXTERIOR - NIGHT We are high. There are fires, the sounds of spasmodic gunfire, of looting, screams, the roar of police vehicles and occasional sirens. The camera zooms in on a poor quarter of artisan dwellings in narrow streets. Outside one of the houses is a car, an army jeep, policemen, a few soldiers and a group of people. It seems a little island of calm in a sea of wild chaos. On the roof of the house, a figure moves into the light. CLOSER - TAHIB'S ROOF The figure is Gandhi. He peers down at the dark, rioting streets. Azad, Tahib, a Muslim whose house this is, Mirabehn and Pyarelal are with him along Abdul Ghaffar Khan. A police commissioner moves to Gandhi's side, demanding his attention. POLICE COMMISSIONER Sir, please, I don't have the men to protect you -- not in a Muslim house. Not this quarter. GANDHI I am staying with the friend of a friend. There is a sudden commotion just below them and angry shouts: "Death to Muslims!," "Death to Muslims!" Gandhi peers down. His point of view. A surging gang of youths, many carrying torches, and far outnumbering the little group of police and soldiers, are shouting up at the roof. We see three or four black flags and stains of blood on many of them. A few hold knives still wet with blood. A YOUTH There he is! A feral roar goes up at the sight of Gandhi, but he stands unmoving. HINDU YOUTH LEADER (his voice emotional, tearful) Why are you staying at the home of a Muslim! They're murderers! They killed my family! Featuring Gandhi. It is a comment too grave for glibness, and Gandhi is obviously struck by the pain of it. He pauses for a moment, staring down at the youth: GANDHI Because forgiveness is the gift of the brave. He makes it mean the youth. For a second it makes an impact, but then the youth shouts his defiance at him and his message. YOUTH To hell with you, Gandhi!! An angry chorus of acclamation; when it dies GANDHI (to the youth) Go -- do as your mother and father would wish you to do. It is ambiguous, open-ended, meaning anything your mother and father would wish you to do. Tears flush from the boy's eyes and he stares at Gandhi with a kind of hopeless anguish and rage. But the impact is on the youth alone; around him the others begin to take up the chant "Death to Muslims!," "Death to Muslims!" Gandhi turns from the street. He looks at the police commissioner -- at his fatigue, his concern, his manifest respect. Gandhi musters a weary smile. GANDHI I have lived a lifetime. If I had shunned death -- or feared it -- I would not be here. Nor would you be concerned for me. (He lets it sink in then he takes the commissioner's arm and moves back toward the center of the roof.) Leave me -- and take your men. (An understanding touch of the arm.) You have more important things to worry about. The commissioner looks at him, uncertain, not knowing what to do, as the angry chanting continues above the sound of rioting. HOSPITAL - INTERIOR - DAY An old, inadequate hospital -- dark cavernous. Margaret Bourke- White is moving among the densely packed litter of wounded women. She is positioning herself to photograph Gandhi, who is speaking to a woman who cradles a small baby. The corridors behind him are even more packed. The few doctors and nurses hardly have room to move. Featuring Gandhi. Azad and Mirabehn are behind him as he moves on, and behind them, like a giant guardian, Abdul Ghaffar Khan. We hear "Bapu, Bapu" muttered quietly here and there. Gandhi bends to a woman whose face is bandaged and a cruel wound is half-exposed between her mouth and eye. WOMAN Bapu... Allah be with you... There are tears in Gandhi's eyes now. GANDHI And with you. (He touches her wrinkled hand.) Pray... I cannot help you -- pray... pray. And the weight of his helplessness hangs on him. CALCUTTA STREET - EXTERIOR - DAY A streetcar (tram) crashes into a barricade of carts, rickshaws, a couple of old cars, smashing through to breach the barricade, but stopped in the end by the mass of debris. The streetcar is loaded with Indian troops and they break from the stalled vehicle to chase A gang of Hindus -- organized -- runs down the street from the troops, some dragging the bodies of victims with them. We see several Hindu black flags. NEHRU'S OFFICE - INTERIOR - NIGHT He speaks across his desk to a senior police commissioner. The same activity going on in the background. NEHRU (angrily) No! There will not be a Hindu Police and a Muslim Police. There is one police! An aide slips a newspaper on his desk in front of him. He doesn't look at it till the senior commissioner lowers his head and turns, accepting defeat. Then Nehru glances at the paper. In thick headlines: GANDHI: A FAST UNTO DEATH! Nehru doesn't move for a moment. Then he lifts his face slowly to his aide. NEHRU Why must I read news like this in the paper? The aide shakes his head -- there's no answer. Nehru lowers his head again; it is like another burden on a man who already has too many. He grips his temples... a terrible sigh. NEHRU Tell Patel. Arrange a plane. We will go -- Friday. THE AIDE Four days? Nehru thinks on it solemnly, then nods yes. TAHIB'S HOUSE - EXTERIOR - DAY The sounds of rioting and looting on nearby streets, but here a mass of people are gathered. Many youths with black flags. Two black government limousines. Motorcycles. Police and soldiers. They are looking off to AN OUTSIDE STAIRCASE - TAHIB'S HOUSE It runs up the side of the building and is lined with waiting people. Nehru and Patel are climbing the stairs, moving past them almost irritably as they mutter "Nehru, Nehru," "Patel," and make the pranam to the eminent men. In the heat of the city Tahib's rooftop is still Gandhi's "home" and has become a center of activity. Azad clears someone aside and ushers Nehru and Patel under the canopy awning. Nehru pauses as he lowers his head. His point of view. Gandhi lies curled awkwardly on his side of the cot. He is writing, Pyarelal taking the pages as he finishes, both ignoring all the people, the sounds of gunfire and distant shouting, but he looks tired and tightens his jaw occasionally in pain. The camera pans. A doctor sits near the foot of the cot, Abdul Ghaffar Khan beyond him. Near the other edge of the canopied area, Mirabehn sits with Bourke-White. They are whispering quietly, but Mirabehn has stopped on seeing Nehru and she smiles a relieved greeting. She knows Gandhi's feeling for him. Bourke-White stares at him and Patel for a second and then her hand goes slowly, almost reflexively, for her camera. CLOSER ON GANDHI Nehru crosses and kneels so that he is almost at Gandhi's eyeline. Gandhi must take his eyes from his writing to look, and he is almost moved to tears at the sight of Nehru. His hand shakes a little as he holds it out to him. NEHRU Bapu... Gandhi turns to pat their joined hands with his other hand. He does so with effort, and at last he sees Patel. GANDHI Sardar... (He looks him over.) You have gained weight. You must join me in the fast. Patel sits near the head of the cot so the three of them are on a level. Outside the canopied area, Bourke-White is crouched, her camera framing the three of them. PATEL (wittily, warmly) If I fast I die. If you fast people go to all sorts of trouble to keep you alive. Gandhi smiles and reaches to touch hands with him. NEHRU Bapu, forgive me -- I've cheated. I could have come earlier. But your fast has helped. These last days people's minds have begun to turn to this bed -- and away from last night's atrocity. But now it is enough. Gandhi shakes his head. GANDHI All that has happened is that I've grown a little thinner. It is despairingly sincere. But Nehru feels he has an antidote for that despair. The distant sound of an explosion. NEHRU Tomorrow five thousand Muslim students of all ages are marching here in Calcutta -- for peace. (The real point) And five thousand Hindu students are marching with them. It is all organized. Bourke-White captures the sense of elation in his face. From her discreet distance, she lowers the camera, holding it against her mouth, waiting for Gandhi's response. Gandhi nods to Nehru, accepting the news with a sad wistfulness. GANDHI I'm glad -- but it will not be enough. Nehru isn't prepared for this resistance. He glances at Patel, and we see that they recognize that their bland conviction that they could talk him out of the fast was deeply misplaced. Nehru turns back -- this time no confidence, only concern. A forced smile. NEHRU Bapu, you are not so young anymore. Gandhi smiles, pain etched in his eyes. He touches Nehru's hand. GANDHI Don't worry for me -- death will be a deliverance. (There is water in his eyes, but his words have the weight of a man truly determined to die.) I cannot watch the destruction of all I have lived for. Nehru stares at him, feeling the sudden fear that Gandhi means it. Patel, Mirabehn, Azad, Bourke-White are gripped by the same realization. TAHIB'S HOUSE - EXTERIOR - NIGHT An outside broadcast truck is parked among the usual crowd, grown even larger now, and more women among them. The sounds of distant fighting. TAHIB'S ROOF - EXTERIOR - NIGHT The senior technician, in earphones, signals across to Mirabehn. She holds a microphone by Gandhi, who is lying on his side. He seems almost out of touch. MIRABEHN Bapu... Gandhi looks at her, and then the microphone. When he speaks into the microphone his voice is very weak. GANDHI Each night before I sleep, I read a few words from the Gita and the Koran, and the Bible... (we intercut with Bourke-White and those on the roof watching) tonight I ask you to share these thoughts of God with me. And now we go into the streets, intercutting with Gandhi but seeing Hindus listening around loudspeakers on corners, in little eating houses, Muslim shops where people live in the back, and neighbors gathering defensively in groups. GANDHI (the books are there, but he does it from memory of course) I will begin with the Bible where the words of the Lord are, "Love thy neighbor as thyself"... and then our beloved Gita which says, "The world is a garment worn by God, thy neighbor is in truth thyself"... and finally the Holy Koran, "We shall remove all hatred from our hearts and recline on couches face to face, a band of brothers." He leans back, exhausted. Mirabehn is looking at him; she starts to sing softly. MIRABEHN "Lead Kindly Light, amidst the circling gloom..." Gandhi, his eyes closed, takes it up in his weak, croaking voice. GANDHI/MIRABEHN "The night is dark, and I am far from home, Lead thou me on..." TAHIB'S HOUSE - EXTERIOR - DAY Two police motorcycles lead a black limousine to a stop before Tahib's house. The crowd now gathered is very large. More mixed than before but still predominantly of youths, many still with black flags. Nehru gets out of the limousine with a Muslim leader, a tough- looking man who carries himself with the authority and power of a mobster (Suhrawardy). And they start to go up the outside stairs. Suddenly we hear the shout "Death to Gandhi!," "Death to Gandhi!" And Nehru turns, pushing past Suhrawardy fiercely and going back onto the street. He runs at the crowd, where the shout comes once more from the back. His face is wild with anger and shock. NEHRU (hysterically) Who dares say such things! Who?! (And he is running at them and they spread in fear.) Come! Kill me first! Come! Where are you?! Kill me first! The crowd has spread from him all along the street; they stand against the walls of the houses staring at him, terrified to move. We see, just in passing, the frightened, apprehensive faces of Godse, and near him, Apte and Karkare. Nehru stands, staring at them all, his face seething with anger. TAHIB'S ROOF - EXTERIOR - DAY We are featuring a copy of Life Magazine. On the cover is a picture of rioting men fighting and diagonally a cut-out of Gandhi lying on his cot. The caption reads: "An Old Man's Battle." As the magazine starts to be opened, it is suddenly put to one side. Another angle. Mirabehn is rising, leaving the magazine at her feet. She moves to Nehru and Suhrawardy as Azad ushers them into the canopied area. Abdul Ghaffar Khan sits quietly in the background. Mirabehn speaks softly. MIRABEHN His pulse is very irregular -- the kidneys aren't functioning. Nehru looks across at Gandhi. The doctor, who is testing Gandhi's pulse yet again, glances at him -- no encouragement -- and moves away. Nehru moves to the side of the cot and Gandhi smiles weakly and holds out a hand, but he is in pain. NEHRU Bapu, I have brought Mr. Suhrawardy. It was he who called on the Muslims to rise; he is telling them now to go back to their homes, to lay down their arms. Gandhi looks up at Suhrawardy, who nods. Gandhi looks back at Nehru. There is no hint of him changing his mind. NEHRU (personally) Think what you can do by living -- that you cannot do by dying. Gandhi smiles whimsically, he touches him again but there is no change in his attitude. NEHRU (pleadingly) What do you want? GANDHI (a moment) That the fighting will stop -- that you make me believe it will never start again. Nehru looks at him hopelessly. SQUARE IN CALCUTTA - EXTERIOR - DAY A huge crowd, some smoke in distant buildings, some damage near to help us know this is still Calcutta, and all is not yet at peace. The camera sweeps over the crowd, past the loudspeakers on their poles. We see surly knots of belligerent rowdies, mostly young, but not all, hanging on the fringes as we move over the heads of the mass of listening people to a platform where Nehru speaks. Azad, Suhrawardy, and others sit on the floor behind him. We have heard his voice over all this. NEHRU ...Sometimes it is when you are quite without hope and in utter darkness that God comes to the rescue. Gandhiji is dying because of our madness. Put away your "revenge." What will be gained by more killing? Have the courage to do what you know is right. For God's sake, let us embrace like brothers... TAHIB'S ROOF - EXTERIOR - NIGHT Featuring the Muslim leader Suhrawardy, leaning against a wall, watching an action out of shot with evident tension. We hear a little clank of metal. Another angle. There are five men facing Gandhi. They wear black trousers and black knit vests. There are thongs around their arms that make their bulging muscles seem even more powerful. They are Hindu thugs (Goondas). Their clothes are dirty -- and they are too -- but they are laying knives and guns at Gandhi's feet. Mirabehn, Azad, Pyarelal, the doctor and others on the roof watch fascinated, a little frightened. GOONDA LEADER It is our promise. We stop. It is a promise. Gandhi is looking at him, testing, not giving or accepting anything that is mere gesture. GANDHI Go -- try -- God by with you. The Goondas stand. They glance at Suhrawardy; he smiles tautly and they start to leave, but one (Nahari) lingers. Suddenly he moves violently toward Gandhi, taking a flat piece of Indian bread (chapati) from his trousers and tossing it forcefully on Gandhi. NAHARI Eat. Mirabehn and Azad start to move toward him -- the man looks immensely strong and immensely unstable. But Gandhi holds up a shaking hand, stopping them. Nahari's face is knotted in emotion, half anger, half almost a child's fear -- but there is a wild menace in that instability. NAHARI Eat! I am going to hell -- but not with your death on my soul. GANDHI Only God decides who goes to hell... NAHARI (stiffening, aggressive) I -- I killed a child... (Then an anguished defiance) I smashed his head against a wall. Gandhi stares at him, breathless. GANDHI (in a fearful whisper) Why? Why? It is as though the man has told him of some terrible self- inflicted wound. NAHARI (tears now -- and wrath) They killed my son -- my boy! Almost reflexively he holds his hand out to indicate the height of his son. He glares at Suhrawardy and then back at Gandhi. NAHARI The Muslims killed my son... they killed him. He is sobbing, but in his anger it seems almost as though he means to kill Gandhi in retaliation. A long moment, as Gandhi meets his pain and wrath. Then GANDHI I know a way out of hell. Nahari sneers, but there is just a flicker of desperate curiosity. GANDHI Find a child -- a child whose mother and father have been killed. A little boy -- about this high. He raises his hand to the height Nahari has indicated as his son's. GANDHI ...and raise him -- as your own. Nahari has listened. His face almost cracks -- it is a chink of light, but it does not illumine his darkness. GANDHI Only be sure... that he is a Muslim. And that you raise him as one. And now the light falls on Nahari. His face stiffens, he swallows, fighting any show of emotion; then he turns to go. But he takes only a step and he turns back, going to his knees, the sobs breaking again and again from his heaving body as he holds his head to Gandhi's feet in the traditional greeting of Hindu son to Hindu father. A second, and Gandhi reaches out and touches the top of his head. Mirabehn watches. The Goondas watch. Suhrawardy watches. Finally GANDHI (gently, exhaustedly) Go -- go. God bless you... COURTYARD - POLICE STATION - CALCUTTA - EXTERIOR - NIGHT Trucks with riot squads (shields and truncheons) in place, but they are lounging, waiting. There is silence, and air of somnolence. Some of the riot squad lounge in little groups around the courtyard. A distant cough. Featuring a senior riot squad officer dressed and ready for action. He it is who coughed. He coughs again, clearing his throat. A police sergeant stands by him, both are reading the front page of a paper the senior riot squad officer holds. We see two huge lines of headline: GANDHI NEAR DEATH/NEHRU GOES ON FAST. In one of the trucks one of the men offers another a cigarette. A telephone rings sharply, inside. The senior riot squad officer and the sergeant run in as engines start; the men run to their places, lower visors, headlights go on! POLICE STATION OFFICE - INTERIOR - DAY A constable mans the telephone. He listens as the senior riot squad officer and the sergeant run to him tensely. The sound of the great doors opening in the courtyard, more engines revving up. CONSTABLE Yes, sir, yes, sir, (He holds up his hand to the senior officer) "Wait." He glances up at the senior riot squad officer. CONSTABLE (writing, from the phone) Accident, "Christie crossroads," a lorry and a rickshaw. Yes, sir, I have it. He shrugs at the senior riot squad officer and hands the information slip to another constable behind the desk. The sergeant sighs, and moves to the outside door. We hear him bellow, "Stand down." The constable hangs up and sighs heavily. The senior riot squad officer shakes his head, and turns and walks slowly to the door. COURTYARD - POLICE STATION - EXTERIOR - NIGHT The senior riot squad officer and the sergeant stand in the doorway as the engines die. The men relax... the silence returns. A dog barks distantly, disturbed by the noise... A bird caws once or twice. SERGEANT I wouldn't have believed it, Mr. Gupta. SENIOR OFFICER Sergeant, it's a bloody miracle... HIGH SHOT - CALCUTTA - EXTERIOR - NIGHT It lies in silence. TAHIB'S ROOF - EXTERIOR - DAY Mirabehn is bent over Gandhi. He is curled almost in the fetal position, his face looking wan and sunken. For the first time there is silence, no explosions, no distant shouts, no gunfire. MIRABEHN Bapu, there's been no fighting -- anywhere. It has stopped -- the madness has stopped. We see the police commissioner, Suhrawardy, two doctors, Abdul Ghaffar Khan, and some others. Nearer Gandhi, behind Mirabehn, are Nehru, Patel, Azad and Pyarelal. Gandhi turns to Mirabehn, his face shaking, peering into her eyes. GANDHI It is foolish if it is just to save the life of an old man. MIRABEHN No... no. In every temple and mosque they have pledged to die before they lift a hand against each other. His weary eyes look at her; he looks up slowly to Azad. Azad nods "It's true." Then Patel PATEL Everywhere. Gandhi looks at Nehru. Nehru just nods tautly. Gandhi looks down, then lifts his head to Azad. GANDHI Maulana, my friend, could I have some orange juice... Then you and I will take a piece of bread together... The relief brings water to their eyes and grins to their faces. Nehru bends to Gandhi. Gandhi holds his hand out to him, and Nehru clutches it. Then NEHRU You see, Bapu, it is not difficult. I have fasted only a few hours and I accomplished what you could not do in as many days. It is a joke in their way with each other and Gandhi's eyes light, his smile comes. But it is tired. He puts his other hand over Nehru's and Nehru lowers his head to it, crying silently. BIRLA HOUSE - EXTERIOR - DAY As in the opening sequence -- but a few minutes earlier. The crowd is beginning to gather for the evening prayers. We see a tonga or two, a gardener opening the gate to the garden, three policemen standing, talking idly among themselves. BIRLA HOUSE - INTERIOR - DAY Laughter. Gandhi is eating muli; he holds his head back to capture the lemon juice. We hear the click of a camera GANDHI That is how you eat muli. Manu hands him a cloth and he wipes his hands. Another click of a camera. He is not fully recovered, but well on the way. GANDHI (to the photographer) I'm not sure I want to be remembered that way. It is all light and for fun. We get a wide-angle shot now and see that Bourke-White is shooting one of her favorite subjects again. She is enjoying the banter, as is Mirabehn, who is spinning quietly to one side of the room, and Patel, who sits cross-legged like Gandhi on the floor. Pyarelal is working on papers with him but grins at this. BOURKE-WHITE Don't worry, with luck you may not be. And she shoots him again, as he hands the cloth back to Manu. Abha is sitting next to Manu, looking at a collection of pictures of Gandhi, obviously Bourke-White's. PATEL No, he'll be remembered for tempting fate. It is wry, but waspishly chiding. Abha suddenly holds a picture up for Gandhi to see. It's one of him, ears wide, eyes round. ABHA Mickey Mouse. Gandhi taps her on the head with his finger as she smiles. But Bourke-White has looked from Patel to Gandhi, clearly shaken by the implication in Patel's words. BOURKE-WHITE You really are going to Pakistan, then? (Gandhi shrugs, and she chides too) You are a stubborn man. GANDHI (a grin, in the mood of their "flirtation") I'm simply going to prove to Muslims there, and Hindus here, that the only devils in the world are those running around in our own hearts -- and that's where all our battles ought to be fought. Abha has signaled to the cheap watch dangling from his dhoti. He glances at it, and holds his arms out. The two girls help him. BOURKE-WHITE And what kind of a warrior have you been in that warfare? She is photographing his getting-up and leaning on the two girls. GANDHI Not a very good one. That's why I have so much tolerance for the other scoundrels of the world. He moves off, but has a sudden thought and turns to Patel. GANDHI Ask Panditji to -- to consider what we've discussed. Patel nods soberly and Gandhi starts for the door, Bourke- White moving with him. GANDHI (of the photographs) Enough. BOURKE-WHITE (a plea) One more. He has passed her, he's in the doorway. We see the crowd at the end of the garden, where the light of the day is beginning to soften. He turns, teasing in his slightly flirtatious way with women. GANDHI You're a temptress. She shoots him against the door -- the crowd milling distantly, waiting -- then she lowers her camera. BOURKE-WHITE Just an admirer... GANDHI Nothing's more dangerous, especially for an old man. He turns; the last words have betrayed the smile on his face; they have a painful sense of truth about them. Bourke-White watches as he moves into the garden toward the crowd in the distance. She turns to Mirabehn. BOURKE-WHITE There's a sadness in him. It's an observation -- and a question. Mirabehn accedes gravely. MIRABEHN He thinks he's failed. Bourke-White stares at her, then turns to look out at him. BOURKE-WHITE Why? My God, if anything's proved him right, it's what's happened these last months... Mirabehn nods, but she keeps on spinning and tries to sound cynically resigned but her innate emotionalism keeps breaking through in her voice and on her face. MIRABEHN I am blinded by my love of him, but I think when we most needed it, he offered the world a way out of madness. But he doesn't see it... and neither does the world. It is laced with pain. Bourke-White turns and looks out at Gandhi -- so tiny, so weak as he walks between his "props." He has now reached the end of the garden and is moving among the crowd assembled there. THE GARDEN - BIRLA HOUSE - EXTERIOR - TWILIGHT Gandhi is moving forward in the crowd, one hand resting on Manu, the other on Abha. He makes the pranam to someone, the crowd is bowing to him, some speaking, and we also see the crowd from his point of view -- "Bapu," "God bless you," "Thank you -- thank you." He turns to a very old woman, who makes a salaam to him. Gandhi touches her head. GANDHI Allah be with you. Smiling, he turns back. A jostling, the sound of beads falling. MANU (to someone) Brother, Bapu is already late for prayers. Gandhi turns to the person; he makes the pranam. Full shot. Godse is making the pranam to him and he suddenly, wildly draws his gun and fires. The camera closes on Gandhi as he staggers and falls, the red stain of blood seeping through his white shawl. GANDHI Oh, God... oh, God... Manu and Abha bend over him, silent in their first shock. The sound of panic and alarm begins to grow around them, they suddenly scream and begin to cry. MANU/ABHA Bapu! Bapu! FUNERAL PYRE - EXTERIOR - DAY Blackness. Silence. A moment -- we sense the blackness moving -- like dark smoke. The camera is pulling back very slowly and we can tell the blackness is smoke rising from a fire. And now we see that it is a funeral pyre. And all around that pyre a mass of silent humanity. Through the smoke, sitting cross-legged near the rim of the flames, we see Nehru... and Azad and Patel, Mirabehn and Kallenbach, the drawn faces of Lord and Lady Mountbatten, Manu and Abha... THE RIVER - EXTERIOR - DAY A helicopter shot coming slowly up the wide river, low, toward a barge and a mass of people in the distance. And now we are over the barge, and it is covered with flowers. Flowers flow downstream around it. An urn sits on it -- containing Gandhi's ashes -- and Nehru stands near it,

peers

How many times the word 'peers' appears in the text?

with them now the giant figure of Abdul Ghaffar Khan, the first time we have seen him among Gandhi's intimate group. NEHRU In Calcutta it's like civil war. The Muslims rose and there was a bloodbath, and now the Hindus are taking revenge -- and if we can't stop it there'll be no hope for the Hindus left in Pakistan. PATEL ...an eye for an eye making the whole world blind. It is an empty and despairing echo of Gandhi's words. AZAD Aren't there any troops to spare? NEHRU (tense, fragile) Nothing -- nothing. The divisions in Bombay and Delhi can hardly keep the peace now. And each fresh bit of news creates another wave of mad... ness. He has turned and seen Gandhi standing slowly. It has almost stopped him. PATEL Could we cut all news off? I know -- NEHRU Bapu -- please. Where are you going. GANDHI (sounding like an old man) I don't want to hear more... He is moving toward the door. It stops them all. Pyarelal moves tentatively to open the door. PATEL (impatiently) We need your help! GANDHI There is nothing I can give. AZAD Where are you going? Gandhi turns, looks at him bleakly. GANDHI Calcutta. CALCUTTA - EXTERIOR - NIGHT We are high. There are fires, the sounds of spasmodic gunfire, of looting, screams, the roar of police vehicles and occasional sirens. The camera zooms in on a poor quarter of artisan dwellings in narrow streets. Outside one of the houses is a car, an army jeep, policemen, a few soldiers and a group of people. It seems a little island of calm in a sea of wild chaos. On the roof of the house, a figure moves into the light. CLOSER - TAHIB'S ROOF The figure is Gandhi. He peers down at the dark, rioting streets. Azad, Tahib, a Muslim whose house this is, Mirabehn and Pyarelal are with him along Abdul Ghaffar Khan. A police commissioner moves to Gandhi's side, demanding his attention. POLICE COMMISSIONER Sir, please, I don't have the men to protect you -- not in a Muslim house. Not this quarter. GANDHI I am staying with the friend of a friend. There is a sudden commotion just below them and angry shouts: "Death to Muslims!," "Death to Muslims!" Gandhi peers down. His point of view. A surging gang of youths, many carrying torches, and far outnumbering the little group of police and soldiers, are shouting up at the roof. We see three or four black flags and stains of blood on many of them. A few hold knives still wet with blood. A YOUTH There he is! A feral roar goes up at the sight of Gandhi, but he stands unmoving. HINDU YOUTH LEADER (his voice emotional, tearful) Why are you staying at the home of a Muslim! They're murderers! They killed my family! Featuring Gandhi. It is a comment too grave for glibness, and Gandhi is obviously struck by the pain of it. He pauses for a moment, staring down at the youth: GANDHI Because forgiveness is the gift of the brave. He makes it mean the youth. For a second it makes an impact, but then the youth shouts his defiance at him and his message. YOUTH To hell with you, Gandhi!! An angry chorus of acclamation; when it dies GANDHI (to the youth) Go -- do as your mother and father would wish you to do. It is ambiguous, open-ended, meaning anything your mother and father would wish you to do. Tears flush from the boy's eyes and he stares at Gandhi with a kind of hopeless anguish and rage. But the impact is on the youth alone; around him the others begin to take up the chant "Death to Muslims!," "Death to Muslims!" Gandhi turns from the street. He looks at the police commissioner -- at his fatigue, his concern, his manifest respect. Gandhi musters a weary smile. GANDHI I have lived a lifetime. If I had shunned death -- or feared it -- I would not be here. Nor would you be concerned for me. (He lets it sink in then he takes the commissioner's arm and moves back toward the center of the roof.) Leave me -- and take your men. (An understanding touch of the arm.) You have more important things to worry about. The commissioner looks at him, uncertain, not knowing what to do, as the angry chanting continues above the sound of rioting. HOSPITAL - INTERIOR - DAY An old, inadequate hospital -- dark cavernous. Margaret Bourke- White is moving among the densely packed litter of wounded women. She is positioning herself to photograph Gandhi, who is speaking to a woman who cradles a small baby. The corridors behind him are even more packed. The few doctors and nurses hardly have room to move. Featuring Gandhi. Azad and Mirabehn are behind him as he moves on, and behind them, like a giant guardian, Abdul Ghaffar Khan. We hear "Bapu, Bapu" muttered quietly here and there. Gandhi bends to a woman whose face is bandaged and a cruel wound is half-exposed between her mouth and eye. WOMAN Bapu... Allah be with you... There are tears in Gandhi's eyes now. GANDHI And with you. (He touches her wrinkled hand.) Pray... I cannot help you -- pray... pray. And the weight of his helplessness hangs on him. CALCUTTA STREET - EXTERIOR - DAY A streetcar (tram) crashes into a barricade of carts, rickshaws, a couple of old cars, smashing through to breach the barricade, but stopped in the end by the mass of debris. The streetcar is loaded with Indian troops and they break from the stalled vehicle to chase A gang of Hindus -- organized -- runs down the street from the troops, some dragging the bodies of victims with them. We see several Hindu black flags. NEHRU'S OFFICE - INTERIOR - NIGHT He speaks across his desk to a senior police commissioner. The same activity going on in the background. NEHRU (angrily) No! There will not be a Hindu Police and a Muslim Police. There is one police! An aide slips a newspaper on his desk in front of him. He doesn't look at it till the senior commissioner lowers his head and turns, accepting defeat. Then Nehru glances at the paper. In thick headlines: GANDHI: A FAST UNTO DEATH! Nehru doesn't move for a moment. Then he lifts his face slowly to his aide. NEHRU Why must I read news like this in the paper? The aide shakes his head -- there's no answer. Nehru lowers his head again; it is like another burden on a man who already has too many. He grips his temples... a terrible sigh. NEHRU Tell Patel. Arrange a plane. We will go -- Friday. THE AIDE Four days? Nehru thinks on it solemnly, then nods yes. TAHIB'S HOUSE - EXTERIOR - DAY The sounds of rioting and looting on nearby streets, but here a mass of people are gathered. Many youths with black flags. Two black government limousines. Motorcycles. Police and soldiers. They are looking off to AN OUTSIDE STAIRCASE - TAHIB'S HOUSE It runs up the side of the building and is lined with waiting people. Nehru and Patel are climbing the stairs, moving past them almost irritably as they mutter "Nehru, Nehru," "Patel," and make the pranam to the eminent men. In the heat of the city Tahib's rooftop is still Gandhi's "home" and has become a center of activity. Azad clears someone aside and ushers Nehru and Patel under the canopy awning. Nehru pauses as he lowers his head. His point of view. Gandhi lies curled awkwardly on his side of the cot. He is writing, Pyarelal taking the pages as he finishes, both ignoring all the people, the sounds of gunfire and distant shouting, but he looks tired and tightens his jaw occasionally in pain. The camera pans. A doctor sits near the foot of the cot, Abdul Ghaffar Khan beyond him. Near the other edge of the canopied area, Mirabehn sits with Bourke-White. They are whispering quietly, but Mirabehn has stopped on seeing Nehru and she smiles a relieved greeting. She knows Gandhi's feeling for him. Bourke-White stares at him and Patel for a second and then her hand goes slowly, almost reflexively, for her camera. CLOSER ON GANDHI Nehru crosses and kneels so that he is almost at Gandhi's eyeline. Gandhi must take his eyes from his writing to look, and he is almost moved to tears at the sight of Nehru. His hand shakes a little as he holds it out to him. NEHRU Bapu... Gandhi turns to pat their joined hands with his other hand. He does so with effort, and at last he sees Patel. GANDHI Sardar... (He looks him over.) You have gained weight. You must join me in the fast. Patel sits near the head of the cot so the three of them are on a level. Outside the canopied area, Bourke-White is crouched, her camera framing the three of them. PATEL (wittily, warmly) If I fast I die. If you fast people go to all sorts of trouble to keep you alive. Gandhi smiles and reaches to touch hands with him. NEHRU Bapu, forgive me -- I've cheated. I could have come earlier. But your fast has helped. These last days people's minds have begun to turn to this bed -- and away from last night's atrocity. But now it is enough. Gandhi shakes his head. GANDHI All that has happened is that I've grown a little thinner. It is despairingly sincere. But Nehru feels he has an antidote for that despair. The distant sound of an explosion. NEHRU Tomorrow five thousand Muslim students of all ages are marching here in Calcutta -- for peace. (The real point) And five thousand Hindu students are marching with them. It is all organized. Bourke-White captures the sense of elation in his face. From her discreet distance, she lowers the camera, holding it against her mouth, waiting for Gandhi's response. Gandhi nods to Nehru, accepting the news with a sad wistfulness. GANDHI I'm glad -- but it will not be enough. Nehru isn't prepared for this resistance. He glances at Patel, and we see that they recognize that their bland conviction that they could talk him out of the fast was deeply misplaced. Nehru turns back -- this time no confidence, only concern. A forced smile. NEHRU Bapu, you are not so young anymore. Gandhi smiles, pain etched in his eyes. He touches Nehru's hand. GANDHI Don't worry for me -- death will be a deliverance. (There is water in his eyes, but his words have the weight of a man truly determined to die.) I cannot watch the destruction of all I have lived for. Nehru stares at him, feeling the sudden fear that Gandhi means it. Patel, Mirabehn, Azad, Bourke-White are gripped by the same realization. TAHIB'S HOUSE - EXTERIOR - NIGHT An outside broadcast truck is parked among the usual crowd, grown even larger now, and more women among them. The sounds of distant fighting. TAHIB'S ROOF - EXTERIOR - NIGHT The senior technician, in earphones, signals across to Mirabehn. She holds a microphone by Gandhi, who is lying on his side. He seems almost out of touch. MIRABEHN Bapu... Gandhi looks at her, and then the microphone. When he speaks into the microphone his voice is very weak. GANDHI Each night before I sleep, I read a few words from the Gita and the Koran, and the Bible... (we intercut with Bourke-White and those on the roof watching) tonight I ask you to share these thoughts of God with me. And now we go into the streets, intercutting with Gandhi but seeing Hindus listening around loudspeakers on corners, in little eating houses, Muslim shops where people live in the back, and neighbors gathering defensively in groups. GANDHI (the books are there, but he does it from memory of course) I will begin with the Bible where the words of the Lord are, "Love thy neighbor as thyself"... and then our beloved Gita which says, "The world is a garment worn by God, thy neighbor is in truth thyself"... and finally the Holy Koran, "We shall remove all hatred from our hearts and recline on couches face to face, a band of brothers." He leans back, exhausted. Mirabehn is looking at him; she starts to sing softly. MIRABEHN "Lead Kindly Light, amidst the circling gloom..." Gandhi, his eyes closed, takes it up in his weak, croaking voice. GANDHI/MIRABEHN "The night is dark, and I am far from home, Lead thou me on..." TAHIB'S HOUSE - EXTERIOR - DAY Two police motorcycles lead a black limousine to a stop before Tahib's house. The crowd now gathered is very large. More mixed than before but still predominantly of youths, many still with black flags. Nehru gets out of the limousine with a Muslim leader, a tough- looking man who carries himself with the authority and power of a mobster (Suhrawardy). And they start to go up the outside stairs. Suddenly we hear the shout "Death to Gandhi!," "Death to Gandhi!" And Nehru turns, pushing past Suhrawardy fiercely and going back onto the street. He runs at the crowd, where the shout comes once more from the back. His face is wild with anger and shock. NEHRU (hysterically) Who dares say such things! Who?! (And he is running at them and they spread in fear.) Come! Kill me first! Come! Where are you?! Kill me first! The crowd has spread from him all along the street; they stand against the walls of the houses staring at him, terrified to move. We see, just in passing, the frightened, apprehensive faces of Godse, and near him, Apte and Karkare. Nehru stands, staring at them all, his face seething with anger. TAHIB'S ROOF - EXTERIOR - DAY We are featuring a copy of Life Magazine. On the cover is a picture of rioting men fighting and diagonally a cut-out of Gandhi lying on his cot. The caption reads: "An Old Man's Battle." As the magazine starts to be opened, it is suddenly put to one side. Another angle. Mirabehn is rising, leaving the magazine at her feet. She moves to Nehru and Suhrawardy as Azad ushers them into the canopied area. Abdul Ghaffar Khan sits quietly in the background. Mirabehn speaks softly. MIRABEHN His pulse is very irregular -- the kidneys aren't functioning. Nehru looks across at Gandhi. The doctor, who is testing Gandhi's pulse yet again, glances at him -- no encouragement -- and moves away. Nehru moves to the side of the cot and Gandhi smiles weakly and holds out a hand, but he is in pain. NEHRU Bapu, I have brought Mr. Suhrawardy. It was he who called on the Muslims to rise; he is telling them now to go back to their homes, to lay down their arms. Gandhi looks up at Suhrawardy, who nods. Gandhi looks back at Nehru. There is no hint of him changing his mind. NEHRU (personally) Think what you can do by living -- that you cannot do by dying. Gandhi smiles whimsically, he touches him again but there is no change in his attitude. NEHRU (pleadingly) What do you want? GANDHI (a moment) That the fighting will stop -- that you make me believe it will never start again. Nehru looks at him hopelessly. SQUARE IN CALCUTTA - EXTERIOR - DAY A huge crowd, some smoke in distant buildings, some damage near to help us know this is still Calcutta, and all is not yet at peace. The camera sweeps over the crowd, past the loudspeakers on their poles. We see surly knots of belligerent rowdies, mostly young, but not all, hanging on the fringes as we move over the heads of the mass of listening people to a platform where Nehru speaks. Azad, Suhrawardy, and others sit on the floor behind him. We have heard his voice over all this. NEHRU ...Sometimes it is when you are quite without hope and in utter darkness that God comes to the rescue. Gandhiji is dying because of our madness. Put away your "revenge." What will be gained by more killing? Have the courage to do what you know is right. For God's sake, let us embrace like brothers... TAHIB'S ROOF - EXTERIOR - NIGHT Featuring the Muslim leader Suhrawardy, leaning against a wall, watching an action out of shot with evident tension. We hear a little clank of metal. Another angle. There are five men facing Gandhi. They wear black trousers and black knit vests. There are thongs around their arms that make their bulging muscles seem even more powerful. They are Hindu thugs (Goondas). Their clothes are dirty -- and they are too -- but they are laying knives and guns at Gandhi's feet. Mirabehn, Azad, Pyarelal, the doctor and others on the roof watch fascinated, a little frightened. GOONDA LEADER It is our promise. We stop. It is a promise. Gandhi is looking at him, testing, not giving or accepting anything that is mere gesture. GANDHI Go -- try -- God by with you. The Goondas stand. They glance at Suhrawardy; he smiles tautly and they start to leave, but one (Nahari) lingers. Suddenly he moves violently toward Gandhi, taking a flat piece of Indian bread (chapati) from his trousers and tossing it forcefully on Gandhi. NAHARI Eat. Mirabehn and Azad start to move toward him -- the man looks immensely strong and immensely unstable. But Gandhi holds up a shaking hand, stopping them. Nahari's face is knotted in emotion, half anger, half almost a child's fear -- but there is a wild menace in that instability. NAHARI Eat! I am going to hell -- but not with your death on my soul. GANDHI Only God decides who goes to hell... NAHARI (stiffening, aggressive) I -- I killed a child... (Then an anguished defiance) I smashed his head against a wall. Gandhi stares at him, breathless. GANDHI (in a fearful whisper) Why? Why? It is as though the man has told him of some terrible self- inflicted wound. NAHARI (tears now -- and wrath) They killed my son -- my boy! Almost reflexively he holds his hand out to indicate the height of his son. He glares at Suhrawardy and then back at Gandhi. NAHARI The Muslims killed my son... they killed him. He is sobbing, but in his anger it seems almost as though he means to kill Gandhi in retaliation. A long moment, as Gandhi meets his pain and wrath. Then GANDHI I know a way out of hell. Nahari sneers, but there is just a flicker of desperate curiosity. GANDHI Find a child -- a child whose mother and father have been killed. A little boy -- about this high. He raises his hand to the height Nahari has indicated as his son's. GANDHI ...and raise him -- as your own. Nahari has listened. His face almost cracks -- it is a chink of light, but it does not illumine his darkness. GANDHI Only be sure... that he is a Muslim. And that you raise him as one. And now the light falls on Nahari. His face stiffens, he swallows, fighting any show of emotion; then he turns to go. But he takes only a step and he turns back, going to his knees, the sobs breaking again and again from his heaving body as he holds his head to Gandhi's feet in the traditional greeting of Hindu son to Hindu father. A second, and Gandhi reaches out and touches the top of his head. Mirabehn watches. The Goondas watch. Suhrawardy watches. Finally GANDHI (gently, exhaustedly) Go -- go. God bless you... COURTYARD - POLICE STATION - CALCUTTA - EXTERIOR - NIGHT Trucks with riot squads (shields and truncheons) in place, but they are lounging, waiting. There is silence, and air of somnolence. Some of the riot squad lounge in little groups around the courtyard. A distant cough. Featuring a senior riot squad officer dressed and ready for action. He it is who coughed. He coughs again, clearing his throat. A police sergeant stands by him, both are reading the front page of a paper the senior riot squad officer holds. We see two huge lines of headline: GANDHI NEAR DEATH/NEHRU GOES ON FAST. In one of the trucks one of the men offers another a cigarette. A telephone rings sharply, inside. The senior riot squad officer and the sergeant run in as engines start; the men run to their places, lower visors, headlights go on! POLICE STATION OFFICE - INTERIOR - DAY A constable mans the telephone. He listens as the senior riot squad officer and the sergeant run to him tensely. The sound of the great doors opening in the courtyard, more engines revving up. CONSTABLE Yes, sir, yes, sir, (He holds up his hand to the senior officer) "Wait." He glances up at the senior riot squad officer. CONSTABLE (writing, from the phone) Accident, "Christie crossroads," a lorry and a rickshaw. Yes, sir, I have it. He shrugs at the senior riot squad officer and hands the information slip to another constable behind the desk. The sergeant sighs, and moves to the outside door. We hear him bellow, "Stand down." The constable hangs up and sighs heavily. The senior riot squad officer shakes his head, and turns and walks slowly to the door. COURTYARD - POLICE STATION - EXTERIOR - NIGHT The senior riot squad officer and the sergeant stand in the doorway as the engines die. The men relax... the silence returns. A dog barks distantly, disturbed by the noise... A bird caws once or twice. SERGEANT I wouldn't have believed it, Mr. Gupta. SENIOR OFFICER Sergeant, it's a bloody miracle... HIGH SHOT - CALCUTTA - EXTERIOR - NIGHT It lies in silence. TAHIB'S ROOF - EXTERIOR - DAY Mirabehn is bent over Gandhi. He is curled almost in the fetal position, his face looking wan and sunken. For the first time there is silence, no explosions, no distant shouts, no gunfire. MIRABEHN Bapu, there's been no fighting -- anywhere. It has stopped -- the madness has stopped. We see the police commissioner, Suhrawardy, two doctors, Abdul Ghaffar Khan, and some others. Nearer Gandhi, behind Mirabehn, are Nehru, Patel, Azad and Pyarelal. Gandhi turns to Mirabehn, his face shaking, peering into her eyes. GANDHI It is foolish if it is just to save the life of an old man. MIRABEHN No... no. In every temple and mosque they have pledged to die before they lift a hand against each other. His weary eyes look at her; he looks up slowly to Azad. Azad nods "It's true." Then Patel PATEL Everywhere. Gandhi looks at Nehru. Nehru just nods tautly. Gandhi looks down, then lifts his head to Azad. GANDHI Maulana, my friend, could I have some orange juice... Then you and I will take a piece of bread together... The relief brings water to their eyes and grins to their faces. Nehru bends to Gandhi. Gandhi holds his hand out to him, and Nehru clutches it. Then NEHRU You see, Bapu, it is not difficult. I have fasted only a few hours and I accomplished what you could not do in as many days. It is a joke in their way with each other and Gandhi's eyes light, his smile comes. But it is tired. He puts his other hand over Nehru's and Nehru lowers his head to it, crying silently. BIRLA HOUSE - EXTERIOR - DAY As in the opening sequence -- but a few minutes earlier. The crowd is beginning to gather for the evening prayers. We see a tonga or two, a gardener opening the gate to the garden, three policemen standing, talking idly among themselves. BIRLA HOUSE - INTERIOR - DAY Laughter. Gandhi is eating muli; he holds his head back to capture the lemon juice. We hear the click of a camera GANDHI That is how you eat muli. Manu hands him a cloth and he wipes his hands. Another click of a camera. He is not fully recovered, but well on the way. GANDHI (to the photographer) I'm not sure I want to be remembered that way. It is all light and for fun. We get a wide-angle shot now and see that Bourke-White is shooting one of her favorite subjects again. She is enjoying the banter, as is Mirabehn, who is spinning quietly to one side of the room, and Patel, who sits cross-legged like Gandhi on the floor. Pyarelal is working on papers with him but grins at this. BOURKE-WHITE Don't worry, with luck you may not be. And she shoots him again, as he hands the cloth back to Manu. Abha is sitting next to Manu, looking at a collection of pictures of Gandhi, obviously Bourke-White's. PATEL No, he'll be remembered for tempting fate. It is wry, but waspishly chiding. Abha suddenly holds a picture up for Gandhi to see. It's one of him, ears wide, eyes round. ABHA Mickey Mouse. Gandhi taps her on the head with his finger as she smiles. But Bourke-White has looked from Patel to Gandhi, clearly shaken by the implication in Patel's words. BOURKE-WHITE You really are going to Pakistan, then? (Gandhi shrugs, and she chides too) You are a stubborn man. GANDHI (a grin, in the mood of their "flirtation") I'm simply going to prove to Muslims there, and Hindus here, that the only devils in the world are those running around in our own hearts -- and that's where all our battles ought to be fought. Abha has signaled to the cheap watch dangling from his dhoti. He glances at it, and holds his arms out. The two girls help him. BOURKE-WHITE And what kind of a warrior have you been in that warfare? She is photographing his getting-up and leaning on the two girls. GANDHI Not a very good one. That's why I have so much tolerance for the other scoundrels of the world. He moves off, but has a sudden thought and turns to Patel. GANDHI Ask Panditji to -- to consider what we've discussed. Patel nods soberly and Gandhi starts for the door, Bourke- White moving with him. GANDHI (of the photographs) Enough. BOURKE-WHITE (a plea) One more. He has passed her, he's in the doorway. We see the crowd at the end of the garden, where the light of the day is beginning to soften. He turns, teasing in his slightly flirtatious way with women. GANDHI You're a temptress. She shoots him against the door -- the crowd milling distantly, waiting -- then she lowers her camera. BOURKE-WHITE Just an admirer... GANDHI Nothing's more dangerous, especially for an old man. He turns; the last words have betrayed the smile on his face; they have a painful sense of truth about them. Bourke-White watches as he moves into the garden toward the crowd in the distance. She turns to Mirabehn. BOURKE-WHITE There's a sadness in him. It's an observation -- and a question. Mirabehn accedes gravely. MIRABEHN He thinks he's failed. Bourke-White stares at her, then turns to look out at him. BOURKE-WHITE Why? My God, if anything's proved him right, it's what's happened these last months... Mirabehn nods, but she keeps on spinning and tries to sound cynically resigned but her innate emotionalism keeps breaking through in her voice and on her face. MIRABEHN I am blinded by my love of him, but I think when we most needed it, he offered the world a way out of madness. But he doesn't see it... and neither does the world. It is laced with pain. Bourke-White turns and looks out at Gandhi -- so tiny, so weak as he walks between his "props." He has now reached the end of the garden and is moving among the crowd assembled there. THE GARDEN - BIRLA HOUSE - EXTERIOR - TWILIGHT Gandhi is moving forward in the crowd, one hand resting on Manu, the other on Abha. He makes the pranam to someone, the crowd is bowing to him, some speaking, and we also see the crowd from his point of view -- "Bapu," "God bless you," "Thank you -- thank you." He turns to a very old woman, who makes a salaam to him. Gandhi touches her head. GANDHI Allah be with you. Smiling, he turns back. A jostling, the sound of beads falling. MANU (to someone) Brother, Bapu is already late for prayers. Gandhi turns to the person; he makes the pranam. Full shot. Godse is making the pranam to him and he suddenly, wildly draws his gun and fires. The camera closes on Gandhi as he staggers and falls, the red stain of blood seeping through his white shawl. GANDHI Oh, God... oh, God... Manu and Abha bend over him, silent in their first shock. The sound of panic and alarm begins to grow around them, they suddenly scream and begin to cry. MANU/ABHA Bapu! Bapu! FUNERAL PYRE - EXTERIOR - DAY Blackness. Silence. A moment -- we sense the blackness moving -- like dark smoke. The camera is pulling back very slowly and we can tell the blackness is smoke rising from a fire. And now we see that it is a funeral pyre. And all around that pyre a mass of silent humanity. Through the smoke, sitting cross-legged near the rim of the flames, we see Nehru... and Azad and Patel, Mirabehn and Kallenbach, the drawn faces of Lord and Lady Mountbatten, Manu and Abha... THE RIVER - EXTERIOR - DAY A helicopter shot coming slowly up the wide river, low, toward a barge and a mass of people in the distance. And now we are over the barge, and it is covered with flowers. Flowers flow downstream around it. An urn sits on it -- containing Gandhi's ashes -- and Nehru stands near it,

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How many times the word 'gait' appears in the text?

with them now the giant figure of Abdul Ghaffar Khan, the first time we have seen him among Gandhi's intimate group. NEHRU In Calcutta it's like civil war. The Muslims rose and there was a bloodbath, and now the Hindus are taking revenge -- and if we can't stop it there'll be no hope for the Hindus left in Pakistan. PATEL ...an eye for an eye making the whole world blind. It is an empty and despairing echo of Gandhi's words. AZAD Aren't there any troops to spare? NEHRU (tense, fragile) Nothing -- nothing. The divisions in Bombay and Delhi can hardly keep the peace now. And each fresh bit of news creates another wave of mad... ness. He has turned and seen Gandhi standing slowly. It has almost stopped him. PATEL Could we cut all news off? I know -- NEHRU Bapu -- please. Where are you going. GANDHI (sounding like an old man) I don't want to hear more... He is moving toward the door. It stops them all. Pyarelal moves tentatively to open the door. PATEL (impatiently) We need your help! GANDHI There is nothing I can give. AZAD Where are you going? Gandhi turns, looks at him bleakly. GANDHI Calcutta. CALCUTTA - EXTERIOR - NIGHT We are high. There are fires, the sounds of spasmodic gunfire, of looting, screams, the roar of police vehicles and occasional sirens. The camera zooms in on a poor quarter of artisan dwellings in narrow streets. Outside one of the houses is a car, an army jeep, policemen, a few soldiers and a group of people. It seems a little island of calm in a sea of wild chaos. On the roof of the house, a figure moves into the light. CLOSER - TAHIB'S ROOF The figure is Gandhi. He peers down at the dark, rioting streets. Azad, Tahib, a Muslim whose house this is, Mirabehn and Pyarelal are with him along Abdul Ghaffar Khan. A police commissioner moves to Gandhi's side, demanding his attention. POLICE COMMISSIONER Sir, please, I don't have the men to protect you -- not in a Muslim house. Not this quarter. GANDHI I am staying with the friend of a friend. There is a sudden commotion just below them and angry shouts: "Death to Muslims!," "Death to Muslims!" Gandhi peers down. His point of view. A surging gang of youths, many carrying torches, and far outnumbering the little group of police and soldiers, are shouting up at the roof. We see three or four black flags and stains of blood on many of them. A few hold knives still wet with blood. A YOUTH There he is! A feral roar goes up at the sight of Gandhi, but he stands unmoving. HINDU YOUTH LEADER (his voice emotional, tearful) Why are you staying at the home of a Muslim! They're murderers! They killed my family! Featuring Gandhi. It is a comment too grave for glibness, and Gandhi is obviously struck by the pain of it. He pauses for a moment, staring down at the youth: GANDHI Because forgiveness is the gift of the brave. He makes it mean the youth. For a second it makes an impact, but then the youth shouts his defiance at him and his message. YOUTH To hell with you, Gandhi!! An angry chorus of acclamation; when it dies GANDHI (to the youth) Go -- do as your mother and father would wish you to do. It is ambiguous, open-ended, meaning anything your mother and father would wish you to do. Tears flush from the boy's eyes and he stares at Gandhi with a kind of hopeless anguish and rage. But the impact is on the youth alone; around him the others begin to take up the chant "Death to Muslims!," "Death to Muslims!" Gandhi turns from the street. He looks at the police commissioner -- at his fatigue, his concern, his manifest respect. Gandhi musters a weary smile. GANDHI I have lived a lifetime. If I had shunned death -- or feared it -- I would not be here. Nor would you be concerned for me. (He lets it sink in then he takes the commissioner's arm and moves back toward the center of the roof.) Leave me -- and take your men. (An understanding touch of the arm.) You have more important things to worry about. The commissioner looks at him, uncertain, not knowing what to do, as the angry chanting continues above the sound of rioting. HOSPITAL - INTERIOR - DAY An old, inadequate hospital -- dark cavernous. Margaret Bourke- White is moving among the densely packed litter of wounded women. She is positioning herself to photograph Gandhi, who is speaking to a woman who cradles a small baby. The corridors behind him are even more packed. The few doctors and nurses hardly have room to move. Featuring Gandhi. Azad and Mirabehn are behind him as he moves on, and behind them, like a giant guardian, Abdul Ghaffar Khan. We hear "Bapu, Bapu" muttered quietly here and there. Gandhi bends to a woman whose face is bandaged and a cruel wound is half-exposed between her mouth and eye. WOMAN Bapu... Allah be with you... There are tears in Gandhi's eyes now. GANDHI And with you. (He touches her wrinkled hand.) Pray... I cannot help you -- pray... pray. And the weight of his helplessness hangs on him. CALCUTTA STREET - EXTERIOR - DAY A streetcar (tram) crashes into a barricade of carts, rickshaws, a couple of old cars, smashing through to breach the barricade, but stopped in the end by the mass of debris. The streetcar is loaded with Indian troops and they break from the stalled vehicle to chase A gang of Hindus -- organized -- runs down the street from the troops, some dragging the bodies of victims with them. We see several Hindu black flags. NEHRU'S OFFICE - INTERIOR - NIGHT He speaks across his desk to a senior police commissioner. The same activity going on in the background. NEHRU (angrily) No! There will not be a Hindu Police and a Muslim Police. There is one police! An aide slips a newspaper on his desk in front of him. He doesn't look at it till the senior commissioner lowers his head and turns, accepting defeat. Then Nehru glances at the paper. In thick headlines: GANDHI: A FAST UNTO DEATH! Nehru doesn't move for a moment. Then he lifts his face slowly to his aide. NEHRU Why must I read news like this in the paper? The aide shakes his head -- there's no answer. Nehru lowers his head again; it is like another burden on a man who already has too many. He grips his temples... a terrible sigh. NEHRU Tell Patel. Arrange a plane. We will go -- Friday. THE AIDE Four days? Nehru thinks on it solemnly, then nods yes. TAHIB'S HOUSE - EXTERIOR - DAY The sounds of rioting and looting on nearby streets, but here a mass of people are gathered. Many youths with black flags. Two black government limousines. Motorcycles. Police and soldiers. They are looking off to AN OUTSIDE STAIRCASE - TAHIB'S HOUSE It runs up the side of the building and is lined with waiting people. Nehru and Patel are climbing the stairs, moving past them almost irritably as they mutter "Nehru, Nehru," "Patel," and make the pranam to the eminent men. In the heat of the city Tahib's rooftop is still Gandhi's "home" and has become a center of activity. Azad clears someone aside and ushers Nehru and Patel under the canopy awning. Nehru pauses as he lowers his head. His point of view. Gandhi lies curled awkwardly on his side of the cot. He is writing, Pyarelal taking the pages as he finishes, both ignoring all the people, the sounds of gunfire and distant shouting, but he looks tired and tightens his jaw occasionally in pain. The camera pans. A doctor sits near the foot of the cot, Abdul Ghaffar Khan beyond him. Near the other edge of the canopied area, Mirabehn sits with Bourke-White. They are whispering quietly, but Mirabehn has stopped on seeing Nehru and she smiles a relieved greeting. She knows Gandhi's feeling for him. Bourke-White stares at him and Patel for a second and then her hand goes slowly, almost reflexively, for her camera. CLOSER ON GANDHI Nehru crosses and kneels so that he is almost at Gandhi's eyeline. Gandhi must take his eyes from his writing to look, and he is almost moved to tears at the sight of Nehru. His hand shakes a little as he holds it out to him. NEHRU Bapu... Gandhi turns to pat their joined hands with his other hand. He does so with effort, and at last he sees Patel. GANDHI Sardar... (He looks him over.) You have gained weight. You must join me in the fast. Patel sits near the head of the cot so the three of them are on a level. Outside the canopied area, Bourke-White is crouched, her camera framing the three of them. PATEL (wittily, warmly) If I fast I die. If you fast people go to all sorts of trouble to keep you alive. Gandhi smiles and reaches to touch hands with him. NEHRU Bapu, forgive me -- I've cheated. I could have come earlier. But your fast has helped. These last days people's minds have begun to turn to this bed -- and away from last night's atrocity. But now it is enough. Gandhi shakes his head. GANDHI All that has happened is that I've grown a little thinner. It is despairingly sincere. But Nehru feels he has an antidote for that despair. The distant sound of an explosion. NEHRU Tomorrow five thousand Muslim students of all ages are marching here in Calcutta -- for peace. (The real point) And five thousand Hindu students are marching with them. It is all organized. Bourke-White captures the sense of elation in his face. From her discreet distance, she lowers the camera, holding it against her mouth, waiting for Gandhi's response. Gandhi nods to Nehru, accepting the news with a sad wistfulness. GANDHI I'm glad -- but it will not be enough. Nehru isn't prepared for this resistance. He glances at Patel, and we see that they recognize that their bland conviction that they could talk him out of the fast was deeply misplaced. Nehru turns back -- this time no confidence, only concern. A forced smile. NEHRU Bapu, you are not so young anymore. Gandhi smiles, pain etched in his eyes. He touches Nehru's hand. GANDHI Don't worry for me -- death will be a deliverance. (There is water in his eyes, but his words have the weight of a man truly determined to die.) I cannot watch the destruction of all I have lived for. Nehru stares at him, feeling the sudden fear that Gandhi means it. Patel, Mirabehn, Azad, Bourke-White are gripped by the same realization. TAHIB'S HOUSE - EXTERIOR - NIGHT An outside broadcast truck is parked among the usual crowd, grown even larger now, and more women among them. The sounds of distant fighting. TAHIB'S ROOF - EXTERIOR - NIGHT The senior technician, in earphones, signals across to Mirabehn. She holds a microphone by Gandhi, who is lying on his side. He seems almost out of touch. MIRABEHN Bapu... Gandhi looks at her, and then the microphone. When he speaks into the microphone his voice is very weak. GANDHI Each night before I sleep, I read a few words from the Gita and the Koran, and the Bible... (we intercut with Bourke-White and those on the roof watching) tonight I ask you to share these thoughts of God with me. And now we go into the streets, intercutting with Gandhi but seeing Hindus listening around loudspeakers on corners, in little eating houses, Muslim shops where people live in the back, and neighbors gathering defensively in groups. GANDHI (the books are there, but he does it from memory of course) I will begin with the Bible where the words of the Lord are, "Love thy neighbor as thyself"... and then our beloved Gita which says, "The world is a garment worn by God, thy neighbor is in truth thyself"... and finally the Holy Koran, "We shall remove all hatred from our hearts and recline on couches face to face, a band of brothers." He leans back, exhausted. Mirabehn is looking at him; she starts to sing softly. MIRABEHN "Lead Kindly Light, amidst the circling gloom..." Gandhi, his eyes closed, takes it up in his weak, croaking voice. GANDHI/MIRABEHN "The night is dark, and I am far from home, Lead thou me on..." TAHIB'S HOUSE - EXTERIOR - DAY Two police motorcycles lead a black limousine to a stop before Tahib's house. The crowd now gathered is very large. More mixed than before but still predominantly of youths, many still with black flags. Nehru gets out of the limousine with a Muslim leader, a tough- looking man who carries himself with the authority and power of a mobster (Suhrawardy). And they start to go up the outside stairs. Suddenly we hear the shout "Death to Gandhi!," "Death to Gandhi!" And Nehru turns, pushing past Suhrawardy fiercely and going back onto the street. He runs at the crowd, where the shout comes once more from the back. His face is wild with anger and shock. NEHRU (hysterically) Who dares say such things! Who?! (And he is running at them and they spread in fear.) Come! Kill me first! Come! Where are you?! Kill me first! The crowd has spread from him all along the street; they stand against the walls of the houses staring at him, terrified to move. We see, just in passing, the frightened, apprehensive faces of Godse, and near him, Apte and Karkare. Nehru stands, staring at them all, his face seething with anger. TAHIB'S ROOF - EXTERIOR - DAY We are featuring a copy of Life Magazine. On the cover is a picture of rioting men fighting and diagonally a cut-out of Gandhi lying on his cot. The caption reads: "An Old Man's Battle." As the magazine starts to be opened, it is suddenly put to one side. Another angle. Mirabehn is rising, leaving the magazine at her feet. She moves to Nehru and Suhrawardy as Azad ushers them into the canopied area. Abdul Ghaffar Khan sits quietly in the background. Mirabehn speaks softly. MIRABEHN His pulse is very irregular -- the kidneys aren't functioning. Nehru looks across at Gandhi. The doctor, who is testing Gandhi's pulse yet again, glances at him -- no encouragement -- and moves away. Nehru moves to the side of the cot and Gandhi smiles weakly and holds out a hand, but he is in pain. NEHRU Bapu, I have brought Mr. Suhrawardy. It was he who called on the Muslims to rise; he is telling them now to go back to their homes, to lay down their arms. Gandhi looks up at Suhrawardy, who nods. Gandhi looks back at Nehru. There is no hint of him changing his mind. NEHRU (personally) Think what you can do by living -- that you cannot do by dying. Gandhi smiles whimsically, he touches him again but there is no change in his attitude. NEHRU (pleadingly) What do you want? GANDHI (a moment) That the fighting will stop -- that you make me believe it will never start again. Nehru looks at him hopelessly. SQUARE IN CALCUTTA - EXTERIOR - DAY A huge crowd, some smoke in distant buildings, some damage near to help us know this is still Calcutta, and all is not yet at peace. The camera sweeps over the crowd, past the loudspeakers on their poles. We see surly knots of belligerent rowdies, mostly young, but not all, hanging on the fringes as we move over the heads of the mass of listening people to a platform where Nehru speaks. Azad, Suhrawardy, and others sit on the floor behind him. We have heard his voice over all this. NEHRU ...Sometimes it is when you are quite without hope and in utter darkness that God comes to the rescue. Gandhiji is dying because of our madness. Put away your "revenge." What will be gained by more killing? Have the courage to do what you know is right. For God's sake, let us embrace like brothers... TAHIB'S ROOF - EXTERIOR - NIGHT Featuring the Muslim leader Suhrawardy, leaning against a wall, watching an action out of shot with evident tension. We hear a little clank of metal. Another angle. There are five men facing Gandhi. They wear black trousers and black knit vests. There are thongs around their arms that make their bulging muscles seem even more powerful. They are Hindu thugs (Goondas). Their clothes are dirty -- and they are too -- but they are laying knives and guns at Gandhi's feet. Mirabehn, Azad, Pyarelal, the doctor and others on the roof watch fascinated, a little frightened. GOONDA LEADER It is our promise. We stop. It is a promise. Gandhi is looking at him, testing, not giving or accepting anything that is mere gesture. GANDHI Go -- try -- God by with you. The Goondas stand. They glance at Suhrawardy; he smiles tautly and they start to leave, but one (Nahari) lingers. Suddenly he moves violently toward Gandhi, taking a flat piece of Indian bread (chapati) from his trousers and tossing it forcefully on Gandhi. NAHARI Eat. Mirabehn and Azad start to move toward him -- the man looks immensely strong and immensely unstable. But Gandhi holds up a shaking hand, stopping them. Nahari's face is knotted in emotion, half anger, half almost a child's fear -- but there is a wild menace in that instability. NAHARI Eat! I am going to hell -- but not with your death on my soul. GANDHI Only God decides who goes to hell... NAHARI (stiffening, aggressive) I -- I killed a child... (Then an anguished defiance) I smashed his head against a wall. Gandhi stares at him, breathless. GANDHI (in a fearful whisper) Why? Why? It is as though the man has told him of some terrible self- inflicted wound. NAHARI (tears now -- and wrath) They killed my son -- my boy! Almost reflexively he holds his hand out to indicate the height of his son. He glares at Suhrawardy and then back at Gandhi. NAHARI The Muslims killed my son... they killed him. He is sobbing, but in his anger it seems almost as though he means to kill Gandhi in retaliation. A long moment, as Gandhi meets his pain and wrath. Then GANDHI I know a way out of hell. Nahari sneers, but there is just a flicker of desperate curiosity. GANDHI Find a child -- a child whose mother and father have been killed. A little boy -- about this high. He raises his hand to the height Nahari has indicated as his son's. GANDHI ...and raise him -- as your own. Nahari has listened. His face almost cracks -- it is a chink of light, but it does not illumine his darkness. GANDHI Only be sure... that he is a Muslim. And that you raise him as one. And now the light falls on Nahari. His face stiffens, he swallows, fighting any show of emotion; then he turns to go. But he takes only a step and he turns back, going to his knees, the sobs breaking again and again from his heaving body as he holds his head to Gandhi's feet in the traditional greeting of Hindu son to Hindu father. A second, and Gandhi reaches out and touches the top of his head. Mirabehn watches. The Goondas watch. Suhrawardy watches. Finally GANDHI (gently, exhaustedly) Go -- go. God bless you... COURTYARD - POLICE STATION - CALCUTTA - EXTERIOR - NIGHT Trucks with riot squads (shields and truncheons) in place, but they are lounging, waiting. There is silence, and air of somnolence. Some of the riot squad lounge in little groups around the courtyard. A distant cough. Featuring a senior riot squad officer dressed and ready for action. He it is who coughed. He coughs again, clearing his throat. A police sergeant stands by him, both are reading the front page of a paper the senior riot squad officer holds. We see two huge lines of headline: GANDHI NEAR DEATH/NEHRU GOES ON FAST. In one of the trucks one of the men offers another a cigarette. A telephone rings sharply, inside. The senior riot squad officer and the sergeant run in as engines start; the men run to their places, lower visors, headlights go on! POLICE STATION OFFICE - INTERIOR - DAY A constable mans the telephone. He listens as the senior riot squad officer and the sergeant run to him tensely. The sound of the great doors opening in the courtyard, more engines revving up. CONSTABLE Yes, sir, yes, sir, (He holds up his hand to the senior officer) "Wait." He glances up at the senior riot squad officer. CONSTABLE (writing, from the phone) Accident, "Christie crossroads," a lorry and a rickshaw. Yes, sir, I have it. He shrugs at the senior riot squad officer and hands the information slip to another constable behind the desk. The sergeant sighs, and moves to the outside door. We hear him bellow, "Stand down." The constable hangs up and sighs heavily. The senior riot squad officer shakes his head, and turns and walks slowly to the door. COURTYARD - POLICE STATION - EXTERIOR - NIGHT The senior riot squad officer and the sergeant stand in the doorway as the engines die. The men relax... the silence returns. A dog barks distantly, disturbed by the noise... A bird caws once or twice. SERGEANT I wouldn't have believed it, Mr. Gupta. SENIOR OFFICER Sergeant, it's a bloody miracle... HIGH SHOT - CALCUTTA - EXTERIOR - NIGHT It lies in silence. TAHIB'S ROOF - EXTERIOR - DAY Mirabehn is bent over Gandhi. He is curled almost in the fetal position, his face looking wan and sunken. For the first time there is silence, no explosions, no distant shouts, no gunfire. MIRABEHN Bapu, there's been no fighting -- anywhere. It has stopped -- the madness has stopped. We see the police commissioner, Suhrawardy, two doctors, Abdul Ghaffar Khan, and some others. Nearer Gandhi, behind Mirabehn, are Nehru, Patel, Azad and Pyarelal. Gandhi turns to Mirabehn, his face shaking, peering into her eyes. GANDHI It is foolish if it is just to save the life of an old man. MIRABEHN No... no. In every temple and mosque they have pledged to die before they lift a hand against each other. His weary eyes look at her; he looks up slowly to Azad. Azad nods "It's true." Then Patel PATEL Everywhere. Gandhi looks at Nehru. Nehru just nods tautly. Gandhi looks down, then lifts his head to Azad. GANDHI Maulana, my friend, could I have some orange juice... Then you and I will take a piece of bread together... The relief brings water to their eyes and grins to their faces. Nehru bends to Gandhi. Gandhi holds his hand out to him, and Nehru clutches it. Then NEHRU You see, Bapu, it is not difficult. I have fasted only a few hours and I accomplished what you could not do in as many days. It is a joke in their way with each other and Gandhi's eyes light, his smile comes. But it is tired. He puts his other hand over Nehru's and Nehru lowers his head to it, crying silently. BIRLA HOUSE - EXTERIOR - DAY As in the opening sequence -- but a few minutes earlier. The crowd is beginning to gather for the evening prayers. We see a tonga or two, a gardener opening the gate to the garden, three policemen standing, talking idly among themselves. BIRLA HOUSE - INTERIOR - DAY Laughter. Gandhi is eating muli; he holds his head back to capture the lemon juice. We hear the click of a camera GANDHI That is how you eat muli. Manu hands him a cloth and he wipes his hands. Another click of a camera. He is not fully recovered, but well on the way. GANDHI (to the photographer) I'm not sure I want to be remembered that way. It is all light and for fun. We get a wide-angle shot now and see that Bourke-White is shooting one of her favorite subjects again. She is enjoying the banter, as is Mirabehn, who is spinning quietly to one side of the room, and Patel, who sits cross-legged like Gandhi on the floor. Pyarelal is working on papers with him but grins at this. BOURKE-WHITE Don't worry, with luck you may not be. And she shoots him again, as he hands the cloth back to Manu. Abha is sitting next to Manu, looking at a collection of pictures of Gandhi, obviously Bourke-White's. PATEL No, he'll be remembered for tempting fate. It is wry, but waspishly chiding. Abha suddenly holds a picture up for Gandhi to see. It's one of him, ears wide, eyes round. ABHA Mickey Mouse. Gandhi taps her on the head with his finger as she smiles. But Bourke-White has looked from Patel to Gandhi, clearly shaken by the implication in Patel's words. BOURKE-WHITE You really are going to Pakistan, then? (Gandhi shrugs, and she chides too) You are a stubborn man. GANDHI (a grin, in the mood of their "flirtation") I'm simply going to prove to Muslims there, and Hindus here, that the only devils in the world are those running around in our own hearts -- and that's where all our battles ought to be fought. Abha has signaled to the cheap watch dangling from his dhoti. He glances at it, and holds his arms out. The two girls help him. BOURKE-WHITE And what kind of a warrior have you been in that warfare? She is photographing his getting-up and leaning on the two girls. GANDHI Not a very good one. That's why I have so much tolerance for the other scoundrels of the world. He moves off, but has a sudden thought and turns to Patel. GANDHI Ask Panditji to -- to consider what we've discussed. Patel nods soberly and Gandhi starts for the door, Bourke- White moving with him. GANDHI (of the photographs) Enough. BOURKE-WHITE (a plea) One more. He has passed her, he's in the doorway. We see the crowd at the end of the garden, where the light of the day is beginning to soften. He turns, teasing in his slightly flirtatious way with women. GANDHI You're a temptress. She shoots him against the door -- the crowd milling distantly, waiting -- then she lowers her camera. BOURKE-WHITE Just an admirer... GANDHI Nothing's more dangerous, especially for an old man. He turns; the last words have betrayed the smile on his face; they have a painful sense of truth about them. Bourke-White watches as he moves into the garden toward the crowd in the distance. She turns to Mirabehn. BOURKE-WHITE There's a sadness in him. It's an observation -- and a question. Mirabehn accedes gravely. MIRABEHN He thinks he's failed. Bourke-White stares at her, then turns to look out at him. BOURKE-WHITE Why? My God, if anything's proved him right, it's what's happened these last months... Mirabehn nods, but she keeps on spinning and tries to sound cynically resigned but her innate emotionalism keeps breaking through in her voice and on her face. MIRABEHN I am blinded by my love of him, but I think when we most needed it, he offered the world a way out of madness. But he doesn't see it... and neither does the world. It is laced with pain. Bourke-White turns and looks out at Gandhi -- so tiny, so weak as he walks between his "props." He has now reached the end of the garden and is moving among the crowd assembled there. THE GARDEN - BIRLA HOUSE - EXTERIOR - TWILIGHT Gandhi is moving forward in the crowd, one hand resting on Manu, the other on Abha. He makes the pranam to someone, the crowd is bowing to him, some speaking, and we also see the crowd from his point of view -- "Bapu," "God bless you," "Thank you -- thank you." He turns to a very old woman, who makes a salaam to him. Gandhi touches her head. GANDHI Allah be with you. Smiling, he turns back. A jostling, the sound of beads falling. MANU (to someone) Brother, Bapu is already late for prayers. Gandhi turns to the person; he makes the pranam. Full shot. Godse is making the pranam to him and he suddenly, wildly draws his gun and fires. The camera closes on Gandhi as he staggers and falls, the red stain of blood seeping through his white shawl. GANDHI Oh, God... oh, God... Manu and Abha bend over him, silent in their first shock. The sound of panic and alarm begins to grow around them, they suddenly scream and begin to cry. MANU/ABHA Bapu! Bapu! FUNERAL PYRE - EXTERIOR - DAY Blackness. Silence. A moment -- we sense the blackness moving -- like dark smoke. The camera is pulling back very slowly and we can tell the blackness is smoke rising from a fire. And now we see that it is a funeral pyre. And all around that pyre a mass of silent humanity. Through the smoke, sitting cross-legged near the rim of the flames, we see Nehru... and Azad and Patel, Mirabehn and Kallenbach, the drawn faces of Lord and Lady Mountbatten, Manu and Abha... THE RIVER - EXTERIOR - DAY A helicopter shot coming slowly up the wide river, low, toward a barge and a mass of people in the distance. And now we are over the barge, and it is covered with flowers. Flowers flow downstream around it. An urn sits on it -- containing Gandhi's ashes -- and Nehru stands near it,

tearful

How many times the word 'tearful' appears in the text?